The evening after I fixed Mrs. Reuter's pipe, I took a long, scalding shower then wheeled Miss Corene into the General Store. Little Big Rock wasn’t exactly wheelchair accessible, so I helped her with stairs as well as cooking.

Inside the General Store, we rumbled over the floorboards and into the back room that Gustav added for bean suppers and town meetings. Everyone was there, even Shandra Emerson, despite what being in a crowd did to her since the Storm.

I settled Miss Corene into her spot, and chatted with Patty until people started putting their plates of ribs and brown bread aside.

"First order of business," Gustav said from the front of the room. "We had some campers on the east beach. One of their kids almost fell between the boulders, so me and the boys are going to fill the holes down that area."

The ‘boys’ were me and Dewitt, that’s what everyone on the island called us. Arthur and Kenyatta's sons were nine, but everyone called them ‘the twins.’

"Fix the sinkhole at the knoll, too," Mrs. Reuter said, looking up from her knitting. "Accident waiting to happen."

"I’ve got a few sheets of geotex fabric for that," Big Molly offered. She was a petite woman with wide-set eyes, nothing big about her except her nickname.

Trish reminded everyone to contribute to the heating oil fund. Then Patty announced she was showing her paintings at a gallery on Congress Street downtown, Dewitt's mom passed a joint to his dad, the Johns talked about the inn's occupancy, Kenyatta talked about the town's stock portfolio and--

Well, you get the idea. Boring, small-town conversations about boring, small-town matters. None of that matters; you don't even need to remember those names.

But to me, they were the most important people in the world.

After bringing Miss Corene home, I headed across the Rock and parked at the inn, a pretty building nestled among clifftop gardens. I wanted a moment alone with the nightfall, so I crossed the lawn toward the gazebo, past the flower garden--available for weddings, booked eight months in advance.

The 'Johns' were Jonathan and Johann. They'd restored the old farmhouse into an inn with four suites and gourmet meals and kayak trips: a rustic Mayne retreat where gay families and newlyweds could find rural quaintness without rural hostility.

After the meeting at the General Store, Jonathan had asked me to stop by, so there I was. Watching the ocean, listening to the surf slap the base of the cliffs. Too dark to see much, until an interference of waves drew my eyes to a point a hundred yards from the beach, a solid shadow.

A boat?

I looked closer and saw a small yacht, running dark in the darkness.

Probably a romantic couple who didn't realize the island was inhabited. I grinned and headed for the side door.

I found the Johns in the kitchen, with ESPN playing. When I stepped inside, Johann tossed me a beer. I popped the top and leaned against the cabinet.

"Am I ever wrong?" Johann asked Jonathan.

"First," Jonathan told him, twirling a miniature blowtorch over a dessert ramekin, "the entire concept of ‘gaydar’ is reductive and offensive."

"Uh-huh," Johann said. "And second?"

"Mine is better than yours. They’re not gay."

"Have you seen them?" Johann asked me. "Our guests?"

I swigged my beer. "You’ve only got the two guys? Yeah, I saw them on the knoll--they’re hikers?"

"And kayakers." Jonathan turned the miniature blowtorch off. "And joggers. They covered every inch of the Rock in three days and haven’t left their room since."

"They’re built," Johann said.

"With six-packs," Jonathan told me, eying Johann’s beer belly. "Instead of a keg."

"Do they look gay to you?" Johann asked me.

"Sure," I said.

Jonathan snorted. "Like Lark would know. He couldn’t find a straight girl at a princess party."

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

I didn’t know what that meant: ‘princess party’ actually sounded pretty gay to me. So I sipped instead of saying anything. That’s why God invented beer.

"Yeah," Johann said. "The poor guy. Still pining after Maddie."

"Unrequited love," Jonathan agreed.

"Weeping bitter tears into his pillow."

"I’m standing right here," I reminded them. "I can hear you."

"You don’t want them to be gay," Johann told Jonathan, "because you don’t like them."

Jonathan looked at the dark window. "They scare me."

"That’s why we asked you to stop by," Johann told me. "We need a second opinion."

"If they’re scary?"

"Yeah."

I set my beer on the counter. "You think they’re trouble?"

"We don’t know what they are," Jonathan said. "We want you to search their room."

"Um, I don't really care but … is that legal?"

"Not if you change the sheets while you’re in there. We’re not asking you to break down the door."

"Oh," I said. "So I just knock and say I’m housekeeping?"

"Or the plumber." Johann scratched his beard. "You have tools in the truck?"

"Sure."

Jonathan set the blowtorch aside. "We wouldn’t ask, Lark, but they make me nervous."

Sometimes I felt sorry for the Johns. They'd only wanted to visit the Rock for a week's holiday, then got stuck here forever after the Storm. And instead of freaking out, they'd just shrugged and built a life for themselves, without regret or hesitation.

Plus, plenty of people had looked after me when my sister Simone died, but who’d framed my childhood paintings? Who’d slipped me a few twenties when I headed for Portland? Who’d told me about the birds and the bees, despite only having personal knowledge of the birds and the birds? Who’d taught me to play basketball and lacrosse? Who’d listened to my drama, told me I needed a haircut, and scolded me when I acted like a jerk?

The Johns. They'd parented me better than my parents ever had.

"Which suite are they in?" I asked.

----------------------------------------

When I knocked, a man called, "One minute!"

I heard shuffling inside, then the door opened and a muscular guy with a pug nose said, "Yeah?"

"Hi, I’m--"

"Wait, don’t tell me." He inspected my face. "The handyman, right? Jack of all trades?"

"Master of none," I said.

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Yeah, you’re the kid in the pickup with … Darwin? No, Dewitt. Which makes you Lars."

"Pretty much," I said.

"I’m Sam." We shook hands, and his grip felt like steel cable. "What’s the problem?"

"There’s a leak," I lied. "I need to check your pipes."

Sam turned his head. "You hear that, Ed? He wants to check my pipes."

"Sit and spin," another man said from inside.

"Don’t mind him," Sam told me, stepping back. "He gets cranky without cell reception."

Aside from the mussed bed and a water glass on the beside table, the room looked untouched. The other man--Ed--sat at the kitchen table, working on a laptop. He had short black hair, a horseshoe moustache, and was muscular like Sam.

He looked up from his screen and said, "I don’t know how you live out here."

"We rent a lot of movies."

He shot me a crooked grin. "Yeah, on VHS."

"Hey," I said, in mock offense. "You should see our gramophone collection."

We all laughed, ha ha ha, but … Jonathan was right. Something felt off about these two. Their eyes never stopped watching, and their laughter sounded forced.

"This is my favorite suite," I said, surveying the room. "I like the crown molding."

They looked at the ceiling, and I glanced at the laptop screen and saw nothing.

"You know where the bathroom is," Sam told me. "Help yourself."

I went into the bathroom and knocked around under the sink, wondering what I was doing. Sure, they seemed sort of coiled tight, but maybe that’s why they were on vacation. To relax. Hell, for all I knew they were here for a princess party.

I replaced the gasket in the shower head, and caught an odd angle of the living room in the mirror.

The two men were standing together in the corner.

Ed tapped his watch and looked a question at Sam.

Sam shook his head and raised one finger: wait.

Ed nodded.

When I returned to the living room, Ed was clicking at the laptop while Sam lounged on the couch with Architectural Digest. No hint they’d been whispering together a moment ago.

Hm. Weird. I poked around in the en suite kitchen, and considered loosening the elbow fitting under the sink. Start a little flood, then search the room properly after they left. But that seemed faintly psychotic, so I just told them I'd caught the problem and said goodbye.

Back downstairs, I told the Johns, "I don’t know. They’re a little off."

"Scary off?" Johann said.

"I don’t think so," I said.

Jonathan looked dubious, but said, "You staying for dessert? I made crème brulee."

----------------------------------------

We watched the game while we ate. During a commercial, I asked, "Is that their yacht?"

"Where?"

"Just off shore."

Johann crossed to the window. "Nothing there now."

"It must’ve moved on."

"Sam and Ed took a water taxi, anyway."

"Doesn’t matter," I said.

Wrong again.

----------------------------------------

After the game, I played Madden with Jonathan for a while, then headed toward town. Well, though it wasn't much of a town--just seven buildings clustered around the General Store.

Half a mile from Miss Corene's house, I rounded a bend and caught a flash of white. A pale dress flapping in the wind, a girl with her face hidden by the tendrils of her hair.

Shandra Emerson.

I pulled to the shoulder. "Hey, Shandra, you okay?"

She opened her mouth and didn’t speak, her eyes drowned and desolate. That happened sometimes, with Shandra. Ever since the Storm.

"You need a ride home." I stepped from the pickup. "Come on, I’ll make hot cocoa."

"No-no," she mumbled. "No."

I reached for her. "Lots of whipped cream, I prom--"

"Don’t!" she said, jerking backward fearfully. "They’re here. On the island."

"Who?"

"They’re searching. They're watching, I can't--they can't--they're out there." The words tumbled from her lips. "Coming closer. They stink of blood and--"

"Shandra!" I grabbed her hand. "Look at me."

Her gaze snapped to my face. "Lark?"

"I'm here now," I told her, making my voice gentle. "You're okay."

"They’re after Dewitt."

"What? Who?"

"Killers." Shandra started trembling. "I walked in their footsteps."

"Wait. Dewey's in trouble?"

"I felt them," she said, "and they feel like death."