Page 11 of The Wrong Man

“What about the shop? You could sell it, start fresh somewhere else.”

The casual way he’d suggested destroying everything I’d built had made my blood boil. “Absolutely not.”

“Come on, Dylan. It’s just a bakery. You could open another one anywhere.”

“Get out.”

“Dylan…”

“Get out of my shop. Get out of my life. I never want to see you again.”

He’d looked genuinely hurt for a moment, like he couldn’t understand why I was being so unreasonable. Then the mask had slipped back into place, and he’d given me that same cold smile I remembered from childhood.

“You always were selfish,” he’d said. “Too good for your own family. Too soft for the real world.”

And then he’d walked out, taking my money and leaving nothing but the lingering scent of pungent cologne and the familiar ache of disappointment.

I’d hoped that would be the end of it. That he’d take my money and disappear forever, maybe even find a way to go straight. Instead, he’s apparently graduated to stealing French Crown Jewels.

And now I’m the one paying the price for his ambition.

“Bastard,” I whisper into the darkness. “Selfish, cruel bastard.”

My voice sounds strange in the silence, smaller than it should. I clear my throat and try again.

“Lemon drizzle cake,” I say firmly. “One hundred and seventy-five grams butter, one hundred and seventy-five grams caster sugar, three large eggs...”

But even the comfort of familiar recipes can’t entirely block out the growing awareness of my own body that my captor was counting on. I can hear my heart beating, can feel the blood rushing through my veins. My breathing sounds too loud in the silence, and I’m becoming hyperaware of every small sensation.

The zip ties cutting into my wrists. The hard metal of the chair digging into my back. The way my legs are going numb from sitting in the same position for so long.

I try to shift, to find a more comfortable position, but there isn’t one. The chair was designed for maximum discomfort. My captor is a professional.

How much longer? How long before he decides I’ve been broken enough and comes to check on me?

I start singing again, louder this time. “She Moved Through the Fair” in a voice that echoes off the concrete walls. Then “The Parting Glass,” which makes my throat tight with unshed tears.

I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me so defeated.

Even if that’s exactly what I am.

I’m in the middle of reciting my special recipe for brown bread when I hear it. The soft scrape of metal against metal. The bolt being drawn back.

Light floods in as the door opens, so bright after the absolute darkness that it feels like knives in my eyes. I squeeze them shut, tears streaming down my face.

Heavy footsteps cross the small space. Hands grip the back of my chair, and suddenly I’m moving again, being dragged out of that horrible little room and back into the main torture dungeon.

The light is almost as much of a torment as the darkness was. Even with my eyes closed, it’s overwhelming. I can feel it pressing against my eyelids, making my head pound.

When I finally manage to open them, my captor is standing directly in front of me. His dark eyes study my face with clinical interest. Smoldering and intense. Peering into my very soul and brushing against it.

Strong fingers grip my chin, tilting my head up so he can examine me even more closely. His thumb brushes across my cheek, wiping away tears I didn’t realize I’d shed.

“Talking in there, were you?” he says softly. “Most people don’t last an hour before they’re screaming to get out.”

I try to speak, but my throat is raw from singing and reciting in the darkness. All that comes out is a croak.

He releases my chin and steps back, his expression shifting from clinical interest to something that might be disappointment.