Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(39)

“I don’t think so. I left a message yesterday. If she’s there, then she would have at least called me back after she got it, to tell me she’s okay.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Allison shrugs. It’s not as though she and Kristina are close friends—certainly not close enough for her to predict Kristina’s reaction in these circumstances. But when things like this happen, you check in on your neighbors, right? Like she did with Mack.

“Well, I haven’t heard footsteps up there,” she tells him, “so I don’t think she’s home, but if she is . . .” She toys with Kristina’s key. “I just want to know she’s okay.”

“If you let yourself into her apartment and she’s not there, you still won’t have an answer.”

“No, but I might be able to tell if she came back yesterday afternoon before she left. Then I’ll know she’s all right.”

“Yeah, well, what if she didn’t come back? That doesn’t mean something happened to her.”

“I know. But she must have been back, because the power was out most of the day, and someone turned the music on.”

It’s the music that’s bothering her, really. It’s just out of the ordinary. She can’t help but picture Kristina, all alone up there, playing the same song over and over in a catatonic stupor brought on by yesterday’s horrific events.

That’s better than thinking she might actually be a victim, of course. But still—

“Maybe there was an electrical surge,” Mack says, tying his sneakers, “and the CD player went into some crazy looping cycle on its own.”

Right. The CD player Kristina suddenly acquired since Sunday afternoon.

“I thought of that,” Allison tells him. “At least I can turn it off so that I can sleep tonight.”

Not that she didn’t manage to sleep last night in spite of the music—and the day’s drama.

But she’d had all that Xanax in her system. It probably knocked her out. Tonight, that won’t be the case.

She shouldn’t be talking about sleep, though—or the lack thereof—with Mack.

Heading for the door, she tells him, “I’m going to go up. You can hang out here for as long as you want.”

“Thanks, but I need to get back home.”

He follows her out. It probably should be an awkward moment, as they linger for a moment in the hallway between the doors to their respective apartments. Somehow, it isn’t. They might have been virtual strangers less than forty-eight hours ago, but now they’re friends. Friends who have been through hell together—and have yet to come back.

“Thanks for everything.”

“You’re welcome.”

Mack unlocks the door, and Allison starts away, then turns back to call, “Let me know if you need anything later.”

“I won’t.”

“You won’t let me know? Or you won’t need anything?”

Maybe he didn’t hear the question; maybe he did and chooses to ignore it. Without answering, he disappears into his apartment and closes the door behind him.

She takes the stairs up to the fifth floor and knocks on Kristina’s door.

Nothing but music from the other side.

“Kristina?”

No answer.

Allison puts the key into the lock.

“Kristina, I’m coming in,” she calls. “I have your keys, remember? If you’re there, and you don’t want me to come in, just tell me.”

Silence.

Allison turns the key, turns the knob, pushes the door open.

“Kristina? Are you in there? Kristina?”

She forces herself to cross the threshold. A few steps in, she can see that the bedroom door is open.

“Kristina?” she calls, walking toward it. “It’s Allison.”

She stops short.

And screams.





Chapter Seven

Yesterday, while dozens of his fellow NYPD officers were dying, Rocky Manzillo was in a Bronx hospital, sitting naked in a gown that tied in the back, waiting for someone to come shove a scope up his ass.

His wife, Ange, sat in a chair beside him, leafing through Good Housekeeping and occasionally complaining that there was no TV in the room. She never misses The Today Show.

“Can’t you sacrifice Matt and Katie just once for the man you love?” Rocky asked her. “Look what I’m doing for you.”

“You’re not doing this for me. You’re doing it for you,” Ange said without looking up from the article she was reading. “You want to die, Rocco?”

“What kind of question is that? Who wants to die?”

“Colonoscopies save lives.”

“Maybe,” Rocky told her, “but as far as I’m concerned, colonoscopies are a real pain in the—”

“Give it a rest. It was funny the first time you said it, but enough is enough.”

He fell silent, increasingly irritated by the way Ange licked her finger every time she turned a page, and brooding about the upcoming procedure. No, this sure as hell wasn’t his idea.

There he was, sailing along, living life, feeling good, all three of his kids grown up and out on their own. Then he turned fifty, and suddenly everyone he knew was up his ass about his weight, his cholesterol, his colon—everyone was up his ass about getting something shoved up his ass. Everyone: Ange, Rocky’s doctor, even his oldest pal, Vic Shattuck.