The Number

The number was faint, the blue ink almost absorbed by the linen paper after thirty years, but it was legible. *555-0198*.

Iris typed it into her phone. Her fingers were stiff with cold and adrenaline. She didn't expect it to connect. A number written in 1990? It should be dead. Disconnected. Reassigned to a pizza place or a tax attorney.

She hit call.

It rang.

One ring. Two.

A click.

"Mercer Apothecary," a voice answered. It was a woman, sounding bored and tired. "How can I help you?"

Iris froze. A pharmacy.

"Hello?" the woman said. "Is anyone there?"

"Yes," Iris stammered. "I... I found this number in an old document. I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was a business."

"Well, we've been here since '72, honey. Did you need to refill a prescription?"

Iris looked at the passport. Why would Elias have a pharmacy number written in his passport? If he was leaving the country, he wouldn't need a local refill.

Unless he needed something for the trip. Or unless he needed something *regularly*.

"Actually," Iris said, a reckless idea forming. "I'm calling about a prescription for a family member. I'm trying to sort out his records."

"Name?"

"Elias Vance."

She waited for the confusion. The *I'm sorry, we don't have anyone by that name*. The *that account has been closed for decades*.

Instead, she heard the clicking of a keyboard.

"Date of birth?"

"November 5, 1969."

"Okay, I see him here. What did you need, Ms...?"

"Vance. I'm his cousin. I just wanted to check if his... his refill is ready."

"Let me check the queue." More typing. "It looks like the Clonazepam was filled yesterday. And the Risperidone is on auto-refill for next Tuesday."

The car seemed to tilt on its axis.

Clonazepam. Risperidone.

Antipsychotics. Sedatives.

"Yesterday?" Iris whispered.

"Yes. It's ready for pickup. Did you want to get it, or is Mr. Vance coming in?"

"Mr. Vance?"

"The uncle. Julian. He usually picks them up on Sundays, but he called ahead this week."

Iris closed her eyes. The puzzle pieces slammed together with the force of a car crash.

The "blue pills" Elias mentioned on the tape. The "medical treatment" abroad referenced in the letter. Julian wasn't just holding Elias; he was drugging him. Keeping him sedated, compliant, foggy.

"Ma'am?" the pharmacist asked.

"I'll pick them up," Iris said, her voice shaking. "I'm in the area."

"Do you have authorization? Usually Mr. Julian handles it."

"I'm the executor of the estate," Iris lied. "I have power of attorney."

"Alright. Just bring your ID."

Iris hung up. She stared at the phone. Julian had been buying heavy-duty antipsychotics for thirty years. He had created a paper trail of mental illness, a chemical leash to keep Elias quiet.

And he picked them up himself. Weekly. Like groceries.

"We have his Clonazepam ready," the pharmacist had said. "Is his uncle picking it up as usual?"