Chapter 9: The Burn Barrel

We reached the Delacorte yard in ten minutes, and Tobias did not slow down for a single curve.

He had pulled his truck up on the gravel before I had my seat belt off.

The yard crew stood in a loose half circle near the back fence, thirty men in overalls, watching.

At the center of them, beside an oil drum with smoke pouring out of the top, stood Celia.

She had a red fuel can in one hand.

She was in the gray sweater from the market, and her braid had come half undone.

Maisy's brother stood at the edge of the crowd with his arms folded.

He saw me and tipped his head toward the barrel.

"She said it was trash," he said quietly, when I came up. "I told her the trash goes in the bins. She poured on more."

"Celia," I said.

She spun around. The can swung in her hand.

For one second her face was completely blank. There was no tear on it and no tremble.

Then it crumpled, in the same smooth way it had on the green.

"Dara," she said. "Oh, thank goodness. I was just cleaning up. Dirk asked me to clear out some of the old things."

"Which old things?"

"Just papers. Just junk from the truck."

I looked at the barrel. A black curl of plastic hung over the rim.

Tobias walked up to it without a word and tipped it over with his boot.

Ash and burning paper spilled across the gravel. A few of the men shouted and jumped back.

Tobias dropped to a crouch and shoved his bare hand through the mess.

He pulled out something small and black and flat.

He shook it in the air until the flame went out.

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