Read Online Sleepwalker by Wendy Corsi Staub - Free Book Online

11. For a nerve-rattling couple of minutes, he was sure the skyscraper beneath his feet had been hit by a plane, or a bomb.
    Long after he knew what had really happened, he was up all night, still shell-shocked.
    â€œI don’t know why I can’t get it out of my head,” he told Allison. “It was just . . . I don’t know. Maybe if it hadn’t been a Tuesday. I hate Tuesdays.”
    It wasn’t the first time he’d said that over the years, prone to noticing the bad things that happened on that particular day of the week. Allison had long since given up trying to convince him that just as many bad things—and good things—happened on other days of the week, but Mack didn’t buy it.
    He’d met Carrie on a Tuesday, he said, and his mother had died on a Tuesday, and of course, so had Carrie . . .
    And now this, today—Jerry Thompson all over the news. Dead.
    â€œYou need help, Mack,” she tells him. “You need to take care of yourself and get some rest, or the stress is going to kill you. If you won’t see Dr. Cuthbert about the sleep issues, then maybe we can find a psychiatrist—”
    â€œNo,” he cuts in quickly. “No way. I don’t need a shrink. I don’t have time for a shrink. I can’t sleep, okay? That’s my only problem.”
    â€œIt’s a big problem. You need to make an appointment to see Dr. Cuthbert again. Look, I’ll go call him right now and see if he can get you in this week—later today, or tomorrow, while you’re home.”
    Mack just looks at her.
    But he’s considering it. She can see it. He’s almost reached his breaking point.
    She reaches out and touches him on the arm. “Come on. I love you. Let me help you. Do it for me. Okay?”
    He shrugs. “Okay.”
    H unched over beneath the low ceiling of the crawl space, Jamie throws one last shovelful of dirt over the spot.
    There.
    Dead and buried—literally.
    Jamie stamps over the freshly disturbed earth with the thick soles of her work boots. Just as hastily as she’d changed into the heels and pantyhose, skirt and sweater before the old man came knocking, she’d changed out of them again.
    Not just because lugging the old man down to the crawl space and burying him was going to be dirty work, but because everything she was wearing had been spattered with blood. It’s probably not going to come out, either. The clothes and shoes will have to be bagged up and thrown in a Dumpster miles from here.
    Just like old times.
    Jamie retreats to the door and climbs out of the crawl space. Blinking in the sudden glare of sunlight, she realizes that it’s a beautiful day. The kind of day when the world is bright and shiny, full of promise . . .
    A perfect day to make a fresh start.
    Twenty minutes later, Jamie is driving away.
    In the car trunk: a garbage bag full of bloody clothes and a hastily packed duffel filled with fresh clothes and toiletries, a laptop, and, of course, the laminated photographs of Rocky Manzillo and Allison MacKenna.
    In the glove compartment: several big brown envelopes thick with cash—the money that had been saved to help Jerry, along with the thousands of dollars she’d just found in Roger’s attic. The old man had conveniently left a chair beneath the open trap door in the ceiling, igniting Jamie’s curiosity as to what might be up there. Nothing but cash—and porn. Sick old bastard. Now Jamie is carrying more than enough money to pay for motel rooms and food for weeks, at least—probably months. However long it takes. She also has two checkbooks—one of which belongs to Roger—and a handful of soon-due bills for both apartments. As long as the rent and utilities are kept up to date, no one is going to come sniffing around the building any time soon.
    And on the front seat: a computer printout showing directions to Sullivan Correctional