Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(25)

She always does.

After all, she’s a tough coo—

After climbing the stairs, Mack stops at Madison’s closed bedroom door.

He opens it a crack. Bathed in the glow of her nightlight, she’s already sound asleep, curled on her side, her long blond hair tousled on her pillowcase.

He steals over to her bed, kisses her head gently, and whispers, “Good night, sweetie.”

His middle child inherited her mother’s fine features and a little-girl face that’s softer and rounder and fuller than her sister’s. Where Hudson seems old and wise beyond her years, Maddy gives off a sweet na?veté that sometimes makes Mack—and, he knows, Allison as well—fear for her out in the big, bad world.

Ironic, because they named her after the avenue associated with the cutthroat advertising industry. Back when she was born, though, his career had yet to consume him. Business was booming, he was content, and since they’d already named their firstborn after the Manhattan street where they lived when they met, it seemed appropriate to follow suit with their second child. Plus, Mack thought it would be nice if both the girls’ names ended in “son,” like their mom’s.

By the time they were expecting J.J., they were over place names for their children. A sonogram had revealed the baby’s gender, and for various reasons, most of them Mack’s, they couldn’t agree on anything suitable for a boy that ended in “son.”

“Jameson,” Allison suggested one morning as she flossed her teeth and Mack lathered his face with shaving cream.

“Nah. Too close to James.”

“That’s the point. James’s . . . son.”

“No. People will confuse him with me.”

She texted him that afternoon: I’ve got it. Emerson.

He texted back moments later: That’s a girl name.

A few days later, she greeted him at the door with, “Jackson. It’s perfect. It’s rugged, and manly, and—”

“And about ten people at work have kids named Jackson.”

“How about Anson?” Allison suggested that night in bed, baby name book propped on her rounded belly.

“The kids will call him Potsie.”

“What?”

“Potsie. From the TV show Happy Days. The actor who played him was named Anson.”

“Only you would ever possibly know that in a million years.” Allison shook her head with a laugh. “I give up on the ‘sons.’ He’s going to be our son. That’s enough.”

She ultimately convinced Mack that the baby should be named after him. Fittingly, J.J. is the spitting image of his daddy. Mini-Mack, Allison sometimes calls him.

Down the hall in J.J.’s room, he finds his son lying on his back in his crib, snoring softly, his little finger stuck in the corner of his mouth and the blankets kicked off.

He looks so angelic asleep that Mack has to remind himself what a handful J.J. can be—particularly when he’s overtired.

Like father, like son, he thinks, tiptoeing out without a kiss. He doesn’t want to risk disturbing J.J., and anyway, he can’t bend low enough over the bars of the crib.

Peeking into Hudson’s room, he assumes that she, too, is out like a light. But her eyes snap open before he’s taken two steps across the pink carpet.

“What are you doing, Daddy?” she asks in a loud voice that’s not the least bit groggy.

“Shh, just tucking you in.”

“Mommy already did that.”

“Tonight, you get two tuckins. How lucky are you?”

She smiles. “I’m the luckiest.”

That’s their little ritual, one they’ve had for months now, every time something nice happens.

How lucky are you? I’m the luckiest.

Tonight, Mack adds a new twist.

“No, you aren’t,” he tells Hudson, and at the predictable furrowing of her blond eyebrows, he quickly adds, “I am. Because I get to be your dad.”

The frown is instantly replaced by a grin. Hudson snuggles contentedly into her quilt as he bends over to kiss her good night.

“I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you too, Huddy.”

Back out in the hallway, he can hear Allison down in the kitchen loading the dishwasher. She’ll probably be coming upstairs soon. She’s never exactly been a night owl, but she goes to bed earlier than ever thanks to J.J., who rises every morning long before a rooster would ever think to crow.

With a twinge of guilt, Mack hopes his wife will linger downstairs awhile longer tonight.

If she comes up, she’s going to want to know what’s wrong with me, and I’m not good at talking about my feelings. I really just want to be alone right now.

In the master bedroom, he closes the door behind him and strips down to his boxer shorts. Then he goes into the adjoining bathroom and looks at the prescription bottle.

“ ‘Take one tablet at bedtime with plenty of water,’ ” he reads aloud. “Yeah. Here goes nothing.”

He swallows a white capsule, returns to the bedroom, climbs into bed, and turns off the light.

Okay, Dormipram . . . hurry up and do your thing.

As he waits for drowsiness to overtake him, he replays the events of the evening, wondering if the kids picked up on his moodiness earlier. Probably.

But I couldn’t help it. I felt so overwhelmed by everyone and everything. I just needed a few seconds to myself. Is that so wrong?