"We're fine. Pretend we're not here."

As the two women rose the stairs, Martin gave Norma an inquisitive look. She shook her head and returned to the sink. Martin followed the other women up the stairs.

The gloved woman knocked lightly on Ruby's door.

"She's sleeping," he said. "The doctor said not to disturb her."

"Doctor?" the beehive woman grunted. "Mother doesn't need a doctor, she needs good old-fashioned home remedies."

"Mother?"

The woman blinked. "Your mother. Ruby."

The gloved woman smiled her secret smile.

"What's in the container?" he asked, nodding at the Tupperware.

"Cure-all," the woman with the beehive said. "Old family recipe."

It looked like mush to Martin, similar to the pureed roast beef and mash Norma served Ruby their first night home, though more like turkey giblets and neck skin, as there were little bits of rubbery-looking pink and gooey fat and small grayish-brown lumps. Looking at it too long made the queasiness return, and he excused himself to go to the bathroom.

He stood in front of the sink, splashed water on his face and toweled himself off. When he emerged his mother's door was open and the women were standing on either side of Ruby's bed.

Ruby looked like she'd been hit by a train. During the doctor's very brief visit—it hadn't seemed like he wanted to stay even as long as the next ferry—he'd suggested bed rest. She had bruises where she fell which would "get worse before they get better," he said. But from her mobility, which he tested by moving her limbs himself and asking her if she felt any pain, to which Ruby had muttered and shaken her head, it didn't appear she'd broken or fractured anything.

"We won't know for sure without an X-ray, but of course your mother doesn't want to be moved to a hospital, against my better judgment, so we'll just have to hope for the best. If she has trouble breathing, signs of fever or starts to act strangely, call me. It could be a sign of fat embolism syndrome."

Martin considered mentioning that acting strangely was Ruby's modus operandi, but told the doctor he would call.

Beehive raised Ruby to a seated position while White Gloves stacked pillows beneath her. Ruby didn't appear to be conscious.

"Be careful, please."

"We've been around some," Beehive said dismissively.

Martin watched from the door, feeling ineffectual. He could have used Sheila's take-no-bullshit attitude but she was out for a brisk jog around the island. She'd been gone for several hours now. Considering all that happened last night, he supposed she had a lot to think about.

"Ruby, dear," Beehive said. "Time to take your medicine."

White Gloves had removed the lid from the container. The smell of it struck him—a rich iron scent like liver and a coppery tang and sharp herbs and something vaguely rotten—and he had to cover his nose.

She spooned up some of the mush. It looked like wet dog food on the spoon as she brought it toward Ruby's mouth.