Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(56)

The saleswoman, a glasses-on-a-chain, grandmotherly type whose name tag read Eileen, looked at Allison not with pity, but with sympathy. That was the first time she ever realized there was a tremendous difference between the two.

“Come with me,” Eileen said, and led her toward the dressing room.

The church lady started to follow, but Eileen told her the dressing room area was much too small.

When they got there, Allison saw that it wasn’t, and she wanted to hug Eileen. Especially when she starting bringing in clothes—armloads of clothes, beautiful clothes, far nicer than anything Allison had ever owned.

She picked out a black crepe Ralph Lauren dress.

Her mother would have loved to see her in it. She used to tell Allison about the beautiful clothes she’d had when she was growing up, before she got mixed up in trouble, got pregnant with Brett—not even sure who the father was—and her wealthy family disowned her.

The black dress was expensive. When the saleswoman rang it up, the church lady paled a bit beneath her rouge, but she handed over her credit card with a forced smile.

The dress is still hanging in the back of Allison’s closet, draped in dry cleaner’s plastic. It’s a classic style. She could wear it again, really—if she wanted to. She doesn’t. But she won’t get rid of it, either. It’s a reminder—oddly, not a sad one.

When Allison pulled that luxurious dress over her head that morning in the dressing room, she felt a glimmer of hope.

It’s only a dress, she reminded herself, looking in the mirror, twirling back and forth and admiring the way the fabric swished around her legs.

And yet . . . that dress helped her to cope during that terrible time in her life. It helped more than anything else: more than the church lady’s chatter and the minister’s eulogy about a woman he’d never met, more than Brett’s gruff attempts to comfort her or the foster care system’s attempts to pick up the pieces of her life.

That dress changed her on the outside. Quite miraculously, she no longer looked the part of a forlorn orphan. She looked like a young woman who was quite capable of taking care of herself.

And that was what she did.

It’s only a dress . . .

It’s only fashion . . .

Was it just yesterday that she’d thought it would never matter again?

Somewhere outside, she can hear sirens wailing.

There have always been sirens, there always will be. They just sound louder now because there is no other street noise.

Allison goes over to her closet, pulls out a Badgley Mischka dress with the tags still on, and hangs it on the hook on the back of the door. She’ll wear this today.

Back in the kitchen, she pours a cup of coffee, then takes it into the living room and sits down at the computer. She finds several e-mails—including one from her supervisor, sent late last night, and addressed to the entire department.

Office will be open Thursday. Please report in if possible.

Good.

She switches over to a local news Web site, wondering if there will be anything about Kristina’s murder—and, perhaps, an arrest.

But of course, there’s nothing at all. Thousands of New Yorkers were murdered on Tuesday; Kristina is lost amid the mass hysteria and grief.

Detective Manzillo gave Allison his card last night. “Call me if you think of anything else that might help,” he said. “Or if you need anything,” he added, an obvious afterthought.

She takes it out, toys with it, looks at the phone.

She doesn’t need anything, really, and she can’t think of anything else that might help.

She puts the card into her wallet, goes back to the kitchen, pours another cup of coffee, and carries it over to the door. Then she stops and looks at the locks.

Who knows what’s going on out there this morning? For all she knows, Jerry the handyman could be lurking in the hallway, waiting to pounce.

No—if he killed Kristina, he’d be as far away from here right now as he could get, wouldn’t he?

Anyway, she’s already concluded that she can’t stay barricaded in her apartment from now on. That would be letting terror win.

She sets down the coffee while she unfastens the chain and all the locks.

Again, she hesitates, remembering how vulnerable she felt last night—how uncertain she was about everything. Including Mack.

Is this a bad idea?

Maybe.

But she’s doing it anyway.

She picks up the mug, opens the door, and sticks her head out just to be sure there’s no one lurking.

The hallway looks empty; it feels empty.

Allison takes a deep breath to steady her nerves and carries the coffee across the hall to Mack’s door.

The morning sun streams in the east-facing, fortieth floor windows just off Times Square. It’s a comfortable apartment in a doorman building, with high ceilings, a terrace, and large rooms—by Manhattan standards, anyway. The kind of apartment most twenty-three-year-olds barely earning twenty thousand dollars a year would be hard-pressed to afford.

But, as Nora Fellows informs Vic, she shares the apartment with thirteen other women.

“Thirteen?” Vic echoes, not sure he heard her correctly.

“Yup. We’re all flight attendants, based out of JFK. It’s basically, like, a crash pad, you know?”

A pretty, blue-eyed redhead, Nora is just a few years older than Vic’s daughter Melody, and she reminds him of her. She has the same pert attractiveness and slight build, uses the same slang and speaks with the same inflections.