A figure, an older woman, had just rounded the street and was coming toward him, being pulled by a black Newfoundland. He instantly knew that this had to be Liz Crusher. He took one more look at the door and stepped away. Liz Crusher had crossed the road and Robin did too.

“Excuse me.”

The woman looked up. She was short and stout and wore a scowl that looked all but permanent. She was quite a sight next to her dog. If people looked like their pets, she was a perfect example. The dog was so enormous, it was unclear just who owned who.

As she came up to Robin, the dog finally looked up at the reason it had stopped. It growled at Robin, until the woman bonked it on the snout. “Rodney, please.”

“Are you Liz Crusher?”

The old woman looked at him with no recognition in her eyes. “What’s it to you?”

“I’m Robin Ferring—”

“I know who you are, boy.” They both looked at him, unimpressed. Robin started to think that this had been a bad idea. Maybe he should have heeded Sally’s warning and played it a little smarter. “You want to talk about them.”

It wasn’t a question. Robin was a little taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“The Standedge Five. That’s what you’re here for, ain’t it? Christ almighty, the Chief was right about all this. You people smell blood and you come running wanting to point your cameras, and make your videos, and write your books.” There was a snort and Robin couldn’t tell if it came from her or the dog.

“Did your daughter tell you about me?”

Crusher’s eyes narrowed. “It’s none of your business, but me and my daughter don’t talk. Everyone knows who you are. And everyone’s gonna shut their mouth from now on.” The way she said that made them sound tied into something more than a community.

“I didn’t see you at the vigil,” Robin said.

Crusher squawked a laugh. “That’ll be because I wasn’t there.”

“Some people are saying you had some troubles with Tim Claypath?”

“I obviously didn’t make myself clear,” Crusher said. “I’m not talking to you.”

“Please just...” Robin trailed off, not knowing what to say. Something nudged at his leg, and Robin looked down to see the dog wiping his nose on his leg. Robin smiled and patted the Newfoundland on the head. “How old is he?”

“What?”

“Your dog? How old is he?”

“Seven,” Crusher said apprehensively. “Name’s Rodney.”