Page 10 of The Wrong Man

But the fantasy doesn’t last long. The reality of my situation creeps back in, cold and terrifying.

How long have I been in here? It feels like hours, but it could be minutes. Time has no meaning in this place. My torturer knew exactly what he was doing when he put me here. He knows about the darkness, about what it does to people.

He knows about fear.

I try to focus on something else, anything else. Think about the bakery. Think about Sean and Teagan and how worried they must be. Think about Mrs. Murphy’s anniversary cake sitting half-finished in the fridge.

But my mind keeps drifting back to Declan. To how much I hate him for putting me in this position. If he hadn’t stolen that bloody tiara, if he’d just stayed in his small corner of organized crime where he belonged, I’d be at home right now. Safe. Free.

What the fuck has he been up to since the last time I saw him was three years ago? Nothing good, that’s for sure.

A shiver runs over me as I think about Declan’s visit. I can still remember every detail of that night, even though I’ve tried so hard to forget.

I’d been closing up the bakery, when the door chimed. I looked up from wiping down the counter to see my twin brother standing in my shop, and for a moment I thought I was hallucinating.

He looked terrible. Thinner than I remembered, with dark circles under his eyes and a cut on his cheek that was still bleeding. His clothes were expensive but dirty, like he’d been sleeping rough.

“Hello, brother,” he’d said with that same charming smile that had gotten him out of trouble our entire lives. “Miss me?”

I should have called the police right then. Should have told him to get out and never come back. Instead, I’d stood there like an idiot and asked if he was hurt.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he’d said, but I could see the fear underneath the bravado.

Declan is many things, but he’s never been good at hiding fear from me. We are twins, after all. I can read him better than anyone.

“What do you want, Declan?”

“Can’t I visit my beloved twin? See how you’re doing with your little hobby here?” He’d gestured around the bakery with mock interest, but his eyes kept darting to the windows, watching for something.

“It’s not a hobby. It’s my life.” I’d been proud of the steadiness in my voice, even though seeing him again had made me feel like I was ten years old and cowering in a cupboard.

He’d laughed at that. “Your life? Sweet Jesus, Dylan, look at yourself. You’re hiding in London making cupcakes while real men are out there making real money.”

“At least I’m not running from whoever gave you that cut.”

His smile had faltered then, and I’d seen something desperate flicker in his eyes. “I need money, Dylan. A lot of it. I’m in some serious trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“The kind that gets you killed if you don’t pay up.” He’d moved closer to the counter, and I’d caught a whiff of fear-sweat. “I crossed the wrong people. They want their money, plus interest, plus compensation for the inconvenience.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred thousand.”

The number had hit me like a slap. Two hundred thousand pounds might as well have been twenty million for all the hope I had of raising it.

“I don’t have that kind of money, Declan. This is a small bakery, not a bank.”

“But you have some money, right? Whatever you can spare. I’m your brother, Dylan. Your twin. That has to count for something.”

And like an idiot, like the same naïve little boy who’d believed every lie he’d ever told me, I’d opened the till and given him everything. One thousand and thirty-seven pounds from the day’s takings, plus the two thousand I’d been saving for new equipment.

He’d taken it without even saying thank you. Just counted the notes with practiced efficiency and tucked them into his jacket.

“This won’t be enough,” he’d said.

“It’s all I have.”