If you were French or German or Spanish, well, not to worry. The cars could be programmed to respond in any language, and it was up to each owner to give their car a name. Sandra had chosen Gracie for hers. It had been the name of her cat when she was little.

As if she were going to be driven around by a real chauffeur, Sandra got into one of the back seats, leaving the front two empty. She tossed the briefcase stuffed with press kits onto the seat next to her.

“Break a leg, Mom,” Katie said.

Sandra smiled wearily. “Thanks,” she said quietly. Then, in a stronger voice, “Gracie, let’s go.”

“Are you sure you have everything?” Gracie asked.

“I’m sure.”

“Destination?”

“Garrett Island Community Center.”

“I’ll take you there.”

The door slid silently back into place.

Making no more noise than that of rubber rolling on pavement, the car backed out of the driveway and lined up perfectly against the curb.

“I’ll say this,” Archie quipped. “It backs up way better than Mom ever did. And it never pulls into a parallel parking spot nose-first.”

Sandra waved at her kids as the car moved on down the street. They watched until it reached the corner, turned, and was out of sight.

“Don’t look now,” Archie whispered, “but he’s watching us.”

“What?”

“The serial killer,” he said, tucking his chin down into his shoulder as he whispered. “He just pulled back the curtain and was checking us out.”

Katie, with feigned casualness, looked across the street. Her brother was right. The old man in the house opposite theirs was at the living room window. She could see a couple of fingers pulling back the curtain, a sliver of face and one eye.

“What should we do?” Archie said. “Call the cops?”

Katie sighed. “Yeah, right, do that. ‘Hello, 911? There’s a man looking out his window! Send everything you’ve got!’ You’re nuts, that’s what you are.”

“I know what his name is,” Archie said. “It’s Bruce Clifford.”

“How do you know that?”

“We got some of his mail one day. Some old New Yorker magazine.”

“Oh,” Katie said.

“Don’t you think that’s kind of suspicious?”

“That he’s old?”

“No, duh. That he’s got two first names. Bruce and Clifford. I bet it’s made up. He’s got, like, a new identity because he was a serial killer someplace else, had to get away, and made up a different name.”

“You’re the stupidest kid on this island. Maybe in all of Massachusetts.”

Katie started walking back into the house, Archie trailing her. He followed her all the way into the kitchen, where Katie poured her cold coffee into the sink and refilled the mug from the pot.

“You don’t even like coffee,” Archie said. “You just drink it ’cause you think it makes you look older.”