Sleepwalker by Wendy Corsi Staub

Author:Wendy Corsi Staub [Staub, Wendy Corsi]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mystery, Azizex666
ISBN: 9780062070319
Google: nxvzkFz3KD8C
Amazon: 0062070304
Barnesnoble: 0062070304
Goodreads: 13623853
Publisher: Harper
Published: 2012-09-25T04:00:00+00:00

PART III

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost

Chapter Eleven

Saturday, November 5, 2011

“Was that brutal,” Randi asks Allison, “or was that brutal?” Resting a hand on her marble kitchen countertop, she pulls off her black, pointy-toed high-heeled designer pumps, balancing on first one foot and then the other.

Brutal—she’s referring to the wake for Phyllis Lewis, which the four of them just attended: Randi and Ben, Allison and Mack.

Brutal doesn’t even begin to describe the experience, Allison thinks as she sinks into a kitchen chair.

Standing beside the open casket, Bob Lewis and his two children were alternately catatonic and hysterical, depending on who was stepping to the front of the long line of mourners to offer condolences to the family.

When Allison’s turn came, Bob fell on her sobbing, thanking her over and over. For what, she doesn’t know, and she didn’t ask.

“He’s just grateful that you went over there to check on Phyllis for him that night,” Mack murmured to her as they stepped away to kneel at the casket and say a quick prayer.

That night . . .

Phyllis . . .

Try as she might, she can’t get the horrific images out of her head.

Seeing her friend’s dead body a second time didn’t help. Allison hadn’t expected an open casket and was disturbed when she spotted the corpse from the doorway. She had to force herself to make her way over, clinging tightly to Mack’s arm, reminding herself that if Phyllis’s family could face this, so, certainly, could she.

She overheard several people commenting on how beautiful Phyllis looked, as people have a peculiar way of doing at funerals. But it wasn’t the truth. It never is.

A high-necked, long-sleeved black dress covered the horrific wounds to her torso, her mutilated hands were discreetly hidden, and her lovely face had been unscathed. But the mortician couldn’t erase the unmistakable death mask pallor Allison has seen before: on Kristina Haines, and on her own mother.

“I need a drink,” Randi announces, opening a cabinet above the wet bar on the far end of her vast kitchen. “So do you.”

Allison automatically opens her mouth to protest, but Randi has already taken out two martini glasses, cutting her off with a stern “No arguments.”

“I’ll just have iced tea.” Randi thoughtfully stocked the fridge with Allison’s favorite beverage when they came to stay.

“That’s not going to help you. You need something stronger.”

“I don’t like to drink when the kids are around.” She’s not much of a drinker ever—and certainly not the strong stuff. Alcohol is a drug, and Randi knows how she feels about drugs, thanks to her mother.

But Randi repeats, “No arguments,” and pulls a bottle of Grey Goose from beneath the bar. “The kids are sound asleep.”

That’s true. The first thing Allison did when they got back from the wake a few minutes ago was head up the stairs to the spacious guest quarters where she, Mack, and the children have spent the last few nights.

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