The Coil by Gayle Lynds Read Free Book Online

stripes. Nikes. None of his clothes had any special logos or words. He was dressed to be unidentified.”
    The deputy looked up from the notes he was taking and studied her. “You don’t miss much,” he said mildly.
    â€œThanks. I tried to remember everything so I could report it.”
    â€œMost people couldn’t have told me ten percent of what you just did, and I’d be worried about the accuracy of that. Most people are lousy observers.”
    She shrugged. “I wish I could give you more information. It all happened so quickly.”
    â€œI imagine it did.” The same mild tone, but the eyes were suspicious. “I’m interested in your comment that he was dressed to be unidentified.”
    She had revealed more about herself than she intended. “I deduced that. It’s one of the things I do—make deductions. I’m a college professor.”
    He nodded. “So you said. You also created a TV show. I’ve never seen it, but I think I’ve heard of it. What about the rest of your time? You haven’t always taught college. You were born. You grew up. Anything in your past that might be coming back to haunt you?”
    â€œNo, Deputy Craine. The only angry people I have to deal with are the usual students who want better grades or the network execs who expect to change my show.”
    He nodded and closed his notebook. “I’m glad the doctor says you’re not seriously injured. It’s impressive you survived the fall at all.”
    She shrugged. “There was a tree, and I grabbed it.” She added lamely, “It was just dumb luck.”
    â€œUh-huh.” He looked at his watch. “Where will you be the rest of the day?”
    â€œAt my office. The number’s on the card I gave you. This evening, I’ll be at a party at Dean Quentin’s house above Mission Canyon. You have my cell number. I’d appreciate your phoning as soon as you learn anything. Anything at all.”
    He gave a curt nod and headed toward his car. “I’ll be in touch.”
    Â 
    By one o’clock, Liz was back in her third-floor office at UCSB. She stood gazing out her window, arms crossed, hugging herself. Sunlight shimmered across the low buildings and green trees and palms that sprawled throughout the fertile Goleta Valley. Her view extended up the lavender foothills to the towering Santa Ynez Mountains, where clouds haloed the ragged peaks. She was filled with melancholy as she studied the sweeping panorama. Usually, this lovely view gave her a sense of tranquillity, of time turned in her favor. Now, as she waited for her producer to return her call, she saw disquiet and uncertainty.
    She stepped back and was about to return to her desk when she realized her reflection was in the window glass. She had a strange sense of déjà vu, seeing her face superimposed over her much-loved vista. It made her feel apart, again the outsider, always looking in. She was both deeply upset by the attack and annoyed that she was not taking it in stride as she once would have.
    And, too, it threatened her new attitude about violence, which had grown with the years and her studies. All of it showed in the troubled look on her face. She studied her bold features—the high cheekbones, the flared nose, and the black mole just above the right corner of her mouth. Her brown eyes were wary, alert, and angry.
    She noticed her hair. She had always liked the color—auburn, a dark brown with red woven through. This morning, it had been brushed and shiny, waving down to her shoulders, as free as her spirit. Now it was in wild disarray. Although she had changed back into the shirt and trousers she had worn to her lecture that morning, she had forgotten to brush her hair. At least her face was clean; she had washed it in the doctor’s office. Even in the hazy reflection she could see her beach tan, her dark eyes, her upturned nose, which had once been