Chapter 4: The Mailbox

At ten on Monday morning my house key still worked.

That surprised me more than anything else had since Sunday.

Clark's sister had come by with a casserole dish and a library book about rabbits.

She had taken one look at Poppy and sat down on the floor.

"Go," she told me. "We'll be fine."

So I drove Clark's truck to Maple Street with a laundry basket on the seat.

My hands were wet on the wheel.

Dean and his mother would be at the yard until five.

They were always at the yard until five.

The house was quiet when I came in.

The pot roast smell was gone.

The dining table had been wiped clean and set with a vase of grey silk flowers.

I did not look under it.

"Katie?"

Lydia stood in the kitchen doorway in her cardigan, with a dish towel in her hands.

She came across the hall and hugged me before I could step back.

"Oh, thank God," she said into my shoulder. "I've been sick since yesterday. Is Poppy all right?"

"She's with a friend."

"Mom is livid. Dean slept in the car."

She pulled away and looked at me with her tired eyes.

"You don't have to do this, you know. If you just said sorry, they'd let it go."

"I'm only here for clothes."

"I'll help you."

She followed me up the stairs and folded Poppy's pajamas into the basket one pair at a time.

She was gentle about it.

She was so gentle that I almost did not ask.

"Lydia, did you sign for a registered letter last March?"

Her hands stopped on a small striped sock.

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