Silver Ridge was too small for secrets to last, but somehow this one did. It started with a phone call from an insurance adjuster named Carla Monroe, who sounded far too calm for someone talking about fire.

“Mr. Carter,” she said, “we have three recent claims from your area—all small fires, all reported as electrical. The reports list your company as a consultant. I wanted to confirm those inspections.”

Jack frowned. “Three fires? What addresses?”

She listed them. Two were houses he’d inspected months ago. The third he didn’t recognize. “I didn’t sign off on that one,” he said.

“That’s what I thought,” Carla said. “Your name’s on the paperwork anyway.”

When the call ended, Jack sat back in his chair, the slow weight of suspicion settling in. Someone was using his name.

He spent the afternoon checking his old inspection logs. Every page was neat, dated, signed in his own steady handwriting. Whoever had forged the new report had copied it almost perfectly, right down to his slanted R. Almost.

The fake signature curled too smooth at the end—something a trained eye might not notice, but Jack had spent years signing forms after long nights. He could tell the difference.

By evening, he was at the diner with Maggie and Tyler, the letter spread out on the table between them.

“You think someone’s pretending to be you?” Maggie asked.

“Looks that way,” Jack said. “And whoever it is, they’re doing it to cover fire claims. All small fires, all just enough to get a payout.”

Tyler leaned closer. “Like arson for insurance?”

Jack nodded. “Exactly. Quiet fires. Controlled. The kind no one questions.”

Maggie frowned. “What are you going to do?”

“Find out who’s using my name. I don’t like ghosts with my signature.”

Over the next few days, Jack asked around town—contractors, electricians, anyone who’d worked the affected properties. One name kept coming up: Bill Carver, a handyman who’d drifted through Silver Ridge last year. Friendly, cheap, always offering “safety upgrades.”

Jack remembered him. A talkative guy with quick hands and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

He drove out to one of the burned properties, an old cabin on Pine Road. The fire damage was minimal—too neat. A small section of wall blackened, no spread beyond it. It didn’t feel accidental. Jack crouched near the outlet where the fire supposedly started. The scorch marks were shallow, and the wiring looked deliberately stripped.

Someone had faked it.

That night, he found Bill Carver’s number in an old contact list and called.

“Carver here,” came the voice, easy and casual.

“Jack Carter. Remember me?”

A pause. “Hey, Jack. Yeah, the fire guy. How’s business?”

“Busy. Yours?”

“Can’t complain.”

“I bet,” Jack said, voice flat. “You been fixing any outlets lately? Maybe writing my name on paperwork?”

Carver chuckled, but it sounded forced. “Now why would I do that?”

“Because someone’s using my reports to cover small fires. Fires that look like someone wanted insurance money without a real blaze. I’m guessing you’re the someone.”

The line went quiet. Then Carver said, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know enough,” Jack said. “And I’m telling you right now—if one more fire shows up with my name, I’ll bring it straight to Daniels and the state inspector. You’re not burning my reputation for your payday.”

He hung up before Carver could answer.

The next morning, a note was taped to Jack’s office door. No name, just block letters written with a shaky hand.

“Stay out of it, old man. Accidents happen.”

Jack read it twice, then folded it into his pocket. Fear flickered somewhere deep inside him, but it didn’t last. He’d lived too many years with heat on his back to back down now.

That evening, he told Chief Daniels everything. The chief swore quietly, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You think he’s setting these fires himself?”

“Probably. Just enough damage to cash a check. He’s careful, but not smart.”

Daniels nodded. “We’ll keep an eye out. You do the same.”

Two nights later, the town’s quiet was broken by the sound of sirens. A small fire had started near the old hardware store on Main. Jack arrived before most of the volunteers, his headlights cutting through the smoke. The damage was confined to the back wall—again, too clean, too contained.

And standing in the alley, silhouetted against the flicker of flame, was Bill Carver.

Jack stepped out of his truck. “Evening, Bill.”

Carver turned, startled. His face twisted into a grin that didn’t fit. “Just passing by. Saw the smoke.”

Jack pointed at the burned patch on the wall. “Funny. You’re always where the fire’s small enough to control.”

Carver shrugged. “Maybe I’ve got good timing.”

“Or bad habits.”

Before Carver could answer, Daniels pulled up behind Jack. The chief’s flashlight landed on Carver’s hands—blackened with soot, holding a lighter.

It was over in seconds.

When the police took Carver away, Jack stood watching the glow fade from the wall. Another fire out, this one before it could spread. He felt no triumph, only relief.

Maggie called later that night. “Heard what happened. You okay?”

Jack sat on the steps of the firehouse, the cool night air on his face. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“You did the right thing.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe I just put out another kind of fire.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then she said softly, “That’s what you do, Jack. It’s who you are.”

Jack looked at the stars above Silver Ridge—steady, distant, unburning. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I guess it is.”