Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(51)

Jamie’s only regret is that the surveillance cameras and microphones can’t follow Allison now that she’s out the door and on her way to the Lewises’ house.

All that’s visible now on the computer screen is an image of her kids.

The girls are doing just what she told them to do: sitting and playing with the baby. He’s a spoiled brat, though, that kid. He keeps throwing toys on the floor. He could use a good, hard smack—that would teach him how to behave.

Jamie’s hand clenches into a fist just thinking about it.

But I’ll get my chance for that. All in good time . . .

For now, it’s enough just to think about what a lovely surprise Allison is about to find next door.

Coming up the Lewises’ driveway, Allison can see that the garage door is open and Phyllis’s Saab is parked inside. The generator is beside it, but it’s fallen silent since last night.

That means Phyllis must have turned it off when the power came back, right?

But wouldn’t she have closed the garage door? She never leaves it open.

Maybe the generator ran out of fuel, and Phyllis didn’t realize it because the power is back.

But surely she’d have noticed the absence of that rumbling motor.

At least the open door is a good sign—it means the house probably isn’t full of carbon monoxide fumes.

And the fact that the car is here doesn’t necessarily mean Phyllis didn’t go out. A friend could have picked her up, right? And she could have forgotten her cell phone, or lost it somewhere in the house . . .

No, she doesn’t have a sticky-fingered, phone-crazy baby to contend with, but people lose their phones all the time, right?

Allison makes her way to the front door and rings the bell. She promised Bob she’d check on her, and she’s going to keep that promise.

After about twenty seconds, she rings it again. Waits.

Rings it again.

Worried, she fits her key into the lock.

Maybe there are fumes even though the garage is open. Maybe that wasn’t enough ventilation.

Hurriedly, she unlocks the door and pushes it open.

“Phyllis?”

The house is completely still. She sniffs the air, smelling nothing, but carbon monoxide is odorless, right? That’s what makes it so dangerous.

“Phyllis!” she calls again.

Silence.

Now what?

Allison props the door open, steps inside, and opens the nearest window, letting more cold, fresh air into the house. Then she pulls her cell phone from her pocket and quickly dials Phyllis’s number.

Immediately, she hears a faint ringing sound from someplace upstairs.

Okay, so the cell phone is here.

What if Phyllis is, too, and is somehow incapacitated?

“Hi, this is Phyllis. Leave me a message, and I’ll—”

Allison disconnects the call and quickly dials her home number. Hudson answers on the first ring, with the efficiency—if not the accent—of a British butler.

“MacKenna residence.”

“Huddy, it’s Mom. Is everything okay there?”

“Everything’s fine and you better hurry. You have less than thirty seconds left,” she reports, and Allison can just picture her looking at her watch.

“I’m going to be another couple of minutes. I just wanted to make sure you guys were all right.”

“We are. Are you going to be one more minute, or two?”

“Two. At the most.” I hope.

“Okay. Bye, Mommy. Don’t worry about us. I have everything under control.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Hanging up, she flips on a light by the door. The overhead fixture floods the foyer with bright, harsh light.

“Phyllis?” she calls again, poking her head into the living room, dining room, kitchen, study, opening every window as she goes.

The house, a center hall Colonial, is laid out the same way as Allison’s own, but on a much grander scale. She’s been here plenty of times be—

Wait a minute.

The reason she’s been here is to feed the Lewises’ cat.

Every time she opens the door when they’re away, Marnie comes running, purring and rubbing against her legs. She’s an indoor cat—so where is she now?

And where is Phyllis?

“Phyllis!”

Silence.

“Marnie!”

Heart pounding, hand clammy on the polished wooden banister, Allison starts up the steps, calling for the cat, calling for Phyllis, trying not to think of Kristina Haines.

She’s never seen the second floor of the Lewis house. She finds herself standing in a wide hall lined with doors—one of which is closed. Based on the layout of her own house, she assumes it’s the master bedroom.

She stands staring at it for a moment. Then she takes a deep breath and forces her feet to carry her toward the door. In her mind’s eye, she’s in a tiny Manhattan apartment, walking toward another bedroom door . . .

But Kristina’s door was open.

This is closed.

That was then.

This is now.

Allison’s hand trembles as she reaches for the knob, turns it, pushes.

Whatever she’s going to find on the other side of this door isn’t going to be good. She can feel it, deep down inside. Phyllis is going to be there, in her bed. She knows it.