Vanished in the Shadows

Dargan Hughes did not consider himself a man of routine, though most would have said otherwise. Each morning, he walked two blocks to the station, pausing at Perkins Bakery for a coffee and a cinnamon roll. The barista never asked for his order. The same newsboy, hunched behind a battered stack of weeklies, greeted him with a sullen squint. On Mondays, his route included a detour around the community garden, where Mrs.
Sanderson and her yappy beagle staged daily protests against someone or other. The sameness of his days suited him; he found comfort in the predictable, the reliable. But three weeks ago, the town's only bar-a squat cinderblock building lacquered in the kind of paint that faded as soon as it dried-sent out a ripple of panic that left Dargan deeply unsettled. The bartender, Charlie Wicks, was gone.
Not "called in sick" gone or "off on a bender" gone-just vanished.