Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(68)

“You can stay as long as you want,” Randi offered graciously.

Allison shook her head, remembering what Randi said, not long ago, about regretting having built the guest suite because her in-laws would come and stay indefinitely.

No one needs—or wants—permanent houseguests.

Sooner or later—sooner than later—Allison and Mack and the kids will either have to go back home or make other arrangements.

“What other arrangements? We can’t just sell the house and move away,” Mack told her when she said, this morning, that she wasn’t ready to sleep at home yet—and might never be.

“Well, we can’t just stay there waiting for him to come back and kill us all, either.”

“That’s not going to happen. We have an alarm system now”—he’d had it installed on Thursday, along with shades for the sunroom windows, telling her after the fact— “and the police are keeping an eye on things.”

Allison was shaking her head stubbornly before he’d finished speaking. “I can’t,” she told him. “I just can’t.”

He dropped the subject, putting his arms around her and silently holding her close.

She’s scared. Despite her strength, despite her resolve to never let fear get the best of her, she’s terrified.

Mack is, too. He must be. He’s just trying not to feed her fear; trying to be the strong, stoic man of the house. Trying not to let his guard down and reveal how he really feels, not even to her, because that’s how he rolls, dammit.

And I always give him a pass, because that’s how I roll.

Yes, because she knows that Mack acts out of self-preservation: always holding back at least a little piece of himself.

It’s just that lately, her nerves are so frazzled, it’s all she can do not to demand more from him, whether or not he’s capable of giving it. She’s always prided herself on being able to take care of herself and her children and any obstacle fate throws in their path, but this . . .

This nightmare has left her longing, just this once, for someone else to step in and take care of things for her. She wants someone to make it go away, even though she’s well aware that nobody can do that. Not even Mack.

This morning, they watched the live televised press conference held by the local police, who have formed a task force to work on the case.

“We’re following every possible lead,” Captain Cleary said into the microphone, “and we encourage anyone who has any information that might help us to call the special hotline we’ve set up.”

With his take-charge attitude—not to mention his manly good looks—he exuded such confidence that Allison almost fooled herself into thinking the case would be solved in no time.

That lasted about five minutes. Then the press conference ended and it was back to wondering and worrying and trying to stay calm for the kids’ sake.

“Here.” Randi puts a full martini glass into Allison’s hand and clinks her own gently against it. “L’chaim.”

“L’chaim. What does that mean?” she asks, having first heard the Hebrew toast last year, at Lexi’s Bat Mitzvah.

“It means ‘to life.’ Fitting, don’t you think?”

Allison nods, sips, and swallows. The drink is pure alcohol. It burns all the way down her throat and lands in her empty stomach. She hasn’t eaten all day, really, and . . .

I don’t drink like this.

“I know you’re more of a white wine girl,” Randi comments, seeing the look on her face, “but I thought you needed something stronger right now.”

Allison nods, and they both take another silent sip from their glasses. This time, expecting the burn, she welcomes it and the promise of numbness in its wake. She does her best to banish the mental image of her mother, wild-eyed, incoherent, out of control . . .

I could never be like that. One drink isn’t going to do that to me.

“Are you hungry?” Randi asks, and Allison shakes her head.

She’s never hungry anymore. In a matter of days, she’s lost the final few pounds she wanted to lose, and then some.

But she’d better go easy on the alcohol with nothing in her stomach to soak it up. Just another sip or two, and she’ll set the glass aside.

A buzzer rings on their third sip, and Randi furrows her salon-sculpted eyebrows. “Ben?” she calls. “Is there someone out at the gate?”

“Sounds that way,” he returns dryly from the next room, where he and Mack are settled in front of the television with beers.

Randi rolls her eyes. “Would you mind answering the intercom?”

Allison pictures Ben rolling his eyes, too, as he calls back, “Sure, no problem.”

“You’re not expecting anyone?” she asks Randi, who shakes her head.

“No, and I don’t like it when the gate bell rings—or even the phone—when the kids aren’t home.”

Both Lexi and Josh are spending the night at friends’ homes. Knowing how Allison worries about leaving J.J. with a sitter, Randi had arranged sleepovers for her children so that Greta would only have Hudson, Maddy, and J.J. to watch while they were all out at the wake.

The girls, of course, were disappointed that Lexi wouldn’t be here, but not for long. For all her German reserve, Greta manages to be playful, tirelessly engaging the girls even when it comes to Candy Land tournaments that go on for hours.