“What the fuck was that?” Joe said.

“Didn’t hear a thing.” William put his arm around Peta and pulled her toward him.

“Well, I did.”

“Okay, so maybe a dog took a loud dump. If it bothers you, go see what it was.”

Beer in one hand, weapon balanced by his forearm and lying across his shoulder, Joe took a step in the direction from which Peta had come. “I think I’ll just do that,” he said. He bent first to extract a large and messy chunk of birthday cake.

“You’ll miss the real party.” Peta pressed herself against William.

“I’ll be back,” Joe said. “Have to take a piss anyway. Might as well do a tour while I’m at it.”

He didn’t seem particularly worried until the sound came again—the harsh clang of something against metal. He stiffened and moved toward the noise.

Dear God, forgive me, I didn’t want it to come to this, Peta thought, as she swung into the action she and Ray had rehearsed.

Quickly, using maximum energy and strength, she removed the scalpel that had been disguised as part of her belt buckle. Imagine Willy’s a goat, she told herself; she’d helped kill those often enough before a family feast.

The illusion worked, aided by a massive rush of adrenaline. Before he realized what was happening, William’s carotid artery had been neatly slit. Her cousin Natalie’s husband.

She turned her attention to Joe, who was just about to round the corner that led to a scene he could not be allowed to witness. For a split second, she diverted her focus to William’s submachine gun.

“Don’t even think about it, sweetface.” Joe turned around, his weapon cocked. “This no toy in me hand, you know. Now, you mind telling Joe what be going on?”

“Sick dog was feeling me up,” Peta said, knowing how stupid she sounded after giving both of them the come-on.

“Sick dog?” Joe motioned at her with the rifle. “You sick bitch, if you ask me. C’moverhere.” She didn’t move. “Be a good girl, sweetface. Drop you knife and come over here. Slowly.”