Gus Halvorsen who’d gone to my church for thirty years. He came over when he saw me.
“Dale.”
“Gus.”
He looked at the wreckage. Then he looked at me.
“Funny thing about a fire like this,” he said quietly. “You’d expect to find traces of the accelerant. Patterns. Pour patterns. We’re not finding any.”
I looked at him.
“And the gas line?” he said. “Old house continue reading …
