Bad Date

by Ellery Lloyd

If you’re waving a Rolex around or standing next to a matte-black Tesla in your profile shot, I’m hitting nope.

they were all too scared that Danny Stone would pulverise them if they turned up on the front lawn with a pair of night-vision goggles and a boner.

It wasn’t until the local paper landed on the doorstep that I realised the reason for Theo’s radio silence: A mile or so from my house, his van’s brakes had failed, on a slippery bend. He hit a tree at sixty-five miles per hour and was killed instantly. I left the newspaper sitting on the kitchen table. The smirk when Wolf read the headline was unmistakable.