Free Shades of Gray by Brooke McKinley

Danny’s shaving habits were contagious, it seemed; Miller’s hand scrubbed at his whisker-rough cheeks. Miller stretched his arms up toward the ceiling, his back giving off a series of satisfying cracks. He pulled on a pair of jeans, rooting around in the suitcase he hadn’t fully unpacked for his old college sweatshirt, “Kansas State University” emblazoned on the front in peeling purple letters.
    The living room was deserted, Danny’s bedroom door closed.
    Something wasn’t right; Miller felt it almost immediately, the hair on his arms prickling with unease. There was a curious emptiness to the apartment, too silent even if Danny was still asleep. The bathroom was dark, the kitchen quiet. Miller crossed to Danny’s door, slapped it with the flat of his hand. No response. “Danny?” Miller called, the metal doorknob cool against his palm. “Danny?”
    Danny wasn’t in his room, the only sign he’d been there the covers and sheets flung haphazardly across the foot of the bed. Miller backtracked double-time toward the kitchen, glancing out to check the Shades of Gray | 57
    small balcony as he passed. The front door was locked. But the chain, which had been secured when they went to sleep, was hanging free now. A piece of white paper, the back of a take-out pizza menu, was taped to the door.
    Miller, had to run out for a minute. Be back soon. Danny.
    “Son of a bitch!” Miller cried, racing into his bedroom to throw on tennis shoes. He jammed his loaded gun into the waistband of his jeans and grabbed his cell phone from the clutter on top of his dresser, loose change raining down onto the floor. His keys were gone. The fucker had snuck in while he was sleeping and taken his goddamn keys.
    Miller flung open the apartment door, slamming it hard behind him. He took the stairs two at a time and flew out onto the empty sidewalk. He could see his Jeep parked where he’d left it, one block down on the opposite side of the street. So Danny had gone on foot.
    But where? There were a few shops within walking distance, but on a Sunday morning nothing would be open.
    Just pick a direction and start walking. Miller turned left, jogging down the street, eyes straining for a glimpse of that black hair. What the fuck could Danny have been thinking? Out in public, giving away their position, risking his life. Goddamn asshole! Two blocks under his belt and Miller had passed only a lone dog sniffing around a planter filled with dirt and a robe-clad woman making a dash for her morning paper. Miller was about to give up, head back in the opposite direction, when he saw a car idling against the curb, someone standing in the street and leaning into the driver’s window. Danny.
    Miller bit back hard on the urge to sprint down the street screaming Danny’s name, grab him by the scruff of his neck, and drag his sorry ass back to the apartment. Instead, he stuck to the sidewalk, his position concealed by the large oak trees dotting the street at regular intervals, their bare branches pointing gnarled fingers skyward. Miller stopped a few car lengths away from where Danny stood.
    The man driving the silver Mercedes didn’t look familiar. From what Miller could see he looked about their age, early thirties, medium brown hair, black sunglasses. Smiling at Danny. And Danny was 58 | Brooke McKinley
    smiling back, one hand resting casually on the roof of the car as he tipped back his dark head and laughed, the deep sound of it trickling away to almost nothing by the time it reached Miller’s ears. The man in the car moved his left hand off the steering wheel and held it out the window, where Danny took it in his own, the gesture a mix of high five and handshake. Miller felt a slow burn against his skin, red sparks of fury exploding against his eyelids as the Mercedes purred away, leaving Danny with his hand raised in farewell. Miller was suddenly full of bile, burning and roiling in his gut, the need to spew his anger rising up like vomit