Page 48 of Seeing Grayscale

Gray isn’t answering his phone.

My stomach plummets when his automated voicemail sounds through my car. I press the call button again, and my blood pressure skyrockets. What if that body was him? What if I was too late? I’ve ignored my gut instinct my whole life to save face. Iknewbetter than to throw him back to the wolves. I should’ve done more. I should’ve held my ground and convinced him to stay.

All I want is to get him out of this never-ending cycle, and if I lose that chance, I’ll—

“Hello?” He sounds terrible, and there’s some static through the line, but the relief isinstant.

Until I remember the gas station and all those police.

God, what ifhedid it? What if Gray shot someone out of fear or desperation?

I don’t want to get ahead of myself, so I swallow back my returning panic. “Gray,” I sigh. “Where are you?”

“Trying to find somewhere dry.” It's unlikely in this rainstorm.

“You’re not at the gas station, right?” I command more urgency in my tone because if he’s hiding by that dumpster, I might not be able to get him.

I need toget to him—see him with my own two eyes.

“I’m not there. Why?” More static rips through the speakers.

“There was a shooting; I don’t know how many were injured, but I was afraid you might’ve been involved.”

“What?” he yells, the rain kicking up around me.

“There was a shooting!”

“No shit?”

I swear to god. “Where are you, Gray?” I growl.

“The corner of Chrysaline and—”

The line goes dead, cutting off the word. I try to call him back, but it goes straight to voicemail.

Fuck.

Alright, I can…find where he is—granted if hestaysthere.

Increasing the speed of my windshield wipers so I can see, I pull over to punch in what I assume are the correct cross streets into my GPS. Two options come up. Chrysaline and 18th or Chrysaline and 20th.

I choose the first option since it’s closer and Gray is on foot.

He’s two and a half miles away from me, but I swear, no distance has ever felt farther.

My heart is thrashing like a rabid animal against my ribs, I’m sweating, and my throat refuses to function correctly. The last time I was this stressed was easily ten years ago when one of my trysts was hiding in my closet while my dad berated me about missing a fundraiser.

This irrational fear that Gray will vanish into thin air, untraceable and nowhere to be found, has me driving recklessly,needingto get there.

When the feminine voice announces I’m approaching my destination, I slow to a crawl, scanning the street on both sides. There is virtually no cover from the rain, so that figure a few houses down, shivering with a wad of…something over their head, strikes my heart like lightning.

“Gray,” I breathe, tapping the gas and pulling beside him. I’m out of the car in two seconds.

My relief is short-lived when I notice his posture, the missing duffle bag, and the swollen lids of his glacial eyes. Fat droplets roll down his disheveled hair, gliding over his lashes, nose, and lips. Some patchy scruff lines his trembling jaw, and when our gazes lock, he shrugs miserably.

“Come on,” I say, my calm tone masking how upset I am.

He doesn’t argue, allowing me to guide him to the car. I open his door, remove his wet ball of clothes from his freezing fingers, and help him get seated.

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