The name hung in the quiet store like a lead plumb bob swinging over an open fault line.
Julian Vance stood motionless behind the counter of Register #1. His fingers rested lightly against the brass calipers, the cold metal biting into his fingertips.
“My father never mentioned a cousin named Vance,” Julian said. His voice was calm, though his right ear buzzed with a sharp four-cycle spike.
“Of course he didn’t,” Mac said, pulling the stool closer to the counter. “Thomas was an honest safety inspector who was proud of his working-class union card. When your cousin sold out to the Uptown banks, Thomas struck his name from the family Bible.”
Elena set her coffee mug aside and looked at Mac with keen clinical intensity. “How closely related were they, Mac? Biologically?”
“First cousins,” Mac replied, tapping his temple. “Their mothers were sisters -- the Vance daughters from the Old Port brickyards.”
He gestured toward the stockroom. “Thomas took his father’s trade in document inspection and boiler safety. Vance Sterling went Uptown to New Marrow University.”
“He went into actuarial mathematics,” Julian murmured, pieces of an old puzzle snapping together in his mind.
