Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(40)

“Still no guarantees,” Allison pointed out.

“No, I know, but the odds of bringing home a child are a lot higher. I just don’t know how much more of this I can take. The hormones are making me so crazy and miserable that at this point I’m starting to think that I’ll be lucky if Dean doesn’t leave me.”

Allison couldn’t help but think about Mack and Carrie. About what Mack had said about Carrie’s mood swings and volatile behavior in the months leading up to her decision to give up on trying to get pregnant . . .

At which point Mack did leave her.

Allison has never really found fault with him for that.

After all, as far as Mack was concerned, Carrie’s giving up on motherhood was a deal breaker. Mack was meant to be a father.

But the father of my children. Not Carrie’s.

A sudden gust rattles the window glass beside the bureau.

“Come on, Al,” Mack coaxes, still wrapped around her, his body warm and aroused.

“I just want to make sure I’m not going crazy. I could swear I saw the nightgown in my lingerie drawer yesterday, because it made me think of our anniversary coming up . . .”

“You’re not going crazy. But I might if you don’t come to bed with me. It’s been a long time.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not my fault, Sleeping Beauty,” she points out as he nuzzles her neck. “You’re the one who’s out like a light every time your head hits the pillow. That reminds me—you didn’t take the Dormipram tonight, did you?”

“Nope. I had a couple of drinks at the party. Anyway, I told you, I’m finished with that stuff.”

“You promised to give it a little more time now that you know the problem, Mack. I think you should go back to see Dr. Cuthbert. Maybe he can—”

“Can we please stop talking and start doing?”

“Hey, that’s my line,” she protests, laughing as he pulls her toward the bed.

It isn’t until much later—after Mack has rolled over to his side and is, if not asleep, at least lost in his own thoughts—that she thinks again about the missing silk nightgown.

Only then, listening to a steady rain pattering on the roof, watching the eerie shadow play of storm-swayed branches beyond the window, does she allow herself to consider the one thing she’s been trying to keep at bay.

Ten years ago, right before Kristina’s murder, there was a series of petty burglaries in the apartment building. Nothing much was stolen—other than women’s clothing and lingerie.

During the trial, the prosecution alleged that Jerry was behind the break-ins and that he’d stolen lingerie, then forced his victims to wear it while he murdered them.

What if—?

No. Jerry’s gone forever, Allison reminds herself for the hundredth time. He’s not slipping into women’s bedrooms—into my bedroom—and stealing lingerie.

She must have been mistaken about seeing the nightie in the drawer. It’ll probably turn up someplace tomorrow.

And if it doesn’t . . .

Maybe Jerry’s come back from the dead to steal your underwear.

Stroking the lace-trimmed silk in the darkened motel room illuminated only by the bluish light of the computer screen, Jamie smiles contentedly.

What a night.

Onscreen, a grainy video image shows Rocky Manzillo standing at his kitchen counter, stirring a cup of instant coffee. He just spent the last half hour on a search mission, after presumably finding the broken basement window.

Jamie couldn’t see what happened down there, because there were no cameras. But they’re planted throughout the rest of the house, so it was possible to watch Rocky going from room to room, apparently looking for signs of an intruder or theft. His body language revealed that he was more pissed off than frightened. That made it tempting for Jamie to go over there right now, tonight, and find out what it would take to bring that tough cop to his knees.

But that, of course, isn’t part of the plan.

Anyway, things are heating up nicely over at the MacKenna house. The other image on Jamie’s split screen shows their bedroom, so dimly lit that it’s impossible to see what’s going on. But their voices came through loud and clear.

Jamie listened with interest to the bit about the woman Mack used to know. He was trying so hard—too hard—to deny that he was, apparently, attracted to her.

Zoe Edelman Jennings.

Jamie jotted down her name, and her husband’s—Nathan—just in case.

In case?

Ha. A new phase of the plan has already begun to take shape.

Jamie was especially titillated when the conversation turned to the missing nightie.

Is this what you were looking for, Allison?

Smirking, Jamie waves the champagne-colored garment in front of the screen.

You’re not buying that it got lost in the laundry room or put into the wrong drawer, are you?

Oh, how I wish I could see your face right now. I know you’re still wide awake, aren’t you? I can feel it.

You know something’s not quite right.

Maybe you even remember what happened ten years ago—the lingerie that was stolen from the drawers of female tenants . . . and then turned up on the bodies of those dead women.

Maybe you’re worried that your precious nightgown will turn up covered with another woman’s blood.