Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(33)

“You’re not taking hormones.”

“I know, but—”

“Look, Mack, it’s true. You can go online and see for yourself—this medicine has a bunch of bizarre side effects. Weight gain isn’t one of them. But sleepwalking, sleep-eating . . . and trust me, it could definitely be worse.”

Over the relentless pounding of J.J.’s wooden spoon, she tells Mack some of the anecdotes she read on the Internet last night when she did her research into the subject. People taking Dormipram have fallen down flights of stairs, made lengthy phone calls, left their homes and had sex with strangers—all in their sleep, without any recollection.

“What do you think?” she asks Mack.

“I can’t even hear myself think!” Mack snatches the spoon from J.J., who immediately cries out in dismay. Ignoring the ruckus, Mack turns back to Allison. “Why didn’t you tell me this before I started taking the stuff?”

Because I’m tired of feeling like I’m overreacting every time a doctor prescribes medicine.

I’m tired of this endless paranoia about drugs—justifiable, or not.

Aloud, she says only, “Because the vast majority of people who take it never have any problems.”

“Great. So I’m one-in-a-million. Next thing you know, I’ll be going next door in the dead of night and crawling into bed with Phyllis Lewis.”

Phyllis, who happens to be a striking brunette, can be quite the flirt, and the image is a little unsettling.

But Allison merely rolls her eyes. “Trust me, if that happens, you’re off Dormipram forever.”

“Are you kidding me? I’m off it forever now.”

“You don’t have to stop taking it.” Allison wets a couple of paper towels at the sink. “You’re doing great on it.”

“Yeah, if I keep doing this great, I’ll be able to fit into a Santa suit without padding by the time Christmas rolls around.”

“At least you’ll be well-rested,” she quips, wiping the soggy cereal off J.J.’s hands as he wails and wriggles against the straps of his chair.

“Nope. I’m done. That’s it. I’m going to flush that stuff down the toilet.”

“Don’t do that. Maybe now that you’re aware of what you’re doing, it won’t happen anymore. Give it another chance. Okay?”

Mack frowns, but says nothing.

Lifting her fussy son out of his high chair, Allison says, “I’ve got to get moving. I’ll change him and then the girls and I have to go.”

“You’re not taking J.J. with you?”

She stops and looks back at him. “I wasn’t going to. Why?”

Why? Mack echoes silently, as their son flails his arms and legs, trying to launch himself from his mother’s arms.

“You’re going to be home, right?” Allison isn’t about to bend on this. It’s been a long week trapped indoors with the human octopus, and she needs a break.

“I am, but I have work to do, and you know how he is when you’re not around.”

“He’s like that even when I am around. Anyway, he’ll go down for a nap.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

Poised to tell her husband he’ll just have to deal, then, Allison bites back the words when she sees the dark look in Mack’s eye.

Dammit, dammit, dammit.

Things were going so well, and she had to go and ruin everything. Now he’s going to stop taking his medicine, stop sleeping, and it’ll be back to grumpy, overtired, overworked Mack.

For all she knows, he’s not even sleep-eating. After all, it’s really just a guess.

But then, if he didn’t eat the missing food, who did?

Maybe she was mistaken about it . . .

No. You found the empty wrappings and cartons and a bowl in the garbage, and crumbs and sticky smears on the counter . . .

The only other explanation would be that some intruder had crept into the house in the night and helped himself to their food.

The idea is so much more benign than the late night intruder—the Nightwatcher—who’s haunted her for all these years that it almost seems laughable.

Almost.

To Allison, there’s really no humor in the thought of a stranger creeping around the house while everyone is sleeping. None at all.

The experience a few weeks ago with Chuck and Cora Nowak was exhilarating, but over much too quickly. Still convinced that the most fitting punishment for the others responsible for killing Jerry will be to lose the people they love most, Jamie now understands that the task isn’t meant to merely be accomplished. It must also be savored.

That means getting to know both Rocky Manzillo and Allison MacKenna very well. Getting to know their household routines, their habits, their families. Getting to know what matters most in their world—and then taking it all away.

The only way to do that is to watch them, listen to them. And that, of course, requires the proper surveillance equipment—not at all hard for Jamie to acquire or install, thanks to all those years in prison with gloating inmates willing to teach the tricks of the trade.

And so, on a rainy September afternoon, correctly guessing there was nobody home in Rocky Manzillo’s Bronx row house, Jamie had broken a basement window and stolen from room to silent, deserted room installing tiny cameras and microphones. The job was done in a matter of minutes.