Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(64)

“Don’t worry, everyone’s a little nuts today,” Erik tells her.

She smiles faintly. “Did I say I was nuts?”

He smiles back. “Hey, at least you came into work. Hardly anyone else bothered—not that I blame anyone for being afraid to leave home after . . . everything.”

Yeah, well, some of us are afraid to stay home after . . . everything.

Afraid?

She despises the word, has been fighting it—fighting fear—all morning.

After all, nothing actually even happened—other than her imagination playing tricks on her, making her think someone was hiding in the bullpen.

Yes, and her coworkers almost caught her wielding a pair of scissors like one of those hapless, helpless horror movie heroines who try to fend off the bad guy with some ridiculous nonweapon.

I couldn’t help it, though. In that moment, when I grabbed those scissors, I was scared.

So? She’s been scared plenty of times in her life, but she’s always stayed strong.

That’s not about to change. She won’t let it. She won’t curl up and die like her mother did.

Strength is my strength.

Then again—so is her active imagination. It’s always been an effective coping mechanism. On the very day she woke up to find that her father had left, her imaginary sister came to stay.

Winona, Allison called her.

She’d dreamed about her the night before, and she seemed so real that somewhere in the back of her mind, she almost believed that she was.

A child psychiatrist could have had a field day with that, she supposes. But of course, her mother was too busy going crazy herself to worry about whether her daughter had.

“I just wanted to tell you,” Erik is saying, “that you might as well go on home. There’s nothing to do here.”

He’s right, of course. She’s been trying to stay busy all morning, but routine paperwork was all she could find to occupy her jittery hands. The phones are quiet, and there’s been no e-mail—not work-related, anyway.

The handful of employees who showed up have mainly been congregating in the corridors and the small office kitchen, talking in hushed tones about what’s going on in the city, trading information, rumors, horror stories, and the good news that several people had been pulled alive from the rubble at ground zero.

Allison pretty much kept to herself in her office, waiting for one of the locksmiths to call her back. She’d left messages for several.

She kept thinking about Kristina. And Mack.

Maybe Carrie had been one of the people who had been rescued. Maybe she’s coming home after all.

Allison fervently hopes that’s the case.

“So,” Erik says, rocking back on the heels of his alligator shoes, “if you want to clear out of here, go ahead. I’m going to.”

“I guess I might as well, too, then. What about tomorrow?”

“Take the day off.” Seeing her disappointed expression, he amends, “Or come in if you want. But I honestly don’t think business is going to be back to normal until Monday.”

Normal . . .

Monday?

Allison is certain it’s going to be a long, long time before anything feels normal.

She leaves the office, takes the subway back downtown to Union Square, trades her heels for sneakers, and walks the rest of the way home.

Without traffic, the streets are still eerily quiet down here in the frozen zone. Missing posters are taped to every available surface. Allison can’t bear to look at the faces smiling out from the photographs, suspecting that none of those people are ever coming home now.

Clusters of cops in orange vests and NYPD caps are posted on corners and at closed subway entrances. National guardsmen, armed and wearing camo, patrol the streets. The only civilian pedestrians are neighborhood residents who, like Allison, provided ID and were cleared at the police barricades at the northern boundary of the zone. They gather in somber little groups in front of buildings or scuttle along with their heads bent, as if they’re afraid of what they’ll see if they look up.

Unaccustomed to the gaping hole in the southern skyline, Allison, too, keeps her head down until she gets back to her building.

She’d been hoping she might find a police car parked in front, but there isn’t one.

Wondering if the building is as empty as it looks—and feels, even from here—she unlocks the door and steps inside. It closes hard behind her, and she jumps. Again.

No. Get over it. You’re fine. Everything is fine.

But that’s not true—not by a long shot. She can try all she wants to convince herself that she’s not in danger, but the truth is, her neighbor was murdered in this very building.

Okay, so everything isn’t fine.

But what is she supposed to do? Where else is she supposed to go? This is her home. Even if she had someplace else to go—someplace far away from here—how would she even get there? She doesn’t have a car, there are no flights, and for all she knows, no trains, either.

She’s stuck here, in this building. It is what it is.

Fine. So get moving.

You’ll feel better in your own apartment.

Walking across the empty vestibule and down the vacant hall to the elevator may not be the hardest thing Allison has ever had to do in her life, but it’s definitely on the list.

Her rapid footsteps seem to beat in time with her pulse, and she looks over her shoulder repeatedly, making sure she’s alone. Yes. Alone is good.