Read Online Sleepwalker by Wendy Corsi Staub - Free Book Online Page B

house they live in now. It’s the first place she’s ever lived that truly feels like home, and she envisions herself and Mack growing old together there.
    Watching Allison pry a potentially deadly baby carrot from J.J.’s clenched, drool-covered fist, Randi comments, “He’s like a little octopus.”
    â€œMore like a pickpocket. You’re lucky your kids are past this stage.”
    â€œI won’t argue with you.”
    â€œThat reminds me—can you do me a favor? Do you have your iPhone in your pocket?”
    Of course she does. She pulls it out immediately, asking, “Who are we calling?”
    â€œWe’re not calling, we’re using the GPS locator to find my phone. It’s not in my pocket and I’m hoping it’s either out in the car or that I forgot it at home, because for all I know J.J. grabbed it and threw it on the ground someplace between my house and here.”
    â€œWhat do I do?”
    Allison directs her to the application and instructs her to type in the cell phone number.
    Randi does, then looks up. “I need your password.”
    â€œIt’s HUMAMA.”
    â€œWho-mama? How’d you come up with that? Like, Who’s your mama? ”
    Allison laughs. “No—like, Hudson, Madison, Mack. First two letters of each of their names.”
    â€œWhat about J.J.?”
    â€œHe wasn’t born yet when I got the phone. I remember thinking I’d probably never need to use this locator app, but . . . I pretty much need it every day.”
    Smiling, Randi punches the password into her own phone, waits for a moment, then shows Allison the screen. It shows a map, with a big, pulsating blue dot sitting over their address on Orchard Terrace.
    â€œOkay, as long as I know it’s home. But with this guy, I can never be sure.” Allison sighs. “I should probably get going.”
    â€œIt’s still early. Do you want some more salad?” Randi gestures at the bowl.
    â€œNo, thanks—I’m full.”
    Not really. The mix of organic baby arugula, goat cheese, and seared red peppers didn’t really hit the spot today. Sometimes lately, when she’s feeling low, Allison finds herself craving good old-fashioned, bad-for-you comfort food. Right now, she wouldn’t mind a salami sandwich on white bread with yellow mustard—or even a wedge of iceberg lettuce with bottled blue cheese dressing and synthetic bacon bits, which passed for salad in her distant small-town past.
    â€œAre you sure? Did you not like it?” Randi asks. “Because I won’t feel bad if you didn’t. It’s not like I made it.”
    Allison knows she’d bought the salad mix in a plastic container at David-Anthony’s, the gourmet café in town, then tossed it with a shallot vinaigrette—also from David-Anthony’s—in an enormous hand-carved wooden salad bowl that probably cost more than Allison had paid for her first car back in Nebraska.
    â€œNo, it was great,” she assures Randi. “I’m just not that hungry.”
    â€œWhat about dessert? Look what I got!” Randi leaps up and grabs a white bakery box stamped with the gold David-Anthony’s seal. She opens the lid to reveal a dozen oversized, frosted sugar cookies that cost seven-fifty each.
    Allison knows that because she herself made a rare venture into David-Anthony’s on the first day of school last week, thinking it might be nice to pick up a treat for the girls. She picked out two individually cellophane-wrapped cookies, an intricately decorated school bus and a red apple, and was halfway to the register when she noticed the price stickers.
    She put them back.
    It isn’t that she can’t afford to spend fifteen dollars—but for two cookies? Given the current state of the economy, she has to draw the line somewhere. Always in the back of her mind is the threat that Mack might lose his job, like so many