Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(35)

“Zoe Jennings.”

The name should probably ring a bell, but it doesn’t.

“I used to be Zoe Edelman . . . ?” she prompts.

“Zoe?” Oh! Zoe! This lovely creature bears no resemblance to the pudgy young woman who wore glasses, had quite a knack for telling dirty jokes, and could hold her own with the boys when they all went out to guzzle beers after work. “My God . . . how long has it been?”

“At least ten, twelve years, right?”

“At least,” he agrees, remembering back to the good old days when they shared a bullpen at the booming advertising agency where he began his career. “Guess we’re getting old, aren’t we?”

“Hey, speak for yourself.”

“I am. You look great.” Mack notes that she’s had a nose job, and maybe some other work as well. Well below the nose—not that he’s looking. But given that low-cut dress, he can’t help but notice.

“You look great, too.”

Yeah, right. He’d had to suck in his gut just so that he could fasten the top button of his khakis.

Sleep-eating. The very thought of it has been bothering him all day. It’s unsettling to think that he’s been walking around the house at night like some kind of zombie . . . though it wouldn’t be the first time.

When he was a little boy, he was known to occasionally wander downstairs in his pajamas, wide-eyed but obviously asleep. According to his parents and sister, he carried on conversations, but there was a vacant look in his eyes that scared Lynn.

“It was like someone else—someone creepy—had taken over your body,” she used to say. “It scared me.”

It scared him, too. He hadn’t thought about it in years, until this morning.

Sleepwalking, sleep-eating . . .

No, thanks.

He promised Allison that he’d give the Dormipram another try, but he has no intention of doing that.

Certainly not tonight, with the bourbon he’s had.

Contrary to his wife’s optimistic belief, the party hasn’t turned out to be much fun—and it’s deteriorating quickly.

“So I hear you’re a big shot in ad sales these days,” Zoe tells him.

“Big shot? I don’t know about that . . .”

“Don’t be modest, Mack. I know the industry, remember? You’re a big shot. Admit it.”

“Where are you now, Zoe?”

“Do you mean, work-wise?” At his nod, she says, “I’m not. Working, I mean. I’m a stay-at-home mom. Two kids, you know the drill. I married Nate—you remember him, right?”

“Nate . . .”

“Nathan Jennings,” she supplies with a smile.

“Oh, right. I remember Nathan.” He does, vaguely. Nathan, Zoe . . .

Names and faces from another lifetime.

“Nate ran into Ben on a sales call not too long ago, and they caught up, and when Ben found out we just bought a house here, he invited us to come tonight.”

“You bought a house here? In Glenhaven Park?”

“It’s the place to be, isn’t it?”

“I guess so. Where’s your house?”

“On Abernathy Place.”

“That’s right around the corner from where we live—we’re on Orchard Terrace.”

“I know, Ben told me. Small world, isn’t it? Can you believe we all wound up in the same town?”

Mack can. He and Allison may have played follow-the-leader after Ben and Randi moved up to Glenhaven Park, but ever since the recession hit, the area has exploded with their upwardly mobile colleagues snapping up McMansions—and mansions—on the market at rock-bottom prices, some even in foreclosure.

“Like you said,” he tells Zoe, “it’s the place to be.”

She touches his sleeve with fingernails that are as red and shiny as her lips. “I heard about your wife.”

“Allison. I’ll introduce you. She’s right over—”

“No.” Now Zoe is squeezing his arm. “I meant your first wife. Carolyn, was it?”

“Carrie.” He drains the watered-down remains of the bourbon in his glass and wishes a bartender would materialize with an instant refill. Straight up.

“I’m so sorry, Mack.”

He never knows what to say in response to that.

I’m sorry, too . . .

It’s all right . . .

Don’t be—our marriage was over anyway . . .

He just nods.

“I remember you were dating her when we were working together,” Zoe goes on. “She was very sweet.”

You never met her, Mack wants to tell her. He’s certain of that, because Carrie never wanted to socialize with people he worked with. She never wanted to socialize with anyone. And she certainly wasn’t sweet.

Maybe Zoe’s thinking of someone else.

Or maybe, over the years, she’s talked so often about her brush with a September 11 victim that she’s convinced herself, and the rest of the world, that she actually knew Carrie. Whose name she thought, until a moment ago, was Carolyn.

For months after she died, Mack ran into people who had barely known her, or people who, he’s fairly certain, hadn’t liked her if they did know her, because to outsiders, Carrie wasn’t very likable.