Page 16 of The Wrong Man

I let the spray run until he’s thoroughly soaked, until his clothes are plastered to his shivering body and his hair is streaming water into his eyes. Then I turn off the tap and step back.

He’s staring at me with those hazel eyes, and I see something new in them. Something beyond fear, beyond bewilderment, beyond the desperate hope that I might believe him.

I see hatred.

Good. Hatred is easier to deal with than those pleading looks. Hatred makes sense in a way that his supposed innocence doesn’t.

“I’ll be back,” I say, and my voice sounds strange to my own ears. Hollow. Wrong.

I leave him there, dripping and shivering in the cold shower stall, still tied to the chair. I have work to do. A video to upload. A message to send.

The video takes less than an hour to edit and upload to the appropriate channels. By morning, everyone who matters will have seen it. Everyone will know what happens to people who betray the family.

I pour myself a whiskey and sit in my office, staring at the screen long after the upload has finished.

Somewhere in my studio, a man is shivering in soaked clothes, tied to a chair, hating me with every fiber of his being.

And I still don’t know if he’s the criminal I was promised or the innocent victim he claims to be.

I drain my glass and pour another.

The doubt is going to drive me mad.

Chapter six

Dante

Three hours.

It’s been three hours since I uploaded the video. Three hours since I left my subject shivering in the shower stall. Three hours of sitting in my office, staring at nothing, telling myself I’m not avoiding the situation.

I’m not avoiding anything. I’m applying time.

Time is one of the most effective tools in my arsenal. More effective than knives or pliers or even the Dark Room. Time allows fear to ferment, allows imagination to do the heavy lifting. Right now, my subject is sitting in that cold, wet bathroom, replaying everything he witnessed. Every scream. Every plea. Every wet, terrible sound.

He’s imagining himself in Vinnie’s place. Wondering when it will be his turn. Calculating how much pain he can endure before he breaks.

Time is working on him even while I sit here doing nothing.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

The truth is, I can’t face him. Not yet. Not while those hazel eyes are still burning in my memory, filled with a hatred. Hatred I’ve earned a thousand times over but have never been affected by before.

I pour another whiskey. My fourth. Or fifth. I’ve lost count.

The laptop on my desk pings with a notification. Someone has replied to the video I uploaded.

This isn’t unusual. My work attracts attention in certain circles. People comment, sometimes with praise, sometimes with requests for my services, occasionally with empty threats from those who think they’re brave behind the anonymity of the dark web.

I click on the notification without much interest.

It’s a video message.

The frame fills with a man lounging on a beach chair, pure white sand stretching behind him. He’s wearing designer sunglasses and holding a cocktail with a little paper umbrella. His strawberry-blond hair catches the tropical sunlight, and his face is split in a smug, self-satisfied grin.

My blood turns to ice.

I know that face. I’ve been staring at it for days.