known a lot of cops in my time, Miller, and you all suffer from tunnel vision.
You can only see one way of doing things, one way of looking at the world.” Danny eased out of the chair, peeling off his sweaty T-shirt. “It must make life awfully boring.”
“What are you doing?” Miller asked, his voice pulled thin.
Danny knew the power of his body, had learned hard lessons about how to use it. He hung his T-shirt around his neck, arms flexing as he gripped the ends. “Gonna hit the shower,” he explained.
Miller’s eyes ran down Danny’s torso, bobbing back up like a yo-yo on a string. His face remained blank but his fingers clutched convulsively at the edge of the table.
“It’s about time for those stitches to come out,” Miller commented around his clenched jaw.
Danny looked down. He’d almost forgotten about the injury since it had stopped itching a few days ago. “Yeah, it’s been ten days today, I 78 | Brooke McKinley
think.”
Miller grabbed his cell phone. “Let me make some calls, see if we can get you to a doctor.”
CHRIST, you’d think he was trying to arrange a manned spaceflight instead of having some stitches removed. Miller had been on the phone most of the day attempting to coordinate Danny’s trip to the hospital.
Finally, after half a dozen calls, they’d decided on a plan of attack: Miller would take Danny to St. Luke’s, where he’d be whisked into a trauma room and whisked back out again. But within minutes that plan had been scrapped by the higher-ups as too risky. Now Miller was trying to arrange a house call from a doctor, but the U.S. Attorney’s office was worried that plan could open up a doctor to bribery.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Miller sighed into the phone, pushing away the plate of Chinese food they’d had delivered a half hour ago.
“There’s got to be someone who can take out a handful of damn stitches.”
Miller could hear Danny laughing from the kitchen.
“It’s not funny,” Miller called, trying to sound stern.
“It’s pretty fucking funny,” Danny disagreed, ambling into the living room with a couple of beers. He put one down in front of Miller.
“The FBI can’t figure out how to get my stitches out? I can solve that problem in five seconds flat.”
“What? Fine, call me back,” Miller said into the phone, tossing it down in irritation. He turned to Danny, twisting the cap on his beer.
“Oh, yeah? How’s that.”
“Wait,” Danny commanded, moving into his bedroom. He came out seconds later, something small hidden in his hand. “Here’s your answer,” he said, holding out his palm.
Miller looked at the Swiss Army knife. “How’s that my answer?” Danny flicked the knife with his fingers, revealing a tiny pair of Shades of Gray | 79
scissors and miniature tweezers. “Get to work, Sutton,” he said with a grin.
“What?” Miller choked a little on his beer. “I’m not a doctor.”
“Please,” Danny scoffed. “You grew up in the country, right?
“Right,” Miller agreed cautiously.
“Well, so did I and I know I’ve done plenty of things more disgusting than taking out a few stitches. Slaughtering a pig ring a bell?”
“What if it gets infected?” Miller asked, stalling for time.
“The wound’s healed, Miller,” Danny said patiently. “That’s why the stitches are coming out in the first place. Listen, you really want to spend half the night waiting around for some half-assed plan to get me to the hospital? Then, once we get there, we’ll have to sit around for the other half of the night killing time until a doctor can see me.” Danny held out the knife. “This can be done in ten minutes. I’d do it myself, but my arm won’t bend that way.”
Miller stared at Danny’s hand, the long fingers cupping the knife.
He imagined pulling those black threads from Danny’s skin, how close he’d be to Danny’s bare chest. You don’t have to do this, Miller. What are you trying to prove? That you can?
You can only see one way of doing things, one way of looking at the world.” Danny eased out of the chair, peeling off his sweaty T-shirt. “It must make life awfully boring.”
“What are you doing?” Miller asked, his voice pulled thin.
Danny knew the power of his body, had learned hard lessons about how to use it. He hung his T-shirt around his neck, arms flexing as he gripped the ends. “Gonna hit the shower,” he explained.
Miller’s eyes ran down Danny’s torso, bobbing back up like a yo-yo on a string. His face remained blank but his fingers clutched convulsively at the edge of the table.
“It’s about time for those stitches to come out,” Miller commented around his clenched jaw.
Danny looked down. He’d almost forgotten about the injury since it had stopped itching a few days ago. “Yeah, it’s been ten days today, I 78 | Brooke McKinley
think.”
Miller grabbed his cell phone. “Let me make some calls, see if we can get you to a doctor.”
CHRIST, you’d think he was trying to arrange a manned spaceflight instead of having some stitches removed. Miller had been on the phone most of the day attempting to coordinate Danny’s trip to the hospital.
Finally, after half a dozen calls, they’d decided on a plan of attack: Miller would take Danny to St. Luke’s, where he’d be whisked into a trauma room and whisked back out again. But within minutes that plan had been scrapped by the higher-ups as too risky. Now Miller was trying to arrange a house call from a doctor, but the U.S. Attorney’s office was worried that plan could open up a doctor to bribery.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Miller sighed into the phone, pushing away the plate of Chinese food they’d had delivered a half hour ago.
“There’s got to be someone who can take out a handful of damn stitches.”
Miller could hear Danny laughing from the kitchen.
“It’s not funny,” Miller called, trying to sound stern.
“It’s pretty fucking funny,” Danny disagreed, ambling into the living room with a couple of beers. He put one down in front of Miller.
“The FBI can’t figure out how to get my stitches out? I can solve that problem in five seconds flat.”
“What? Fine, call me back,” Miller said into the phone, tossing it down in irritation. He turned to Danny, twisting the cap on his beer.
“Oh, yeah? How’s that.”
“Wait,” Danny commanded, moving into his bedroom. He came out seconds later, something small hidden in his hand. “Here’s your answer,” he said, holding out his palm.
Miller looked at the Swiss Army knife. “How’s that my answer?” Danny flicked the knife with his fingers, revealing a tiny pair of Shades of Gray | 79
scissors and miniature tweezers. “Get to work, Sutton,” he said with a grin.
“What?” Miller choked a little on his beer. “I’m not a doctor.”
“Please,” Danny scoffed. “You grew up in the country, right?
“Right,” Miller agreed cautiously.
“Well, so did I and I know I’ve done plenty of things more disgusting than taking out a few stitches. Slaughtering a pig ring a bell?”
“What if it gets infected?” Miller asked, stalling for time.
“The wound’s healed, Miller,” Danny said patiently. “That’s why the stitches are coming out in the first place. Listen, you really want to spend half the night waiting around for some half-assed plan to get me to the hospital? Then, once we get there, we’ll have to sit around for the other half of the night killing time until a doctor can see me.” Danny held out the knife. “This can be done in ten minutes. I’d do it myself, but my arm won’t bend that way.”
Miller stared at Danny’s hand, the long fingers cupping the knife.
He imagined pulling those black threads from Danny’s skin, how close he’d be to Danny’s bare chest. You don’t have to do this, Miller. What are you trying to prove? That you can?
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