Page 117 of The Wrong Man

“What do you need from us?”

“I don’t know yet. But Moira thought you might be able to help.”

“Anything,” Teagan says fiercely. “We’ll do anything. Dylan’s the best person I know. He doesn’t deserve any of this.”

No, he doesn’t. He deserves peace and safety and a life filled with baking and laughter. He deserves so much better than what I’ve put him through. But I can’t change the past. I can only try to fix the present.

“Then let’s make a plan,” I say. “And let’s bring Dylan home.”

Moira spreads a map of London on the coffee table, and we begin to work. For the first time in two days, I feel something that might be hope.

Chapter thirty-four

Dylan

I’m losing track of time.

The days blur together in this gilded prison. Morning light through the window, afternoon shadows creeping across the floor, evening darkness that swallows everything whole. Declan visits sporadically, sometimes to taunt me, sometimes to rant about his crumbling empire, sometimes just to remind me that my life is in his hands.

The meals come at irregular intervals, which I think is intentional. Breakfast might arrive at dawn or at noon. Dinner could be a proper meal or stale sandwiches, depending on whether Declan remembers to tell his men to feed me. I’ve learned not to count on anything. The unpredictability is its own form of control.

I’ve started keeping a mental tally of everything I observe. It’s the only thing keeping me sane.

The guards change shifts every eight hours. There are always two on the perimeter, occasionally three when Declan is feeling paranoid. They’re bored and sloppy, more interested in their phones than in actually watching for threats. One of them smokes a lot, disappearing around the side of the house every hour or so for a cigarette break.

The house has three floors. I’m on the second, in a guest room at the end of the hall. There’s a bathroom next door that I’m allowed to use twice a day, always with a guard standing outside. The stairs are at the other end of the hall, near Declan’s study.

The study. That’s where Declan spends most of his time, making calls and pacing and slowly losing his mind. I’ve only seen it once, when he dragged me there to show me something on his computer. Some news article about the tiara, I think. He wanted to gloat about how famous he was becoming.

But I wasn’t looking at the computer. I was looking at everything else.

The gun on the mantlepiece. A handgun, black and sleek, sitting there like a decoration. Declan probably thinks it makes him look dangerous. All I could think was that it was within reach, if I could just get my hands free.

The closet with the slatted doors. Built into the wall near the window, probably meant for coats or storage. The slats are wide enough to see through, narrow enough to hide behind. A place to watch without being seen.

The window itself, looking out onto the back garden. No guards visible from that angle, just a high wall and a gate that leads to God knows where.

Information. I’m collecting it like currency, hoarding it against the day when it might be useful. I don’t know if that day will ever come. But it gives me something to focus on besides the fear.

Declan comes to see me on the third morning. Or maybe the fourth. I’ve lost count.

He looks terrible. Dark circles under his eyes, stubble on his jaw, clothes rumpled like he slept in them. The careful facade he usually maintains is cracking, revealing the desperate man underneath.

“Murphy’s dead,” he announces without preamble, throwing himself into the armchair by my bed. “Someone put a bullet in his head last night. Left him in an alley in Brixton like garbage.”

I don’t know who Murphy is. One of Declan’s associates, probably. Another rat fleeing the sinking ship.

“I’m sorry,” I say, because it seems like the thing to say.

Declan laughs bitterly. “No you’re not. You’re probably hoping they’ll come for me next.” He runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up at odd angles. “Everyone’s turning on me. Everyone. The people I trusted, the people I paid, the people who swore they’d have my back. The moment things got difficult, they scattered like cockroaches.”

“Loyalty has to be earned,” I say before I can stop myself.

It’s a risk. Last time I talked back, he grabbed my face hard enough to leave bruises. But something has shifted in him since then. The anger is still there, but it’s mixed with something else now. Something that looks almost like fear.

“You don’t understand,” he says, and for once he doesn’t sound cruel. Just tired. “This business, it’s not like your little bakery. You can’t afford to be soft. The moment you show weakness, someone takes advantage. Someone stabs you in the back. Someone steals your tiara and disappears with everything you’ve worked for.”

“Is that what happened? Someone you trusted stole the tiara?”