Chapter 3: Rumors and Rust

Chapter 3: Rumors and Rust

The days following the discovery of the affidavit bled into a monotonous, simmering tension. Chloe’s life had become a split-screen. On one side was the quiet, aching reality of Dan, who moved through his life with the careful, pained gait of a man with a broken rib. He was trying, for her, but the light in his eyes had dimmed, replaced by the constant, anxious flicker of a man bracing for the next blow. On the other side was Billy Jean, a whirlwind of saccharine smiles and feigned concern, completely oblivious to the cold, analytical gaze that now followed her every move.

Chloe’s desire for a weapon was a constant, low-grade fever. She continued her silent catalog of Billy Jean’s habits, a detective studying her prime suspect. She saw the new designer-knockoff handbag, the slightly-too-expensive highlights freshened in her hair, and the constant, almost frantic way she checked her phone, her face tightening at every notification that wasn’t a social media 'like'. There was a frantic energy just beneath Billy Jean’s polished surface, a hum of anxiety that didn't align with her carefree act. But it was just a feeling, a collection of disparate observations with no connecting thread. An arsenal with no ammunition.

The key, when it came, didn't arrive in a flash of insight. It drifted in on a cloud of stale beer and cheap cigars, carried by the raspy voice of Sal Petrillo, a bar-fly who had occupied the same corner stool since the Nixon administration. He and his perpetually silent companion, Mikey, were a part of the bar’s furniture, their running commentary the background noise to Chloe’s shifts. The Rusty Mug was more than a place to drink; it was the town's central nervous system, where gossip was currency and reputations were built and dismantled over spilled beer.

“—engine’s making a sound like a bag of cats in a dryer,” Sal was grumbling, loud enough for half the bar to hear. “Took it to the dealership, they want eight hundred bucks just to look at it. Crooks, the lot of ‘em.”

Chloe slid a fresh beer in front of him, her movements automatic. “Tough break, Sal.”

“Tell me about it,” he grunted, taking a long swallow. “Shoulda gone to the Millers. My nephew took his truck there last year. The thing was practically scrap. They had it running like a Swiss watch in two days. Cash on the barrelhead, but they do good work.”

Mikey, who rarely spoke, nodded sagely. “The Miller brothers don’t mess around.”

The name landed with a thud in the local consciousness. The Miller brothers weren't just mechanics; they were a local legend. Two hulking, grease-stained figures who ran a sprawling, junkyard-esque auto shop on the industrial outskirts of town. The stories about them were whispered, not spoken. They were known for two things: being able to fix absolutely anything with an engine, and an Old-Testament-style intolerance for people who didn't pay their debts. There was a story about them personally towing a councilman's car out of his own driveway in the middle of his daughter’s birthday party. They were dangerous, but in a way the town seemed to respect—they were a force of nature, operating on a simple, brutal code of conduct.

“Yeah, well, you gotta have the cash up front,” Sal continued, wiping foam from his mustache. “They do some financing on cars they fix up and sell, but you don't wanna get behind with them. Remember what happened to that kid, Jimmy Pesto?”

Mikey shuddered visibly. The unspoken part of the story hung in the air, more potent than any detail Sal could have provided.

Chloe was only half-listening, her mind on Dan, who was grimly wiping down the steel countertops, lost in his own world.

Then Sal said the name that made the glass in Chloe’s hand freeze mid-polish.

“Funny thing, I saw your girl, Billy Jean, driving one of theirs the other week. A little red convertible. She must be doing alright for herself. Those boys don’t give their cars away.”

Chloe’s heart gave a single, hard thump. She turned slowly, her expression a careful mask of casual interest. “Oh yeah? Billy Jean got a new car?”

“Brand new to her,” Sal confirmed, pleased to be the center of attention. “Saw the Miller’s custom sticker on the back window. Good for her. Though…” He leaned in, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “Mikey here heard from his cousin who knows their tow-truck driver that she’s already a couple months behind on the payments. Biting off more than she can chew, if you ask me.”

It was like a camera lens snapping into focus.

Billy Jean’s anxiety. Her constant, nervous phone-checking. The new purse and the fresh highlights—desperate little purchases to maintain the illusion of success. The complaints about her rent. And now, a shiny red convertible financed by the two most unforgiving creditors in the county.

The weapon had just been placed in her hand. It was heavy, greasy, and smelled faintly of rust and gasoline.

The obstacle was immediately apparent. The Miller brothers were not people you approached lightly. They were reclusive, suspicious of outsiders, and notoriously hostile to anyone who wasn't talking business. Walking onto their property was like stepping into a bear trap; you didn’t do it unless you knew exactly what you were doing. A misstep could bring their considerable, unpleasant attention down on her.

But the opportunity was too perfect, too clean. It was a problem that could solve itself, if given the right nudge. Billy Jean, in her arrogance and desperation to project an image of success, had tied a millstone around her own neck. All Chloe had to do was point it out to the men holding the other end of the rope.

Later that night, after Sal and Mikey had shuffled out into the darkness, Chloe stood behind the bar, looking at her own reflection in the mirror behind the rows of bottles. Her hazel eyes were clear and hard. The seething, directionless rage of the past few days had finally found a path.

She thought of Dan, his shoulders slumped in defeat, fighting a battle of lies in a sterile courtroom. And she thought of Billy Jean, laughing and touching a customer’s arm, her treachery hidden behind a sweet smile.

Some people, she thought, don’t deserve the high road. Some people needed to be introduced to the consequences of their actions in a language they couldn’t possibly misunderstand.

She untied her apron, her movements crisp and decisive. She knew where the Miller brothers' shop was. She knew what she had to do. The rumor, a stray piece of bar-room chatter, was about to become the cornerstone of her revenge.