Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(38)
“It can be a cruise for nine,” Ange said with a gleam in her eye, “if you don’t want to go. Just think, you can have the bed to yourself, eat whatever you want, no one around to nag you . . .”
He laughed and pulled her close. “I don’t mind the nagging.”
“I’m going to remind you that you said that someday.”
“Probably later today.”
“Probably.”
Dammit. If Ange comes out of this, Rocky will take the whole family on the cruise—including Kellie and the baby that she is, indeed, expecting early next year. And they won’t wait until their fortieth anniversary, either.
But Ange isn’t aware that her suspicion about the new grandchild was well-founded. Or maybe she is. Who the hell knows? The doctors believe she can hear Rocky talking, so he talks. He tells her everything he can think of, about the kids, the grandkids, his job . . .
Not that he’s been focused on any of that lately. He goes through the motions, but all he cares about is Ange getting better. When he’s not working, he’s at the hospital, sitting by her bedside, holding her hand, telling her how much he loves her and wants her to come back home.
He keeps waiting for some kind of sign that she’s in there somewhere, listening. A hint of her voice, or even the slightest tightening of her fingers, a fluttering of her eyelids . . .
Nothing. There’s been nothing.
But there will be. Please, God.
“I’m not giving up on her,” he told her neurologist, Dr. Abrams, that first day, after being given the grim prognosis. “And you’re not telling me to, right?”
“Anything is possible, Mr. Manzillo, but—”
“That’s all I want to know,” Rocky cut him off.
It’s since become his mantra.
Anything is possible.
In the kitchen, Ange’s kitchen, Rocky turns on a light.
Between the hospital and the murder case he’s working on, he hasn’t been home in a few days, and he can’t remember the last meal he ate. His waistband is so baggy he’s had to tighten his belt another notch this week. Ange would love that—she’s always after him to lose weight. Funny, because she’s also always after him to eat.
The stereotypical Italian wife and mother, Rocky thinks with a faint smile that fades quickly.
He has no appetite, but out of habit, he opens the refrigerator, closes it, opens it again, and stares absently at the sparse contents until an unexpected sound startles him. It’s an eerie, faint wail that sounds like a baby crying, or . . .
There it is again. It’s coming from somewhere beneath his feet.
Rocky closes the fridge and walks over to the tiny mudroom off the back of the house. From there, one door leads to a tiny patch of chain-link-fenced backyard; another to the basement. Opening that one, he’s greeted by the scent of earthy mildew and a rustling movement below.
Man or beast? Should he go back for his gun?
Again, he hears the sound. That wasn’t made by a human.
Brilliant deduction, Detective. What else do you know?
Poised at the top of the step, he listens to whatever it is skittering around down there. Hmm. Too big to be a mouse; not big enough to be a threat to an unarmed man.
He flips a light switch, illuminating a bare bulb in the dank depths, and descends the creaky basement stairs. The floor is wet. Rain seepage has been a problem throughout all the years in this house, but they’ve never had to deal with squirrels or chipmunks tunneling their way into the basement.
Tonight, though, Rocky hears a large rodent scrambling in the distant, cobwebby corner behind the boys’ old changing table and wicker bassinet that neither of the daughters-in-law wanted for the grandchildren, much to Ange’s disappointment.
Maybe Kellie will take it for the new one, Rocky finds himself thinking. Ange will like that.
Then he remembers—Ange, in a coma. If the doctors are wrong about her being able to hear him, she’s going to be in for a great surprise when she wakes up.
Then again, she probably knew about the baby even before Kellie and Donny did.
How, Rocky wonders, does Ange do it? Woman’s intuition?
On the heels of that thought, he wonders whether she had any inkling that she was a ticking time bomb.
Thinking back to the hot August night she got up in the wee hours complaining of a massive headache—and keeled over on her way to the bathroom—he’s overcome by a fresh wave of grief and horror.
She took such good care of him, and the boys, everyone . . .
Why didn’t she take better care of herself?
Rocky realizes his vision has blurred and uses a fist to wipe away the tears trickling down his cheeks.
He turns away from the nursery furniture that reminds him of when his sons were babies and Ange was young and healthy.
Who cares about the animal lurking in the shadows? Let it make a den down here and spend the winter. Rocky isn’t in the mood to—
He sees the broken window.
Frowning, he walks over to it. The glass is completely gone, every shard pushed out of the frame and lying on the damp concrete.
No animal did that.
Perplexed, Allison goes through the top middle drawer of her bureau one more time.
No. It’s nowhere to be found.
The water stops running in the bathroom and a moment later, Mack appears in the bedroom wearing only boxer shorts, teeth brushed, ready for bed.