Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(88)

That was about two hours ago; it must be well past seven now, probably almost eight.

She tried calling Allison’s cell, too, but it rang somewhere in the guest room—she’d left it behind. Mack didn’t pick up when she called his. And when she tried the MacKennas’ home number, it bounced right into voice mail.

Maybe she should finish getting dressed, try to get a groggy J.J. down for a morning nap, and go out to find Ben.

But where would she even look? At the Jenningses’ house? The MacKennas’? Where the heck is he?

She gives her hair one last brush-through with the dryer going, then switches it off and reaches for her cosmetics bag.

“Randi?”

She jumps, startled, and sees Ben standing in the doorway.

“Sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you. I said your name a few times, but you had the hair dryer on.”

“I didn’t hear you. It’s okay.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out, trying to calm her shattered nerves.

Ordinarily, she’s not so jumpy.

But when she thinks about Zoe; about what happened to her last night . . .

Now, looking at her husband, she sees reflected in his eyes the same expression she just glimpsed in the mirror.

She goes over to Ben and puts her arms around him. “What happened over there?”

He hugs her back, resting his chin on the top of her head. “She was killed in her bed. Stabbed, Nate said. He’s a mess.”

“I can imagine.”

Sadly, that’s the truth. She can imagine, all too well.

For the past couple of hours, ever since she got the call about Zoe, she’s been haunted by the thought that it could happen to anyone, anywhere, at any time. It’s frightfully easy to put herself into Zoe’s shoes, or Nathan’s.

Eyes closed, she holds tightly to Ben, breathing the unfamiliar scent that clings to his clothes: a hint of cigarette smoke, maybe, and outdoor air, and . . .

Death?

“Did you go in there?” Zoe asks, abruptly releasing her grasp and stepping back. “Did you see her?”

“No!” He shudders. “They wouldn’t let anyone in, even Nate had to stay outside, and the kids were at the neighbor’s when I got there. I just talked to the police, and then—”

“You talked to the police?”

“Yeah.”

“But . . . why?”

“I was one of the last people to see Zoe alive, Randi. So were you. They’re going to want to talk to you, too.”

“And Mack, and Allison . . .”

Something shifts in his gaze, and he breaks eye contact, leaning toward the mirror and rubbing the peppery growth of beard on his chin. “They’re talking to Mack and Allison now.”

“At the Jenningses’ house?”

“I’m not sure where they are. They took them away.”

“Who?”

“Mack and Allison.”

“No, who took them away?”

“The police.”

Their gazes meet in the mirror and hold.

“Why did they do that?” Randi is afraid of the answer and not sure why.

“To question them, I guess.”

A strange and terrible thought flits at the edges of her consciousness like a falling leaf fluttering on a breeze, but before she can catch it, it dances out of her grasp.

“When will they be back here?” she asks Ben.

“I’m not sure.” He jerks open the mirrored medicine cabinet door, shattering their eye contact in its reflection.

“Ben?”

“Yeah?” He pulls out a can of shaving cream and his razor, closing the door but not looking up into the mirror again.

She hesitates, not sure what she dares to say, or even think . . .

But again, something teases at her brain, something that happened last night . . . something Zoe said? Or, no, something Allison said, when they were sipping their last drinks in the kitchen . . . ?

She settles on just “I’ll finish getting ready, and then I’ll go down and make some coffee.”

Ben nods.

She doesn’t move.

Ben looks at her. “What are you thinking?”

“Probably the same thing you’re thinking.”

“Probably.” He rubs his temples with his palms. “What the hell are we supposed to do about any of this? Call a lawyer?”

“For us?”

“Us? No! Why would we—we didn’t do anything.”

“But you think . . .” She can’t bring herself to say it.

“I don’t know what to think. I have a name—a defense attorney out of White Plains—but . . . it hasn’t come to that yet.”

“You think it will?” she asks, thinking, Defense attorney. Good God.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t look good, though, Randi. For Mack.”

Ben tells her about the phone calls he allegedly made and received, and that according to Allison, he’s been sleepwalking lately.

“She might have mentioned that to me, too,” she says, more to herself than to Ben, trying to remember exactly what Allison told her last night, when they were having that last drink.

There was something . . .

“I could tell it bothered her to talk about the sleepwalking,” Ben is saying. “And I keep thinking about the nanny cam, wondering . . .”