Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(79)



Allison relaxes just a bit. “This is the wrong apartment. He’s across the hall in—”

“No, I know, but he’s not answering, and . . . I’m sorry. I just thought maybe . . .”

“Are you . . . a friend?” Allison asks, not sure what to do.

“I’m his sister.”

That’s right—he did mention he had a sister. Does she know about Carrie? Is that why she’s here? Is Mack expecting her? If so, why isn’t he answering the door?

A new wave of worry washes over Allison.

“Do you think . . . could you let me in?” Mack’s sister asks. “He’s, um, been through a lot and I’m worried that he’s in his apartment but not answering the buzzer.”

That seems likely to Allison.

But is it wise to let a stranger into the building?

It’s a woman—and Mack does have a sister—but still . . .

“I’ll be right down,” she says into the intercom, deciding it might be wiser to talk to the visitor in a public place.

Tossing and turning in the dark on the futon in her sister’s guest room, Emily welcomes the sound of jangling keys and footsteps in the living room.

She sits up and swings her legs over the side of the bed.

“Where are you going?” Dale’s voice doesn’t sound the least bit groggy; he, too, has been restlessly awake.

They’ve both been silent, though. They did all their talking before they turned out the lights about an hour ago with just a perfunctory peck good night.

Dale finally grudgingly agreed that they can’t stay here much longer. If they’re unable to immediately find a “suitable” furnished place to rent in the city, they’ll stay in a hotel until something turns up.

“I hear Jacky,” Emily tells him. “I’m going to go let her know we’ll be out of here after the weekend.”

“Do you have to tell her tonight? Can’t it wait until morning?”

“I can’t sleep anyway. I might as well get up and go talk to her now.”

She pads barefoot across the room, pulling on a robe her sister lent her. Jacky is about five inches taller; Emily has to hold it up to keep the hem from dragging. The borrowed pajamas she’s wearing are rolled up at the ankles and wrists, making her feel like she did when she and Jacky were little girls playing dress-up with their mother’s castoffs.

She closes the guest bedroom door behind her and finds her sister in the kitchen, reading the note Emily left for her earlier.

“Hi,” Emily says, and Jacky turns around.

“Hey. You left me a hot dinner? That’s so sweet.”

“Well, you know, that’s me—so sweet.”

Her sister grins. “What are you doing still awake, sweetness? It’s late.”

“Can’t sleep. How was work?”

“Long, hard day, but it just got better. You have no idea how nice it is to come home to a house that smells like home cooking. That hasn’t happened around here in . . . um, ever.” Jacky grabs a potholder, opens the oven, and removes a foil-wrapped plate.

“Have you and Frank ever even used that stove?”

“What, are you kidding? Nope.”

“You never did like to cook.”

“And you always did. Mom’s dream daughter.”

“Well, you were Dad’s dream son-he-never-had. Good at sports, and you even grew up to be a doctor . . .”

“With the boy name and everything. I always wished you and I could trade places.”

“Why? Girls with boy names were always a lot cooler than girls with dead spinster poet names,” Emily says dryly.

Accidentally conceived when her parents were students at Amherst College, she had, of course, been named after Emily Dickinson. Jacky came along five years later, in the height of the political Camelot era, and was named for the Kennedys—the president and the first lady.

Raised in a decidedly functional family despite the shotgun wedding beginning, Emily always assumed she’d grow up to have children of her own one day. Dale—whose family was decidedly dysfunctional—had no such plans.

Twenty years ago, forced to choose, Emily decided she loved Dale more than she loved the idea of motherhood. She rarely regrets the choice to remain childless, having channeled her need to nurture into her marriage, her church, and her charity work.

“I’m really glad you’re here, Em. You’d think we lived hundreds of miles apart for as often as we see each other.” Jacky lifts the foil from the dish. “Wow—what is this?”

“Mom’s stroganoff.”

“Seriously? I haven’t had this in years.” Jacky grabs some silverware, sits at the table, and digs in. “This is great. Thanks, Em. I bet Frank loved it.”

“I think he thought it was too rich.” Emily sits across from her. “But he did like the salad I made, with pears and candied pecans.”

“Where did you get all this food?”

“Dale and I went out to look for cell phone chargers and stopped at the supermarket on the way back.”

“Did you find the chargers?”

“No, we’re going to check back again tomorrow. There’s a call I really need to make.”

“You can use my phone, Em,” Jacky says around a mouthful. “You know that’s no big deal. Even if it’s long distance . . .”

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