The Lawyer

The diner was a sea of fluorescent lights and the smell of old grease. Iris sat in the corner booth, her laptop open, the blue glow illuminating the dark circles under her eyes. She had been typing for two hours, pouring every fact, every suspicion, every discrepancy into a legal inquiry on an anonymous forum.

*User: IV_1990*
*Subject: False Imprisonment / Fraud / Estate Theft*

She hit post.

The replies came quickly. This was the internet; everyone loved a scandal. But as the legal minds weighed in, Iris’s hope began to curdle into dread.

*User: LawDog88*
*Without a body or a victim who can testify, you have nothing. A passport with no stamps just means he didn't travel. It doesn't prove he was held against his will.*

*User: CivilAction*
*If he's been medicated for 30 years, his testimony will be inadmissible. The defense will argue he's delusional. You need physical proof of confinement.*

*User: Trust_Trustee*
*The statute of limitations on the fraud might be up, but the kidnapping is ongoing. However, if you go to the police and you're wrong—if he's there voluntarily, or if he's incompetent—you could be sued for defamation and removed as executor. You'll lose the house.*

Iris closed the laptop. The advice was unanimous: she was walking into a minefield blindfolded.

Marcus slid into the booth opposite her. He looked tired, his usually crisp shirt rumpled. He placed a heavy, hard-shell case on the table.

"The thermal camera?" Iris asked.

"And a snake cam," Marcus said. "Industrial grade. If we can drill a hole the size of a dime, we can see inside."

"We can't drill into the carriage house," Iris said. "It's brick. And Sabrina is watching."

"We don't need to drill," Marcus said. "I looked up the specs for that property. It has a chimney. A big one."

"And?"

"And if the fireplace isn't sealed, we can drop the camera down the flue."

Iris stirred her cold coffee. "Marcus, why are you doing this? You lost your commission. You could lose your license."

Marcus looked at her, his expression serious. "Because my brother didn't go to India either."

"What?"

"He didn't go to India," Marcus said. "He went to a state hospital. Schizophrenia. We didn't catch it in time. He... he died there. Pneumonia, they said. But it was neglect."

He tapped the table. "If your cousin is in there, and he's not sick... if someone *made* him sick... I want to burn them down."

Iris reached across the table and squeezed his hand. It was the first time in weeks she felt like she wasn't alone.

"Okay," she said. "We go down the chimney. But we need more than just a video. We need leverage."

"What kind of leverage?"

"Money," Iris said. "Julian is doing this for the trust. He's been draining it for thirty years to pay for the silence, the drugs, the doctors. If I can prove he's been stealing... I can freeze his assets. I can cut off his supply lines."

"How do you prove that without access to the accounts?"

"I don't need the accounts," Iris said. "I need the shell company. 'J.V. Holdings.'"

She opened her laptop again. "If he bought the carriage house through a shell company in 1990, he had to fund it. And in 1990, the trust hadn't vested yet."

"So where did the money come from?"

"That's what we need to find out," Iris said. "We need to find the money trail. Because if he used trust money before he was legally allowed to... that's embezzlement. And that's a felony."

She looked at Marcus. "Can you get into the county archives? The physical ones? The ones that aren't digitized?"

"I know a guy," Marcus said.

"Good. Because I think I know where the bodies are buried. Financially speaking."

She needed proof that Julian profited. She needed the money trail.