Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(49)

Are you happy, Mack?

When he reaches the bedroom, Allison is either already asleep or pretending to be. You’d think the caffeine in her nightly iced tea would keep her awake, but it never seems to.

It isn’t fair, Mack thinks, not for the first time, having long ago given up coffee in the afternoons on Dr. Cuthbert’s advice.

She left a votive candle burning on the bathroom sink. He shakes a familiar white capsule out of the orange plastic bottle and washes it down with water. Then he blows out the candle.

Are you happy, Mack?

The question echoes through his head as, shivering, he climbs into bed. The answer manages to elude him, but sleep, blessedly, does not.





Chapter Eight

Last night, long after Mack fell asleep, Allison lay shivering on her side of the bed, having a good cry into her pillow.

It wasn’t that she thought her marriage was in serious trouble.

Of course not.

She loves Mack, and he loves her. It’s just . . .

They’re going through a rough patch, that’s all, between his job and the kids and never having time for each other. She sees that, even if he’s not willing to acknowledge it, or do anything to change it.

But everything seemed more positive in the bright sunlight of Tuesday morning. Luckily, NYSEG kept its promise and restored power to the area by dawn. Allison woke up to find that the house was warm and appliances and electronics had hummed back to life.

Mack was playful with the kids and he kissed Allison on the cheek before he left for the train.

Around noon, he even texted her to say he’d be home before seven tonight, so she decided to cook one of his favorite meals: spicy pepper steak over rice. White rice, not brown. Brown may be healthier, but it just doesn’t taste as good as sticky white in this dish, and Allison is getting tired of feeling obligated to ride the health food train all day, every day. A little simple white starch once in a while isn’t going to kill anyone, right?

You’d think so, listening to those super-nutritionist, super-vigilant, super-organized supermoms on the playground, at book club, at the bus stop.

She’s got to stop hanging on their every bit of advice—solicited or, more often, not; putting constant pressure on herself to do every little thing perfectly. It sucks the fun right out of life.

So Allison loaded the kids into the car and went out to buy the white rice. She visited two different supermarkets in search of just the right cut of meat, loading up on fresh dairy and produce, too, with three different varieties of apples for Mack.

She’d also stopped at Target and replaced the missing chef’s knife, along with a new set of cereal bowls that hopefully won’t disappear into the garbage this time.

Back home, she threw away every perishable item in the fridge and freezer, and now that it’s all restocked . . .

I know exactly what we have, and how much.

As always, the prospect of Mack’s sleep-eating looms in the back of her mind, along with the nagging question about whether she should set up the nanny cam to catch him at it.

When the phone rings late Tuesday afternoon, she’s crying.

This time, it’s only because she’s chopping onions.

She tosses the knife aside, quickly rinses her hands, and picks up the phone, glancing at the caller ID panel. She just hopes this phone call isn’t going to be Mack reporting that he won’t be home for dinner after all.

Private caller.

She answers with an expectant, “Mack?”

There’s a crackling sound, and then a male voice—not her husband’s—comes on the line. “Is this Allison?”

“Yes?”

“Bob Lewis. From next door.”

“Hi, Bob. I thought you were in London.”

“I am, but— Have you seen Phyllis around lately?”

Something in his voice ignites a spark of apprehension. “Yes, just last night. The kids trick-or-treated at your house. Halloween was canceled, but—”

Bob cuts her off, which isn’t like him. He’s usually exceedingly polite.

“Have you seen her today?”

“No, but . . . why? Is everything all right?”

“I’ve been trying to get ahold of her all day, and she’s not answering the house phone or her cell, or her e-mail or texts. That’s not like her.”

Bob says something else, but she can’t hear it thanks to J.J., babbling and banging a wooden spoon on the tray of his high chair. She steps away, into the doorway of the darkened sunroom, standing where she can still keep an eye on her son.

“I’m sorry, Bob, I couldn’t hear you. What was that?”

“I said I’m just worried because she always calls me first thing in the morning—that would be afternoon for me—and she didn’t this morning. I know the power was out, but she has the generator . . .”

“She does,” Allison agrees, “and anyway, the power is back on again. It has been since early this morning.”

“You’re not having any trouble with the phone lines, are you? There’s not another storm, or . . . ?”

“No, the sun was actually out all day. It’s melting all this snow.” Allison automatically glances at the wall of glass—still uncovered, because they haven’t yet gotten around to window treatments.

In the gathering dusk, now that a couple of big branches have fallen from the trees on the property line, she has a partial view of the Lewises’ big Colonial next door.