Late in the afternoon two days after it happened, someone knocked and Martha went to the door.
It was a policeman. Not the older one who came around at infrequent intervals to find out about unlicensed dogs, but the young one she occasionally saw in town.
“Mrs. Earnshaw?” He was embarrassed, and also faintly apologetic, as though afraid of sounding melodramatic. With an effort at firmness, he said, “Are you the mother of Peggy Earnshaw?”
Clutching the edge of the door, Martha said, “What? Did something happen? Where—”
“Oh, no.” The policeman colored with self-annoyance. “Nothing happened to her. I wanted to speak to her. That’s all.”
“Oh.” Martha stared at him and then she realized she was getting cold. “Won’t you come in? I was afraid they’d catch up with Peggy one of these days.”
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