Ruby's entire personality seemed at odds with her world view. A woman like her could have been burned at the stake in the era she seemed to prefer. Especially in this Boston marriage she and Norma appeared to be living in.

She chuckled. Had Martin been so clueless his whole life that he hadn't seen the signs? Their devotion to each other was clear. They even had the witty back-and-forth repartee of an old married couple. And though Sheila couldn't fathom either woman engaging in sexual congress, she felt the same about most elderly people. She supposed she'd change her tune when her own time drew near. It wasn't likely she would give up sex the day after sixty-nine.

She looked at Norma. The woman sat in the Lazy-boy recliner with her arms on the rests as if to secure herself, watching the local news with the captioning on. They were covering the upcoming election—Weren't they always?—and Norma chuckled every so often. Every time Sheila looked up to see what she was laughing at the captioning had already moved on.

While Elvis began to mourn about how he and his lover were caught in a trap, she turned to Martin. He sat cross-legged on the floor in front of a bookshelf, sifting through old yearbooks. She'd sat with him for a while, laughing at pictures of him during his formative years. Once they'd reached high school he started to moan about his lost youth and Sheila had no interest in following him down the rabbit hole.

You can't spell "martyr" without Marty, she thought.

She picked a book from the shelf—a Hitchcock mystery anthology—and read it in intermittent bursts of concentration while Norma chuckled at the talking heads on the news and Martin waxed nostalgic.

The book was a time capsule of an era Ruby likely appreciated. Every other story seemed to be about some hen-pecked husband deciding to murder his wife in some vaguely creative way. Really tedious, openly misogynistic stuff. She set it aside and got up from the sofa.

"I'll be right back."

Martin glanced up as she passed. "Where ya going?"

"I'm just gonna take a walk down the street, I think."

He closed the yearbook and stood. "I'll come with you."

"You don't have to."

"I could use the exercise. Unless you'd rather be alone?"

"Why would I rather be alone?"

Norma glanced back over her shoulder. "Would you two get a room already? Sheesh."

He laughed. Sheila shook her head. "Come on then," she said. "Before Norma breaks out the violin and roses."

The air was brisk out on the porch. The wind chimes tinkled. She zipped up as Martin headed down to the walk. She looked out at the darkened, empty street. The closest sound was the distant crash of waves against the shore.

"Do you think we're safe here, Martin?"

He seemed to consider it. "I think we're as safe as we'll ever be." He swept a hand toward the ocean, black against the starless sky. "We're surrounded by miles and miles of water. The ferry workers and the local cops all have a description of Barclay. Unless he swims across the bay or drastically changes his appearance, there's no way he's getting on this island."