Twenty
“THERE WAS NO ONE HOME,” Nate whispers, “so I talked to his neighbors. That’s when I found out.”
We’re sitting in his car, a mid-1990s Honda that has seen better days. The upholstery is worn, the paint has faded, and one of the back doors is held closed by a length of rope. Across the street is a small brick bungalow with a chain-link fence.
“You keep saying that,” I say. “What did you find out?”
“His next-door neighbor,” he points to a similar brick bungalow, “told me Strump is really quiet, doesn’t talk to many people. Never had a problem until the other day.”
“What happened the other day?”
“The fire.”
I sigh. “What fire?”
“The one in the barrel in his backyard,” Nate says. “He set it and then left. The neighbor was worried the fire would get out of control—you know we hav
