Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(59)

Ben’s daughter. He hasn’t seen her in months. Maybe a year. Years? And yet she drew a picture of him and Carrie holding hands on a sunny day.

“Yup—that was Lexi. Only I told her not to wake you up, just see if you were awake. I know you have a hard time falling asleep, and staying asleep—although I guess if last night didn’t knock you out, nothing could.”

Last night . . .

Mack hasn’t a clue. Even this morning, right here and now, is hazy.

“I was so out of it, I didn’t even realize that was Lexi,” he tells Ben. “She used to be . . .”

“A baby?” Ben smiles faintly. “Yeah. I guess they grow up.”

Inevitably, Mack’s thoughts shift to Carrie, and the baby they were trying to conceive.

That’s never going to happen now.

Oh, hell, that was never going to happen anyway. Tuesday morning . . .

“Listen, Mack?”

He looks up to find Ben watching him, still looking worried, as if he knows . . . something.

But how much?

Ben clears his throat. “I’m glad you told me about Carrie, and if you don’t mind—I want to tell Randi about it.”

“Wh-why?”

“You know—she’s always felt kind of bad about things. That we never saw much of you anymore once you got married, or . . . I mean, we both thought it was us, that we rubbed her the wrong way or something.”

“No. It wasn’t you. It was Carrie. She just had a hard time with . . .”

“People,” Ben supplies, as Mack simultaneously concludes his sentence with “Everyone.”

Ben nods. “Well, now that I know the truth—it changes the way I see her. I wish I could go back, knowing what I know now. Maybe it’s too late to change things, with everything that’s going on—but it helps that I know.”

“How?”

“I don’t know . . . it just does. That’s why I want to tell Randi. She’ll feel better about it, too.”

“What . . . what are you going to tell her, exactly?” Mack’s heart is racing.

“You know—what you told me. About her past. It explains why she was the way she was. I mean why she is the way she is,” he amends hastily.

“You don’t have to do that,” Mack tells him.

“Do what? Tell Randi?”

“No—talk about Carrie like she’s still alive.”

“She could be.”

Mack shakes his head. No more lies. “She isn’t, Ben. She’s never coming home.”

“You don’t know that.”

Wordlessly, Mack hands over the newspaper, folded open to the article about Cantor Fitzgerald. He watches Ben read about how yesterday afternoon, at the Pierre Hotel, the chairman informed the families that not a single Cantor employee out of the thousand or so who had been at work on Tuesday morning had made it out alive. Not one.

When Ben finishes reading the article, he puts the paper aside and looks at Mack.

He knew, Mack realizes. He already knew.

“I’m sorry, Mack.”

He nods.

“What are you going to do?” Ben asks after a few moments of somber silence.

“Go on,” Mack says simply. “What else is there to do?”

Stepping from the bright morning sunshine into her office building, Allison is greeted with a prompt “Good morning, mon!”

As her eyes adjust to the dim lighting in the lobby, she spots the dreadlocked security guard back at his post. “Henry! It’s so good to see you.”

Ah, there it is again—that inexplicable urge to make physical contact with someone she really doesn’t know all that well; someone who—like Mack—she has seen in passing as she goes about her daily business and never really thought much about until now.

It’s all she can do not to race over and throw her arms around Henry, but she merely smiles.

“Good to see you too, mon. Everything is okay?” he asks in his lilting Jamaican inflection.

How to answer that?

With a simple nod and another question is probably the easiest way. “How about with you?”

Henry shakes his head. “I knew a few people.”

The words are spoken so softly she can barely hear them, but the sorrow in his big black eyes speaks volumes.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, mon. Me too.”

For a moment, they’re both silent.

Then Henry slides a clipboard across the counter to her. “Here . . . I need you to sign in.”

“Sign in?”

“New world—new security procedure. I need to check your bag, too . . . sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She opens her shoulder bag and he pokes around inside quickly.

“I never saw you wear shoes like this.” The twinkle returns to Henry’s eyes as he gestures at the sneakers tucked into her bag. She wore them to walk up to Union Square, then put on her heels before taking the subway to midtown.

“Shh—don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t. I wouldn’t want you to get fired, would I?”

It feels good to share a little laugh with Henry, after all the grim faces on the streets and in the subway, dozens of black SUVs with government plates parked all over midtown . . . and now this: new security measures at the office.