Whispers of Revenge

Rot

დ Rosalie დ

I ignored him

That was the only thing I let myself do. I got into my car, shut the door, and drove away without looking back. My hands stayed tight on the steering wheel the whole way home. Weston kept trying to crawl back into my mind. So did Declan. One with his careless grin and wandering hands. The other with that quiet stare and the way he had said my name.

I wanted neither of them in my head.

By the time I pulled into the driveway, the cold anger inside me had settled into something cleaner. More useful. I parked, killed the engine, and sat there while the house stared back at me in tired silence. This place was full of damage. Not just because of its age. With a heavy sigh, I got out and took everything inside. I glanced around, and then I heard a soft cough. My mother. I unpacked slowly, lining things up in cupboards that should never have been so bare. Soup beside soup. Rice beside flour. Bread in the tin. Eggs in the fridge. Fruit in the bowl. When I was done, I stood there with both hands on the counter and looked around. The kettle. The chipped mug. The peeling wallpaper. The unpaid bills I had seen the night before. This was not neglect born from pride or bad budgeting. This was something else. My mother appeared in the doorway; one hand braced lightly against the frame.

“You bought too much,” she said. Her voice was thin with sleep.

“I bought what should already have been here,” her eyes moved over the kitchen and then away again.

“I told you, I manage,” I shut the fridge door.

“No. You survive. Badly,” a shadow crossed her face. For a second, I almost let it go. Then I remembered the bills. The fear in her face. The state of the house. “Go lie down,” I said instead. She frowned faintly.

“Rosalie—”

“Go lie down, Mother. You look exhausted,” I wasn’t rude, but I was forceful, and it got the job done. She held my gaze for one long second, then gave a small nod and turned away. I listened until her steps faded down the hall. Then I moved. The small office sat at the back of the house beside the laundry room. It had once been my father’s space. Thomas Quinn. The door stuck slightly when I pushed it open. The smell hit first. Dust. Old paper. A trace of motor oil that clung to the wood. The room was small, it was barely enough space for the old desk, two filing cabinets, and the narrow shelves fixed to the wall. The curtains were half drawn, letting in gray light. Nothing had changed much. That unsettled me more than I expected. My father had been dead for years, but the room still carried him in quiet ways. His reading glasses sat folded beside a rusted tin of pens. A cracked mug rested near the back corner of the desk. A stack of old seed catalogues leaned against the wall. For one brief second, grief moved through me so suddenly I had to stop.

Then it passed.

It wasn’t gone, but I just set it aside. Now was not the time to linger in the past. I pulled out the chair and sat down. My laptop came out of my bag first. Then my phone. Then, I took the stack of mail from the kitchen and set everything down in front of me. The first envelope was the electricity bill.

Past due.

The second was the pharmacy account.

Past due.

Hospital statements. Late notices. A repair estimate for the roof that had clearly gone unanswered. I spread them out across the desk and started sorting by date. The amounts were inconsistent. Some had been partly paid. Some ignored. Some opened and folded back up. Others are still sealed.

None of it made sense.

I logged into my banking app and opened the transfer history. There they were. Month after month. Year after year. Regular payments that I had sent to my mother’s account. Enough to keep the house standing. Enough to cover treatment. Enough to keep food in the kitchen and heat in the radiators.

A cold stillness settled through me.

I opened a notebook from the desk drawer and started writing down dates and amounts. Then I matched them against the bills. Then I checked again. There was too much missing. Too much unaccounted for. Too many gaps where there should have been relief.

Where the hell was it going?

I leaned back and stared at the figures until my eyes burned. Outside, the wind moved against the house with a dry sound. Somewhere down the hall, a pipe knocked once. This was bigger than unpaid bills. Bigger than a sick woman too proud to ask for help. Someone had been taking from her. Or she had been giving it away.

Neither answer was acceptable.

I looked around the office again. At the cabinets. At the shelves. At the old folders, my father had labeled in blocky handwriting.

Land tax. Repairs. Insurance. Bank.

My attention caught on that last one.

Bank.

I got up, crossed to the filing cabinet, and pulled the drawer open. Files sat packed too tightly together, yellowed at the edges. I thumbed through them until I found the bank folder. Inside were old statements, loan papers, deposit slips, and one newer envelope folded into the back. My pulse slowed. Careful now. I unfolded it and stared. It wasn’t a full statement. Just a receipt. A recent withdrawal. Cash. Large enough to matter.

Not my mother’s signature.

My fingers tightened around the paper. At last, something sharp and certain slid into place inside me. I hadn’t come back to Raven Hollow just to bury the dead and sit beside the dying. I had come back to rot this town from the inside out.

And I was done waiting to begin.

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