Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(48)

“There’s probably more sugar there than there is in this entire bowl,” she comments.

“Probably,” he agrees with a shrug. “And by the way . . . we’re out of apples.”

“We’re out of everything except candy. I have to go through the fridge and freezer and toss all the perishables even if the power comes back tomorrow.”

“Well, before you go to bed, make sure you hide that bowl someplace where I can’t get to it, okay? Just in case.”

“What—? Oh.” She gets it. The sleep-eating thing. “Right. I will. But there’s no chocolate—I didn’t buy any because I didn’t want you to be tempted.”

“I don’t think that really matters. I hate sweet pickles and you’re telling me I ate a whole jar last week in my sleep.”

She sighs. “I just hope you don’t eat anything from the fridge that’s spoiled and make yourself sick.”

“I’ll try to warn my subconscious mind.”

“I don’t think that’s going to work.”

“I was kidding, Allison.”

“Oh. I can’t see your face.” She sets the glass and candy bowl on the coffee table—beyond his reach—then sits beside him on the couch, tucking her slippered feet under her and unwrapping a lollipop.

He goes back to typing on his BlackBerry, wishing he could turn on the television. He doesn’t really feel like watching it, but he doesn’t feel like talking to Allison right now, either.

Okay, so maybe he’s the one in a frosty mood, thanks to the earlier tension between them. He’s under enough pressure at work. He doesn’t need her cranking it up at home.

She shivers. “It’s freezing in here.”

“Do you want me to build a fire in the fireplace?” he asks, hitting send and looking up from his BlackBerry at last.

“Not really,” she says around a yawn and a lollipop stick. “I’m going up to bed in a minute. It’ll be warmer under the blankets.”

“Isn’t it going to take you longer than a minute to finish that sucker?”

“I only want a few licks. I’m still on my diet. I have three more pounds to lose. I guess we probably should give all this candy away, like the school said.”

“Killjoy.”

She smirks. “Hey, anything for charity. So . . . stressful day at work?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it.”

She nods and licks her lollipop and sips her iced tea in silence as he checks to see if there’s a response yet to his last e-mail.

There isn’t.

“Mack?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you happy?”

Startled, he looks up to find her watching him intently. Even in this light, he can see that her blue eyes are troubled.

“You mean right now?” he asks. “Or generally speaking?”

“Both.”

He shrugs. “Things are beyond crazy at work, but . . .”

“Things are crazy at home, too. Maybe we should . . . I don’t know.”

His heart does a nervous little flip-flop.

“What?” he asks, reminding himself that this is Allison, not Carrie. This is a successful, solid marriage. She’s not going to end it—and this time, neither is he.

“Maybe we should do something about it. Make some changes. I feel like we never get to see each other anymore, you’re always working, I’m always exhausted. . . . Is this how it’s supposed to be?”

“This is the life we chose, Al. The house, the kids, each other . . . what is it that you want to change?”

“Not us,” she says hastily, and rubs her forehead, hard. “I don’t know. Maybe not anything. I just feel like . . .”

He waits for her to finish.

She doesn’t.

She stands, leans over, and kisses him on the head.

“Where are you going?”

“Bed. Maybe all I need is a good night’s sleep.”

He used to think that was all anyone needed.

Not anymore.

Watching her go, he realizes she left the bowl of candy behind. He stands, picks it up, looks around the dark room, and walks toward the desk in the corner. The bowl is too big to stash in a drawer, but he pulls out the leather chair, puts the bowl on the seat, and pushes it back into the kneehole. No one would ever know it’s there.

Not even me.

Pretty bizarre that he’s hiding something from himself.

How is it possible that he wanders around the house at night and wakes up with absolutely no recollection?

How is it possible? You’ve been doing it all your life.

Well, when he was a little boy he did, anyway. For all he knows, he’s been doing it ever since, though the sleep-eating is a new twist.

He’s fairly certain it hasn’t happened lately, though. Every night, after he takes the medicine, before he falls asleep, he does his best to will his subconscious mind into submission.

You will stay in bed.

You will stay in bed.

He hasn’t gained any more weight, and Allison hasn’t mentioned any missing food.

Wearily, he blows out all the candles, climbs the stairs, and looks in on the kids again, one by one. They’re all buried beneath layers of blankets, sound asleep despite the pervasive cold.