SEVEN
James Cantrell stood in front of the mirror mounted on the backside of his closet door. His black suit jacket lay draped over the rail at the foot of the bed, hanging over his freshly polished shoes with the toes underneath the box spring. His face still burned from when he slapped on cologne after he shaved in the shower. He effortlessly worked his tie into a perfect Windsor knot and then folded the crisp white collar from his dress shirt over the tie. He had been wearing suits nearly every day since graduating from law school. Today was no different.
Yesterday hadn’t been any different, either. Yesterday had been a blur. The wake for his wife and son was at Diponzio’s Funeral on Spencerport Road, across from St. Theodore’s church. The parking lot filled quickly. Most of the churc
