Free Slice by William Patterson Page A

newest guest. She’d never read any of John Manning’s books—she didn’t like horror stories; she’d lived through enough of her own—but she knew people who did. Her editor at the publishing house was a huge fan of Manning’s, and wished she could lure him away from his current contract. After all, John Manning’s books had sold millions of copies, and made him and his publishers millions of dollars. A number of movies had been made from his books, and his latest, The Sound of a Scream, was being turned into a TV miniseries. Inga had just started reading it, curious about the man who lived just beyond their pine trees—and whose wife had died in a mysterious fall just a few feet from where they lived.
    â€œWhat a dark imagination,” Inga had said after reading the first few pages. “He sure enjoys slaughtering people.”
    It was hard for Jessie to imagine writing about such things. In her own work she wrote about transformation and survival and joy—not death and destruction. And she’d come to believe that what one wrote reflected the core of who one was. So she was more than a little apprehensive about meeting this neighbor of theirs.
    When they returned outside, they found that the sun, so bright just moments before, had slipped behind a cloud. The shadows had abruptly disappeared from the yard, leaving the day shrouded in a bluish haze. Jessie noticed that John Manning had approached none of the adults, but rather had paused at the grill, where the three little children were now watching Inga lay the hamburger patties over the smoldering coals. He was saying something to the kids, though Jessie couldn’t hear what he said. He seemed so enormous standing next to the children. Well over six feet, he was dressed all in black: a black T-shirt over black jeans, and on his feet he wore black sneakers. Jessie felt a sudden chill and forced herself to shrug it off.
    â€œHello,” she said, approaching, her hand held out in greeting, a smile on her face.
    John Manning’s deep-set dark eyes looked up from the children and found her gaze. Jessie took a small, involuntary step backward, as if knocked off stride by the man’s extraordinary, movie-star good looks. He reached out and took Jessie’s hand.
    â€œMs. Clarkson, I take it,” he said.
    â€œYes,” Jessie replied, and realized her voice unexpectedly trembled a bit. She was being foolish. She wasn’t usually impressed by celebrities. Even handsome celebrities. “Thanks for coming.”
    John Manning gave her a small, tentative smile. “I thought I should, given that we live next to each other. I’ve gotten used to seeing this house always dark. Now I’ll need to accustom myself to seeing lights over here.”
    Jessie remembered the day she’d seen him stranding in his window, staring over at her house. For some silly reason, she trembled again. Her hand was still in Manning’s, and he must have felt the tremor pass through her body.
    â€œYou seem cold,” he observed, “and on such a beautiful, warm day.”
    There was something about his eyes. So dark, so magnetic. It was as if Jessie was being drawn into his mind against her will. Suddenly she saw an image: Manning’s wife, Millie, lying facedown in a pool of blood on their concrete patio. She trembled again.
    â€œI guess I’ll feel better once the sun comes back out from behind the cloud,” Jessie said, and extricated her hand from Manning’s grip.
    He smiled a little wider. “We won’t have to wait long for that, I don’t think.” He looked up. “Except for that one big cumulus straight above, the sky is otherwise a solid sheet of blue.”
    Even as he spoke the sun emerged from behind the cloud, filling the yard up once again with golden light.
    â€œHappier now?” Manning said, his smile turning cheeky.
    Jessie laughed. “Thanks for arranging