Page 19 of The Wrong Man

The bathroom door is still closed. I can hear nothing. No crying, no pleading, no sounds of movement at all.

For one horrible moment, I think he might be dead. That the cold and the shock and the trauma were too much. That I’ve killed him without even meaning to.

I wrench the door open.

Dylan is still in the chair, still tied, still soaking wet. His head is bowed, his chin resting on his chest, his strawberry-blond hair plastered to his skull. He’s shaking violently, his whole body wracked with tremors that rattle the chair against the tiles.

Cristo, I’m such an idiot. Dylan is much smaller than my usual subjects. He doesn’t have the muscle mass to keep him warm. Of course hypothermia was going to kick in much sooner.

“Dylan.”

My voice comes out rough. Wrong. Not the voice of a professional interrogator, but something rawer. More desperate.

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even lift his head.

I cross the small space in two strides and drop to my knees in front of him. My hands find his face, tilting it up, and what I see makes my stomach plummet.

His skin is gray. Not pale, gray. His lips have gone blue. His eyes are open but unfocused, staring at nothing, seeing nothing. When I press my fingers to his throat, his pulse is weak and irregular, his body fighting a losing battle against the cold.

Hypothermia. Severe, by the look of it. Potentially fatal if I don’t act fast.

“Dylan, can you hear me?”

His lips move, but no sound comes out. Just a faint exhale that might be an attempt at words. His eyes drift toward me, but there’s no recognition in them. No fear, no hatred, no hope. Just emptiness.

He’s slipping away. Right in front of me.

I tear at the restraints, my fingers clumsy with panic. The zip ties resist, and I have to pull a knife from my pocket to cut through them. His wrists are raw and bleeding, the skin torn from hours of struggling against his bonds.

The moment he’s free, he slumps forward. I catch him before he can hit the floor, and the cold of his body shocks me even through my clothes. He’s like ice. Like holding a corpse.

No. Not a corpse. Not yet. Not ever, if I have anything to say about it.

I gather him in my arms and stand. He weighs almost nothing, or maybe the adrenaline is making me stronger than I should be. His head lolls against my shoulder, and I can feel the violent tremors running through him, his body’s last desperate attempt to generate heat.

I carry him to my apartment. My bedroom is sparse, functional, but the bed is large and the blankets are heavy. It will have to do.

I lay him on the mattress as gently as I can, then start stripping off his wet clothes. His shirt first, the buttons defeated by my shaking hands. Then his trousers, his shoes, his socks. Everything soaked through, everything stealing warmth from a body that has none left to spare.

He makes a sound when I pull off the last of his clothing. A weak, wordless protest that might be embarrassment or might be fear. I don’t let myself think about it. Can’t afford to.

“I’m trying to help you,” I say, though I’m not sure he can hear me. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”

I pull back the covers and maneuver him underneath, then pile every blanket I own on top of him. But even as I do it, I know it won’t be enough. Blankets only work if the body has heat to trap. Dylan’s body has no heat left.

There’s only one option.

I strip off my own clothes, dropping them in a careless heap on the floor. Then I climb into bed beside him and pull his frozen body against mine.

The cold is shocking. He’s like a block of ice pressed against my chest, stealing my warmth with desperate efficiency. I wrap my arms around him and hold him close, trying to share as much body heat as possible. My legs tangle with his, my chest presses against his back, my breath ghosts across the nape of his neck.

“Stay with me,” I murmur against his hair. “Don’t you dare die. Not now. Not after everything.”

He shivers violently in my arms, and I pull him closer. His back against my chest. His frozen feet tucked between my calves. Every point of contact a transfer of heat from my body to his.

It takes a long time. Minutes that feel like hours. But gradually, incrementally, I feel the shaking begin to ease. Feel his skin start to lose that deathly chill. Feel his breathing deepen from shallow gasps to something closer to normal.

He’s not out of danger yet. But he’s alive. He’s going to stay alive.