The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks Read Online Free PDF Page A

planning the trip to San Francisco for weeks. I guess anyone could have known.”
    Whatever Nick read in his face caused him to say brusquely, “Yeah, well, it would be helpful to narrow it down. Get some sleep, and we’ll talk in the morning.”
    Sleep sounded like a good idea. Perry hadn’t eaten anything in almost twenty-four hours, and the beer was hitting him hard. Or maybe it was exhaustion. He hadn’t closed his eyes last night -- and the night before that he had been too keyed up to sleep. The drive from the airport had taken everything he had; he had been sputtering along on empty for hours now.
    “Thanks.” He dropped down on the sofa. Nick tossed him the folded blankets. He caught them against his chest.
    He opened his mouth to thank Nick one more time, but Nick, had already disappeared down the hallway to the room Perry couldn’t see. The door closed with finality.
    The closed door was a relief. Perry hadn’t realized how nervous the older man made him. Nervous and self-conscious. Nick Reno, man of action, clearly despised the wuss from across the hall.
    Perry opened his suitcase, found flannel pajamas and a clean pair of socks. It was going to be a cold night. Nick’s thermostat was set on sixty, and the window casements leaked.
    Hands shaking with sudden exhaustion, Perry changed into the pajamas, pulled on the socks, and rolled himself in the blankets. The couch was about a foot too short. It didn’t matter; a bed of nails would be preferable to sleeping in his own silent rooms.

    18 Josh Lanyon
    He vaguely considered brushing his teeth but somehow just couldn’t convince himself to make the effort. Instead, he buried his face in the cool pillowcase and got a shock. The pillow smelled of Nick Reno. It smelled masculine: long-ago aftershave and some kind of herbal soap.
    In some indefinable way it reminded him of Marcel, although Marcel had smelled nothing like Nick Reno. Perry’s sense of loneliness and loss returned in force, crashing over him like a wave, dragging him out to sea on an emotional riptide. His eyes prickled, his face flushed. He pressed closer to the pillow that smelled like Nick Reno to muffle the sob that threatened to tear out of his throat.
    Truly the last fucking straw if he finished this weekend crying himself to sleep on Nick Reno’s sofa. He pictured Reno coming out to find him sobbing into the upholstery and surprised himself with a watery chuckle. He could imagine the horror on Reno’s face so clearly.
    Listening to the rain thundering down, he closed his eyes and let it wash him away.

    * * * * *
Thirty minutes, Nick thought, slapping the magazine into the MK23. Thirty minutes tops and the kid would be in dreamland.
    He waited, stretched out on the bed, arms folded behind his head, at ease, waiting.
    He liked the sound of the rain battering down against the walls and roof; it reminded him of the sea. He missed the sea.
    When the clock clicked over the thirtieth minute, he rose soundlessly and went to the door to ease it open.
    All quiet in the living room. The light was still on, though, so he waited, listening. He focused hard, tuning out the rain, tuning out the clock, the branches scraping the house. He could hear the kid breathing softly, evenly, asleep.
    Opening the door wide, he stole down the hallway. His houseguest was curled up uncomfortably on the sofa. His suitcase was open, his inhaler was propped on the coffee table in grabbing reach. His keys were on the floor. Nick took a second look. Foster wore some kind of striped PJs and a wristwatch.
    Nick picked up the keys, pausing when a floorboard creaked. The kid sighed and buried his face deeper in the pillow.
    Nick continued toward the door. Unlocking it, he slipped out into the dim hall. He relocked the door.
    Cautiously he made his way down the hall. There was a walk-in linen cupboard at one end. Doubtful, but he wanted to check it out.

    The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks
    19
    A steamer trunk beneath one of the