Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(23)

Catching sight of the expression on his wife’s face, Mack sighs. “What?”

She shrugs.

He sighs again.

“The thing is, Mack . . . I mean, you just never know who might be out there looking in.”

“Well, I do know that if they’re out there, they shouldn’t be. It’s private property.”

She just looks at him.

Okay. So she learned the hard way when Jerry Thompson invaded her bedroom that private property isn’t always a safe haven.

Ordinarily, he’d offer her some kind of reassurance. Right now, though, he just doesn’t have it in him. He’s utterly depleted. Sleepless night after sleepless night will do that to a person.

“I really want the shades back up,” she says. “Please?”

“Right now?”

The last thing he feels like doing right now is installing—or even discussing—window shades. All he wants is to climb into bed and put this emotionally grueling week behind him.

Such a simple concept: a nightly reprieve from the rigors of this world.

For him, a frustratingly elusive one.

“You can’t keep going like this,” Dr. Cuthbert cautioned him the other day, “without eventually paying a terrible price.”

The physician then ran through a litany of potential problems created by sleep deprivation, from crankiness to a weakened immune system to what might happen to his family—or someone else’s—if he continues to get behind the wheel in a state of chronic exhaustion.

“Would you drive your children if you’d had a couple of drinks, James?”

He bristled. “Never. And please call me Mack.” No one—not even his mother—has ever called him by his given name.

“Mack, drowsy driving causes over one hundred thousand traffic accidents every year. I could show you horrific photos of accident scenes where—”

“That’s okay,” Mack cut in. “I believe you. That’s why I’m here. I’ve been doing all the things you suggested and nothing works. I need something else, some kind of serious help with this.”

As he had early on, Dr. Cuthbert recommended the kind of help that comes in an orange prescription bottle.

Mack still wasn’t crazy about the idea.

“Why are you so opposed to pharmaceutical intervention?” the doctor asked.

There were two reasons, and he didn’t really want to get into the first one: that Allison’s wariness about any kind of medication—thanks to her mother’s deadly habit—has rubbed off on him over the years.

He did tell the doctor his other reservation: that after trying various over-the-counter sleep aids in the past, he always woke up feeling like his brain was swathed in cotton batting, and the grogginess lasted well into the next day.

“This medication isn’t like that,” Dr. Cuthbert promised. “You’ll wake up feeling refreshed.”

Mack fervently hopes so. But just in case, he’s held off taking it until a night—like tonight—when he doesn’t have to set an early alarm.

“Mack.” Allison touches his arm, and he looks up to see her watching him, her blue eyes concerned. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine.” He doesn’t shake her hand off, exactly, but he does move his arm to rub his burning eyes with his thumb and forefingers.

Translation: I’m not fine, and I don’t want to be touched.

To her credit, she doesn’t hold it against him, just takes a thoughtful sip of her iced tea.

The best thing about Allison—one of the best things—is that she always instinctively gives him plenty of space when he needs it. That, and she doesn’t call him an * when he probably deserves it.

“Here—give me your glass,” she says. “I’m about to start the dishwasher. What was in it?”

“Water. Why?”

“Because you can’t mix alcohol with Dormipram, and I know you’re planning to take it tonight. I just wanted to make sure.”

“It was just water,” he says again, piqued at the implication, which is . . . ?

What? It’s not like she made any accusation.

Still, he’s feeling defensive.

“Sometimes you have a bourbon on Friday night,” she points out.

That’s true; it’s something he looks forward to after a hard week at work.

“So?”

He wants to bite his tongue the moment that word rolls off it.

Carrie used to say it all the time, in just that tone. So? So? He couldn’t stand it when she did that, and he’s always made a point never to do it himself.

Then why am I saying it now?

Probably because he’s had Carrie on the brain, thanks to all the reminders, and maybe he’s channeling bad energy—her bad energy.

Never speak ill of the dead, his Irish grandmother used to say—but she never mentioned that it was wrong to merely think ill of them.

Mack attempts—somewhat unsuccessfully—to soften his tone. “What’s wrong with having a bourbon once in a while? You drink diet iced tea every night. That’s not great for you, either.”

No, and it pisses him off that she can glibly ingest caffeine—which, hello, happens to be a drug!—right before bed and then sleep like a baby.