Whispers of Revenge

Fire

დ Rosalie დ

By the time I got back to the house, the town center was behind me, but the feeling of it wasn’t. The looks. The whispers. The way it had all started so quickly. It stayed under my skin while I let myself in and shut the front door quietly behind me. The house was still. My mother had gone to bed. I could tell by the silence. No kettle. No footsteps. No weak cough drifting down the hallway. Just the old house settling into itself, tired and uneasy. I didn’t go to my room.

Instead, I went straight to my father’s office.

The door still stuck when I pushed it open. The same smell of dust, old paper, and oil greeted me. The room was dim, lit only by the lamp on the desk and the weak blue light from my laptop once I opened it. I sat down, exhaled slowly, and stared at the screen for a moment. My mother’s lies were still waiting for me. So was the account number. So was whoever had been bleeding her dry. But there was something else now. Or someone else that had slipped into my mind and refused to leave.

Weston.

I hadn’t planned to start with him tonight. Not really. But after the grocery store, after his hand on my arm, after the way he had looked at me and seen nothing, I couldn’t leave it alone. I opened a browser and started searching. It didn’t take long. Raven Hollow was a small town. People loved visibility here. Loved public charity, community smiles, work anniversaries, award photos, Christmas drives, and performative gratitude. The social app everyone seemed to use was called Willow. Cute name. The kind of name that suggested harmless connection and neighborhood warmth. It made me hate it immediately. I typed in Weston Graves and found him almost at once. His profile picture was exactly what I expected, and still, it was even more irritating than I imagined. He stood beside a fire truck in uniform, his arms crossed over his chest, smiling, the camera loved him.

So this was who he had become.

A firefighter.

I clicked into his profile and leaned back in the chair. Of course, he worked for his mother’s side of the family. In Raven Hollow, power stayed in the bloodline. It just changed uniforms. Political families raised politicians. Banking families raised bankers. Fire department families raised men like Weston Graves, who got to wear public service like armor. His page was public enough to tell me plenty. Photo after photo. Weston in uniform beside a red engine, laughing with two other firefighters. Weston crouched next to a golden-brown dog with floppy ears and an oversized blue collar.

The caption read: Ringo still thinks the station belongs to him.

Weston standing in front of the firehouse, sunglasses on, coffee in one hand, looking pleased with himself. I clicked on a work post first.

Weston Graves: Long night, but we got the job done. Proud of this crew.

The photo was of Weston with soot on his jaw, one arm slung around a co-worker’s shoulder, both of them grinning in front of a truck washed in flashing lights. The comments were exactly what I expected.

Hero.

Proud of you, boys.

Raven Hollow is lucky to have you.

My mouth tightened as I kept scrolling. I found another post.

Weston Graves: Sunday training with the best team around. Wouldn’t trade it for the world.

The photo was of Weston in a navy shirt, hose in hand, laughing at something off camera while water sprayed in the background. I clicked on another post.

Raven Hollow Fire House shared Weston’s post:

Congratulations to Firefighter Weston Graves on five years of dedicated service to our town.

Five years. I stared at the screen a moment longer. Dedicated service. The irony made me want to laugh. Further down, the posts shifted. Less work. More nightlife. Beer in hand. Arm around some woman whose face changed in every other photo. No single girlfriend appearing often enough to matter. No wife. No kids. No soft domestic life tucked into the corners of his page. Just women. Friends. The dog. The job. A man still moving through life like consequences belonged to other people. Another post caught my attention.

Weston Graves: Me, Ringo, and the only man in this town with worse habits than mine.

The photo was of Weston on a patio with a bottle in his hand, Ringo sprawled at his feet, and Matthew Prescott beside him in a pale button-down and a smug half-smile.

Matthew.

Of course. I couldn’t stop myself from clicking on his name. Matthew’s page loaded slower, but once it did, it looked exactly like him. Polished. Flashy. Expensive in the shallowest way possible. His profile picture was taken in front of Raven Hollow Bank, all tailored clothes and lazy confidence. The banner photo behind it showed him leaning against a sleek black car as though he had paid for the world himself. I hated him on sight. His page was more curated than Weston’s. Less community hero. More self-satisfaction.

Matthew Prescott: Another day pretending I enjoy responsibility.

The photo was of Matthew at a large desk in an office with dark wood walls, his sleeves rolled up, watch visible, smirking at the camera. Of course, he was an assistant at his father’s bank. I read through more of it. Dinner at expensive restaurants in nearby cities. Drinks with friends. Crisp shirts. Polished shoes. Bar tabs. Golf mornings. Bank events. Fundraisers. Wine glasses in candlelight. No wife. No girlfriend. No kids. Just image. Another post made me pause.

Matthew Prescott: Some of us clean up better than others.

The photo was of Matthew and Weston side by side at what looked like a charity event. Weston was in a suit that sat too tightly across his shoulders. Matthew, sleek and smug beside him. Both smiling for the camera like good men. I clicked through the tagged photos. Matthew beside Jordan at some formal event. Matthew with Weston and two women on a boat in summer. Matthew holding a whiskey glass in one hand while Ringo leaned against his leg, tongue out, happy. That dog again. I made a note of the name without meaning to.

Ringo.

Then I opened a blank document and started typing.

Weston Graves. Firefighter. The Graves family connection through Judith’s side. Dog: Ringo. Public image: local hero, social, no steady relationship, close to Matthew Prescott.

Matthew Prescott. Assistant at Raven Hollow Bank. Flashy. Image-conscious. Close to Weston. No wife, no children, no visible attachments that would make him harder to shake.

I paused and looked back at the screen. This was what they had become. Not better. Just older. Wrapped in cleaner packaging. The same town that once protected them was still doing it now. Giving them titles. Respectability. Soft public language. Community approval. Smiling photographs. Good sons. Reliable men. Safe hands.

Rot dressed in polished clothes.

I went back to Weston’s page one last time and looked at his face. Really looked at it. Older now. Broader. Rougher. But the same carelessness still lived in him. I had seen it in the grocery store. In the way, he had stepped too close. In the way his fingers had found my arm, like my body was a public space that he had a right to touch. Something cold and deliberate settled deeper inside me. This was no longer just about the missing money.

That mattered.

But this mattered too.

Weston. Matthew. Their lives. Their routines. Their habits. Their weak spots. I was done being the only one who carried the past like damage.

Now, I was going to start carrying it like a weapon.

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