It always rained on Scott’s days off.
Rain made the city feel smaller. Quieter.
He sat alone at the bar, watching the storm smear the world beyond the windows into streaks of gray. He took a slow sip of his draft, letting the bitterness settle on his tongue.
This wasn’t his usual place. Not yet.
He’d only started coming here a couple of weeks ago, after his old dive burned to the ground.
He remembered standing across the street that night, watching the flames climb like they had somewhere to be. Too fast. Faster than fire should move.
But what did he know?
The rumor around town was that the owner torched it himself—an insurance job. Business had been dying.
People always said that.
Scott scanned the room. Sparse crowd. Quiet. Wood-paneled walls trying a little too hard to feel warm. It was only 2 p.m. on a Thursday. In a few hours, it would fill with people looking to forget their jobs.
Behind the bar, the bartender moved with calm, practiced ease.
Tony.
Scott watched him longer than he meant to.
There was something about him.
Scott needed there to be.
A news alert cut through the low hum of conversation.
On the TV above the bar, a reporter stood in front of a burning building, smoke pouring into the sky.
“Hey—turn that up,” someone called.
Tony grabbed the remote and raised the volume.
“…one casualty confirmed,” the reporter said. “This marks the eighth bar this year to burn to the ground. Authorities are beginning to suspect a possible serial arsonist—”
Scott leaned forward.
Eighth.
That didn’t sound right.
Or maybe it was.
His memory had been off lately.
His eyes drifted from the screen to Tony.
Watching
Over the next several days, Scott moved from bar to bar.
Searching. Watching.
He told himself he was just looking for a new place—somewhere that felt right again.
But he kept noticing things.
Patterns.
Or what felt like patterns.
Tony.
At a bar across town.
Then again, two nights later.
Then—
another fire.
Every time.
Except… not always exactly.
A week later, Scott saw him again.
Different bar. Same quiet presence.
This time, Scott followed.
Tony left just after sunset, walking a few blocks to a diner glowing under a flickering neon sign. Inside, he met a young woman.
They ate.
They laughed easily.
Like nothing in the world was wrong.
Scott watched from across the street, rain soaking through his sleeves.
Tony leaned in and kissed her.
Mid-kiss—
his eyes shifted.
Locked onto the window.
Onto Scott.
Not startled. Not confused.
Just… aware.
Scott turned away fast, pulling his hood up as he disappeared into the night.
His pulse was louder than the rain.
Ten minutes later, Scott was in the alley behind Tony’s bar.
The back door was old.
Cheap lock.
Easy.
Click.
Inside smelled like stale beer and cleaning chemicals.
Scott moved quickly—drawers, cabinets, shelves—like he already knew what he was looking for.
He found a key.
Of course he did.
The second door was almost too easy to miss.
Or too easy to find.
The key slid in smoothly.
Unlocked.
A narrow staircase led down.
At the bottom, he flicked on the light—
—and froze.
Rows of airtight containers.
Barley.
Hops.
Neatly stored. Labeled. Organized.
Not hidden.
Not rushed.
Deliberate.
Scott stared.
Something settled in him.
Like a thought finally locking into place.
Thirty minutes later, he was back.
The bar was empty now. Too quiet.
He stepped into the basement again, pulling out a cigarette and flicking his lighter open. The flame trembled.
Or maybe his hand did.
A crash echoed from upstairs.
Glass breaking.
Scott didn’t flinch.
He moved up the stairs. Slow. Measured.
At the top—
Tony stood there, slipping his phone into his pocket.
Watching him.
Like he’d been there a while.
“You’ve been following me,” Tony said.
Not a question.
Scott exhaled smoke.
“You’ve been everywhere fires happen.”
A pause.
Tony tilted his head.
“Have I?”
That was enough.
Scott moved first.
Violence came fast. Messy. Immediate.
Fists. Shoves. Glass breaking underfoot.
Scott fought like someone trying to prove something.
Tony fought like someone trying to survive.
Scott drove him to the floor.
Hard.
Tony went still.
For a moment, there was only breathing.
Scott lit another cigarette.
Stood over him.
Watching.
Waiting.
Then flicked the lighter toward the basement stairs.
Flames caught fast.
Too fast.
Scott watched them for half a second too long.
Then turned—
pushed through the back door—
—and froze.
Police.
Already there.
Guns drawn.
“Hands up! Now!”
For the first time—
Scott hesitated.
Ten minutes later—
Tony sat in the back of an ambulance, an oxygen mask pressed to his face.
A detective approached.
“Hell of a job,” he said. “We found everything in his car—fuel, tools, inventory lists. Every bar that burned—he’d been there before.”
The detective glanced toward Scott being shoved into a cruiser.
“He’d been casing them. Taking what he needed. Said he wanted to start his own brewery but couldn’t get approved for loans.”
A pause.
“The fires were just a way to cover it. Said he never meant for anyone to get hurt.”
Another pause.
“But desperation doesn’t ask permission.”
The detective looked back at Tony.
“You tipped us off just in time. You might’ve lost the whole place.”
He hesitated.
“But I gotta ask… how’d you know it was him?”
Tony pulled the mask down slightly. His voice was thin, but steady.
“He came into the bar couple of weeks ago,” he said.
“And ordered a beer.”
Tony’s eyes drifted toward the cruiser. Rain streaked down the window, distorting Scott’s face.
“He didn’t pay.”
A longer pause.
“He just watched the room… finished his beer and left.”
Tony leaned back. The mask slipped back into place.
“And a good bartender always keeps the tab.”
–James T. Reese II