The Cousin

The water bills were a topographical map of the lie, peaks and valleys matching Julian’s movements with damning precision. Iris shoved the folder back into the box, her hands trembling. She needed to talk to someone who knew the family history but wasn't part of the cover-up. Someone who could confirm the timeline without alerting Julian.

Sabrina.

Julian’s daughter was thirty-four, a curator at a small gallery in the city that existed mostly on the strength of the Vance name. They weren't close—the age gap and the disparity in their bank accounts had seen to that—but Sabrina had always been kind in a vague, distracted way.

Iris sat at the kitchen counter, the morning sun doing nothing to warm the cold knot in her stomach. She dialed.

"Iris?" Sabrina answered on the second ring, her voice hushed. "Is everything okay? Dad mentioned you were... stressed."

"I'm fine," Iris said, keeping her tone light. "Just sorting through the attic. I found some old photos of Elias."

"Oh." A pause. "You should probably throw those out. Dad says dwelling on him upsets Grandma Cordelia."

"I know. But it got me thinking. I was trying to remember... when exactly did he leave? Was it before or after your tenth birthday party?"

"My tenth?" Sabrina laughed, a nervous, tinkling sound. "God, that was eons ago. I think... before? I remember being sad he wasn't there. He always made the best balloon animals."

"Right," Iris said. "But the police report says he left in October. Your birthday is in August."

"Is it?" Sabrina’s voice tightened. "I don't know, Iris. I was a kid. Why does it matter?"

"It matters for the estate history. For the timeline." Iris took a breath. "Sabrina, do you remember him ever... coming back? Maybe for a visit? Or getting sick?"

"Sick?" The word came out sharp. "He wasn't sick. He was... spiritual. He went to the ashram. He sent postcards."

"I haven't found any postcards," Iris said. "Not a single one. Just his clothes. And his hiking boots."

"He bought new ones," Sabrina said quickly. Too quickly. It was the speed of a rehearsed line, a defensive reflex honed over decades. "He wanted to leave everything behind. Shed his material possessions. That's what people do when they seek enlightenment."

"Did he shed his ring? The Vance signet?"

Silence stretched over the line. Iris could hear the background noise of the gallery—footsteps on hardwood, the murmur of patrons.

"I have to go, Iris. I have a client coming in."

"Sabrina, please. Just tell me. Did you ever see him after 1990? Did your dad ever take you to see him?"

"Stop it," Sabrina hissed. "Just stop digging. You're going to ruin everything."

"Ruin what? The sale? Or the lie?"

"The *family*," Sabrina said, her voice cracking. "We're finally stable. Grandma is taken care of. I have my life. Why can't you just do your job and leave the rest alone?"

"Because there's someone in the basement, Sabrina. I heard them."

The silence this time was absolute. Terrified.

"Don't," Sabrina whispered. "Don't say that."

"You know, don't you? You know he never went to India."

"I don't know anything!" Sabrina cried. "And neither do you. You're just the cousin who needs money. That's all you are."

"Sabrina—"

"Goodbye, Iris."

The line went dead.

Iris lowered the phone. Sabrina’s denial hadn't been confusion. It had been panic. She knew. Maybe not the whole truth, maybe not the basement cell, but she knew the India story was a fabrication. She was complicit.

A text message appeared on the screen. From Sabrina.

*Why are you asking, Iris? Dad said you were having a breakdown.*