Slice by William Patterson Page A

sharp pink fingernail down the sexy line that divided his torso, down between his pecs and his abs and coming to an end at his navel, like an exclamation point. “Believe me, I’d much prefer to spend this quiet Sunday afternoon all alone with you, just you and me, a bottle of wine and the Jacuzzi. . . .”
    He made no response. He stepped over to the closet and withdrew a pair of chinos. “These okay?” he asked.
    Monica gave him a small smile. “Fine.”
    â€œCan I at least wear flip-flops?”
    â€œWear whatever you want.” She herself was only in her bra and panties. She took a glance at herself in the full-length mirror. She might be getting close to thirty, but Monica still looked good. Damn good. “Anything special you’d like me to wear, Todd?”
    â€œWhat do I look like, a fashion coordinator?” He was pulling on a pair of underwear.
    â€œNo,” his wife said. “Not with chinos and flip-flops, you definitely don’t look like a fashion coordinator.”
    She slipped a yellow-and-white polka-dotted sundress over her head. From the window she could see down to the lawn that stretched between their house and Mom’s—or rather, Jessie’s—house. The first arrivals were making their way up the hill. Gert Gorin, of course, not wanting to miss anything, charged ahead like a soldier into battle, her husband trudging along listlessly a few feet behind her. Gert carried something in her hands; it looked like a casserole dish. Behind Arthur Gorin walked old Mr. Thayer, stiff and erect like a bishop on a chess set. Mr. Thayer had given Todd his first job on Wall Street. He was very fond of Todd and Monica, and they of him. As usual, even on a warm day like this, Mr. Thayer was dressed in a blue blazer and ascot tie.
    Monica took one last glance in the mirror and headed downstairs to join her sister’s housewarming party. Todd followed, the sound of his flip-flops in her ears.

S EVEN
    J essie took a deep breath and opened the door, stepping out onto the front porch to greet her new neighbors.
    Of course, they weren’t really new. She’d known them since she was a little girl, when she and Monica, dressed up as princesses or Spice Girls, would ring their doorbells, trick-or-treating along the cul-de-sac of Hickory Dell at Halloween time. The Wilsons—Heather’s parents—had given out the worst treats: a single bite-size Tootsie Roll wrapped in a Bible verse. The Gorins—even if Mrs. Gorin was the nosiest neighbor of all time—had given out the best: homemade red velvet cupcakes with orange buttercream frosting. The problem was, if you didn’t eat the cupcakes right away, they tended to get smooshed in your trick-or-treat bag. So Jessie and Monica had usually wolfed them down and then continued on their way, frosting all over their chins and fingers.
    But the world had moved on since those innocent days. Now, as the residents of Hickory Dell made their way up Jessie’s lawn, they remembered not the little girl dressed as Sleeping Beauty with frosting on her face but instead the young woman on the back of a Harley, her eyes caked in black mascara and eye shadow. They remembered the suspected criminal the police had interrogated, and the searches across the Clarkson property with dogs and flashlights.
    I was innocent then and I’m innocent now , Jessie thought as she lifted her hand to wave hello to her arriving guests.
    â€œJessica!” Mrs. Gorin beamed a smile in her direction. “How lovely to have you back in the neighborhood! And where is that darling little girl I glimpsed from the window?”
    â€œHello, Mrs. Gorin,” Jessie replied, looking down at the round little woman. “Abby is out back with her nanny, firing up the grill.”
    â€œI brought a tuna casserole,” Gert Gorin told her, handing the ceramic covered dish up to her.
    Jessie accepted it and grinned. “Thank