Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(84)

“I’m sure he’s all right,” Allison told her with a confidence she didn’t feel. “I was with him when he got the news, and he held up pretty well under the circumstances.”

“You were with him? Are you a friend of his, then?”

Unsure how to answer that, Allison nodded.

“Really? I mean—don’t take this the wrong way, but I didn’t think my brother had many friends anymore. He and Carrie—well, they kept to themselves. I didn’t really think they were hanging out with the neighbors.”

“They weren’t,” Allison said hastily. “I just got to know him the past few days with . . . everything going on.” She’s definitely not going to mention the murder investigation, which, in light of the MacKennas’ family tragedy, seems almost insignificant.

“All I did was check in on him a few times, and put up some missing persons posters and . . . I made chicken soup,” she adds lamely.

“That’s so sweet of you. Thank you. I’ve been so worried, I kept thinking of him here, all alone—I’m glad he wasn’t. It wasn’t easy for me to get to him, and . . . well, I couldn’t really tell if he wanted me here. We used to be close—he used to have all kinds of friends, and we have a big extended family, too—but Carrie kind of alienated everyone. Oh—I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead,” she added, and crossed herself. “I’m sorry.”

Remembering yet again what Mack had shared about his own feelings for his wife, Allison told her, “That’s okay. I don’t—didn’t—really know your sister-in-law at all.”

“I’m sure that was her choice, not yours. Listen, do you want to go get a drink? I don’t want to drive all the way back to Jersey until I’ve seen my brother, and my nerves are shot. I could use a beer.”

Allison opened her mouth to invite Lynn up to her place, but thought better of it, remembering that Kristina Haines might very well have invited her own murderer to cross the threshold.

It wasn’t that she thought the woman was a cold-blooded killer—but really, how did she even know Lynn was who she said she was?

Are you serious? Look at her. She looks just like her brother!

All right, so maybe she was, quite obviously, related to Mack.

Still . . . how much did Allison really know about him? What if they were a pair of killer siblings and this was all just an elaborate setup concocted by the two of them to lure her into a trap?

You’re crazy, she told herself.

But better crazy—and perhaps overly cautious—than dead, right?

“I passed a bar that was open a few blocks away,” Lynn went on. “We can go there. I mean, I can go alone, but I’d rather have company. Will you come?”

“Sure,” Allison said impulsively, and here they are.

She’s glad she came, even though she’s certainly not dressed to be out—though in her old jeans and T-shirt, she seems to fit right in with this crowd. The cash she had in her pocket, left over from the grocery store, was enough to buy a round of Amstels, and Lynn bought another.

Allison never realized that ice-cold beer from a tall bottle could taste quite this good. For the first time in days, she feels herself relaxing, relieved of the burden of suspecting that Mack is a potential killer. It’s obvious, from Lynn’s account of their parents and childhood, that they were raised in a close-knit family, the kind of family Allison herself secretly longed to have. Not that she’d admit that to Lynn. She has, however, found herself opening up far more than she typically does when she meets someone new.

Mack’s sister is so easy to talk to, easy to listen to, that Allison keeps forgetting about all the disturbing things that have happened. Somehow, despite the dark circumstances of their meeting, the conversation meanders along from food to fashion to music to Lynn’s children. She has three—two boys and a girl—and tells Allison that she wishes they could see more of their uncle.

“When he’s around the kids, he just lights up, and so do they,” she says, tearing at the label on the neck of her brown bottle. “But he only sees them on birthdays and holidays—and sometimes, not even then. I keep telling the kids that it’s not him—you know, that he’s just too busy to see them more often—but I don’t really believe that myself. If your wife doesn’t want to be a part of things, come alone, you know? Don’t turn your back on your family. It’s like he’s always making excuses for her, protecting her. I don’t get it.” Lynn shrugs. “Do you?”

“I don’t really even know him well enough to get it,” Allison tells her, knowing better than to say a word about what Mack confided in her about the state of his marriage.

“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” Lynn shakes her head. “I can’t believe she’s dead, can you?”

Lynn has a habit of throwing the conversation back into Allison’s court with every comment, making her feel as though she matters when really, she doesn’t. She just met Lynn, and she barely knew Carrie, and Mack . . .

Poor Mack. What is he going to do now?

Allison thinks about dead Carrie . . . and dead Kristina . . .

Suddenly, she feels a little light-headed—and dangerously emotional. Maybe it’s the beer, or her own exhaustion, but she has to get out of here. Right now. Before she starts crying. Or talking.