Slice by William Patterson

lurking, waiting for the right moment to make his move. But Emil was dead. And she and Abby were here, starting over in Mom’s house. Life was good.
    Jessie glanced out toward the brook. Overhead the hawk soared again, looking for prey.

S IX
    M onica wasn’t happy about this party. Not at all.
    â€œHurry up, Todd,” she said, calling over her shoulder as she sat in front of her vanity, brushing mascara onto her lashes. “And don’t wear shorts. Put on a pair of chinos.”
    Her husband was still in the shower. “Why do I have to go at all?”
    â€œBecause she’s gone ahead and invited the whole damn neighborhood. Everyone will be there. And if you’re not, they’ll wonder why. And Gert Gorin will start spreading stories.”
    â€œIs that prick Bryan Pierce going to be there?” Todd called, the sound of water splashing against tiles as he moved around in the shower.
    â€œYes, she’s invited Bryan and Heather.”
    â€œFuck.”
    Just why Jessie had invited the guy who’d broken her heart and the former best friend who’d been the cause of it, Monica wasn’t sure. Then again, her sister had gotten pretty used to dealing with exes, with Todd living down the hill from her. Monica was pleased that, so far at least, Todd and Jessie had barely spent any time together. Even the day he’d mowed her lawn, he’d barely lingered to talk. There seemed to be no interest on either part to renew even a modicum of the closeness they’d had in high school. There’s been a lot of water under that bridge , Monica thought. Surely both of them must be glad they didn’t end up together.
    So far, too, there had been no real problems with Jessie living in Mom’s house. She and Abby and that German nanny respected Monica’s privacy. The few times they’d come down to the house, they’d called first, and then their visits were always functional and brief, usually to borrow some tools or retrieve items they’d stored in the icebox. Even the frequency with which Jessie had borrowed Monica’s car in the first few days after her arrival had tapered off; two days ago, Monica had noticed her sister pull into the driveway in an old Volvo station wagon. “My own wheels!” Jessie had exclaimed, waving the keys at her. She’d bought the car over in Port Chester for two-and-a-half grand. It had some rust and the doors squeaked when they opened, but it ran, and that was all that a bohemian like Jessie cared about. Monica was relieved that she no longer had to worry about her sister borrowing her powder-blue Beemer.
    Jessie had also purchased a new refrigerator. It had been delivered last Wednesday by Home Depot, hauled up the hill by two big, burly black men; Monica hadn’t been surprised when she’d discerned Gert Gorin peering out her window with her binoculars, watching their every move.
    She sat back and inspected her eyes. Then she puckered up and applied a light coating of pink lipstick. She heard Todd shut the water off and step out of the shower.
    â€œWho else did Jessie invite to this thing?”
    Monica sighed. “To be fair, it was Aunt Paulette’s idea. She’s the one who ran up and down the street with invitations.”
    â€œSo it’s everybody then. The whole freaking neighborhood.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œEven—?” Todd stood behind her stark naked, the hair on his head and legs and arms still alive with static electricity after a fierce towel dry. He was pointing over his shoulder with his thumb toward the north side of the house.
    â€œYes,” Monica said, standing from the vanity. “Even John Manning.”
    â€œWell, he never comes to anything.”
    She shrugged. “All I know is that Aunt Paulette went over there with an invitation.”
    â€œChrist.”
    â€œI don’t like it any more than you do.” Monica drew close to her husband, running a