Page 99 of The Wrong Man

“That doesn’t mean I know what to do next.”

“Neither do I.”

A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “We are both very lost, aren’t we?”

“It would seem so.”

He picks up his fork and takes a bite of eggs. Chews. Swallows. The simple domesticity of it feels surreal, given the weight of the conversation we just had.

“These are good,” I say, because the silence is becoming unbearable and I don’t know what else to offer.

“They are adequate.” But he looks pleased. “The trick is low heat and constant stirring. Most people rush it and end up with rubber.”

We eat. The eggs are more than adequate. The coffee is strong and bitter, exactly how I like it. Outside, the sounds of the city filter in, muffled and distant.

It feels almost normal. Almost peaceful. Like we are just two people sharing breakfast, with nothing complicated or impossible hanging between us.

But we are not just two people. We are captor and captive, monster and victim, two broken things that have somehow collided and do not know how to pull apart.

Dylan finishes his eggs and pushes the plate away. He wraps his hands around his coffee mug and stares into the dark liquid like it holds answers.

“I should shower,” he says. “And probably put on real clothes.”

“Probably.”

Neither of us moves.

“Thank you,” he says suddenly. “For the coffee. And for not making this weirder than it already is.”

“I’m fairly certain I made it weird.”

“Yes, well.” That ghost of a smile again. “I expect nothing less from you at this point.”

He stands, and I think he is going to walk away. Going to retreat to the bathroom and put walls back up and pretend none of this is happening. But instead, he pauses beside my chair.

His hand comes up to rest on my shoulder. Light. Uncertain. Like he is not quite sure he is allowed to touch me in the daylight.

“I meant what I said. About not regretting it.”

Before I can respond, he is gone. The bathroom door clicks shut a moment later, and I am left alone with cold eggs and cooling coffee and the phantom warmth of his hand on my skin.

I stare at the empty doorway for a long time.

He said he didn’t want last night to mean anything, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t believe himself. But that doesn’t mean I know what we are doing. Or know where this is going.

Nevermind that I don’t know how to protect him from the world, or from myself.

But for the first time in my life, I want to figure it out. All of it.

And that terrifies me more than anything.

Chapter twenty-eight

Dante

Isit at the kitchen table for a long time after Dylan leaves.

The eggs have gone cold. The coffee has developed a film on the surface. Outside, the city hums with the distant sounds of traffic and voices and ordinary people living ordinary lives. None of it seems real. None of it seems like it has anything to do with me.