Skeletons In The Closet Book Report

January 24 2018 FORWARD: January 31 /2018

When we overhear a conversation about skeletons in the closet, they may not necessarily be discussing a collection of bones. Instead, they may be referring to secretive skeletons from the past, hidden deep in the dark closets of the mind. They go out of their way to conceal them, knowing if divulged they could cause pain and humiliation by embarrassing or destroying an otherwise unblemished reputation, even ruining lives forever. When we say, "I have skeletons in my closet" that’s our way of saying, "I’m not telling you about my past escapades, it might change your opinion of me,” or simply "I’ll protect my secrets and they can never come back to bite me.”

Without a doubt, everyone has skeletons

Driving down their son’s driveway, Jerry rushed out of the house and down the steps, to meet his parents, hugging Margaret as she got out of the car. Embracing his son, Andrew asked, “Son, what’s going on?”

“Someone murdered Katherine,” Jerry said, going into the house with his parents, “Marlene, Mom, and Dad are here,” he called out as they went into the family room. After they sat down, Marlene entered the room with a cup of coffee in her hand and offered her in laws a cup, but they refused.

“Son, do they know what happened?” Andrew asked, watching Jerry looking out the bay window as if daydreaming. “Jerry, are you okay?”

“I’m sorry Dad, guess my mind was someplace else,”

“I wish there was something we could do,” Margaret said as Jerry sat down on the sofa beside his dad.

“Thank you, there isn’t anything anyone can do. A neighbor found Mom this morning with her head crushed,” Marlene said, tears filling her

Who murdered Mrs. Lincoln?” “Yeah, you must admit that I’m usually correct. For some reason this case is different there are too many unanswered questions,” Detective Wallace said. “I’ll give you that one. How do you do it?” He asked, admiring his partner’s ability to quickly predict the guilty person in most of their cases.

“Years ago, I learned to shut my mouth, open my eyes and listen,” the senior detective said. “Once we finish the investigation, I might have an idea who murdered her,” Detective Wallace said, plugging his phone into the car charger.

“It’s too early to be guessing, and personally, I want to talk to that homeless man,” Detective Johnson said, arriving at the office.

“Don’t think so. Right now, the gardener is my choice, but I’m not certain.”

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The next morning, Detective Wallace drove down Mrs. Lincoln’s driveway and parked when he saw the gardener cutting her lawn, “Sorry to disturb you, I’m Detective Wallace, and this is Detective Johnson. We want to talk?”

“Why do you want to talk to me?”

“What is your