Martha's Vineyard

We heard the news that a woman had been murdered when we were in the car, coming back from a late night ice cream run. The radio barely worked on those back roads, but Papa liked to listen to it for the next day’s weather report. I heard the phrases strangled, no forced entry, and physical evidence in between miles of static. My boysenberry ice cream dripped down my pinkie, but licking it off, the sweetness nauseated me. The next morning, the shoreline was littered with starfish, as well as starfish parts – arms with no bodies and bodies missing arms.