Hide Your Eyes by Alison Gaylin

Author:Alison Gaylin [Gaylin, Alison]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2010-12-10T05:00:00+00:00

After Krull left, Yale exhaled dramatically. “Well, it certainly feels good to have the authorities involved.”

I glared at him.

“Sorry, but I don’t give a rat’s ass who’s winning the Tournament of Mind Games.”

“I made one mistake. He doesn’t have to—”

“I don’t understand you, Sam. You’re terrified of spilled salt and chills up your spine, but Bloodbath Barbie isn’t all that big a deal?”

“I . . . don’t feel like talking about it.”

“That’s fine. Just one reality check: human sacrifice.”

“Krull said there’s no proof Peter is a devil worshiper.”

“He was only trying to make me feel better, and you know it. I have to say he’s pretty sensitive for a straight man. A straight cop, no less.”

I looked at him. “How do you know he’s straight?”

“Oh, please.” Yale started to put his coat on.

“I’m serious. He works out of the West Village precinct, he turned me down when I threw myself at him—and I’m sorry, I was drunk and nude. He’s not married. He obviously spends a lot of time at the gym . . .”

He shook his head at me. “Samantha, dear,” he said, as if he were teaching a child to read, “no self-respecting gay man would be caught dead dressed like that.”

“Oh . . . right.”

“Not to mention he’s hot for you.”

I stared at Yale.

Yale finished buttoning up his coat, then grabbed his boots and headed for the door. “God, you’re dense sometimes. Must be all that L.A. smog you inhaled as a child.”

“What do you mean?”

“Figure it out for yourself, Stanford girl,” he said. “I have locks to change, fingerprints to give, an investigation to aid.”

“Be careful.”

“You be careful. Lock your door.” Yale closed the door, and I bolted it. Through the peephole, I watched him put on his boots before heading down the hall to the elevator.

I settled back at the dinette table, picked up Krull’s card, turned it over and over between my fingers. I looked at the thick black ink on the back of it, at Art Boyle’s name printed in calm, capital letters. Call me. Or him. Suit yourself.

“Oh yeah. He is so hot for me.”

I folded up Amanda’s cell phone, shoved it in my pocket and wandered into the kitchen. I desperately wanted a beer, but decided to make myself coffee instead.

The cupboard with the filters in it was sticky, so I had to pry it open with my big, wood-handled kitchen knife. I always needed to do this, yet I never could stop myself from putting the filters back in that cupboard when I was through with them. Perhaps subconsciously, I enjoyed the extra work I had to go through every morning to get to them. Or maybe it was because I hardly used the knife for anything else and I liked the feel of the thick pine hilt in my hand. It was probably sexual.

I jammed the long thin blade through the crack, then worked it back and forth until the door drifted open. I was setting the knife back down on the counter when the phone rang.

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