Page 22 of The Wrong Man

“Are you going to let me go?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

He shakes his head again, and this time he looks away. His gaze drops to the floor, then shifts to the wall, anywhere but at me.

“I’ve seen too much,” I say flatly, surprised by how steady my voice sounds when everything inside me is crumbling. “I know too much.”

Something shifts in his expression as his eyes snap back to mine. Surprise, maybe. That I understand the rules of this world he lives in.

But I’m not as naïve as all that. I walked away from the world of organized crime when I was sixteen, but I was still born into it. I know how it works. I know I’ve seen too much. Know too much. Men like Dante don’t leave loose ends.

“Yes,” he says after a moment, his voice low.

“So what happens now? You keep me here until... until what?”

“I don’t know.” The admission seems to cost him something. He rubs the back of his neck, a gesture that seems almost boyish on such a dangerous man. “I’m figuring it out.”

“Figuring out how to kill me?” The words taste bitter on my tongue.

“No.” The word comes out sharp. Fierce. He takes half a step toward me, then seems to think better of it and stops himself. “I’m not going to kill you.”

I laugh. It’s an ugly sound, cracked and broken, and it scrapes against my raw throat. “Why not? You’ve done everything else.”

He flinches. Actually flinches, like my words are physical blows. His eyes squeeze shut for just a moment, and when they open again, there’s something raw and wounded in them.

“I know,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I know what I’ve done.”

“Do you? Do you really?” The words are pouring out now, propelled by something darker than fear. I sit up straighter against the headboard, the blankets clutched to my chest like armor. “Because I don’t think you do. I don’t think you have any idea what it’s like to be locked in the dark for hours, wondering if you’re going to die there. You have no idea what it’s like to feel every last sliver of warmth leave your body. I don’t think you know what it’s like to watch someone be... to watch what you did... while they scream your brother’s name and beg you to save them.”

My voice breaks on the last word, and I have to press my hand over my mouth to hold back the sob that wants to escape.

“I couldn’t save him,” I whisper through my fingers. “He thought I was Declan and I couldn’t save him and now all I can hear is him screaming.” I suck in a shuddering breath. “It’s all I’m going to hear for the rest of my days.”

My torturer says nothing. Just stands there, frozen, with an expression I can’t read. His hands hang loose at his sides, and there’s a tension in his shoulders that makes him look almost as trapped as I feel.

“His name was Vinnie,” I continue, lowering my hand from my mouth. I don’t know why I’m still talking. The words just keep coming, like a dam has broken somewhere inside me. “He had children. He told you that. He begged you, for his children, and you just...”

I can’t finish. The memory rises up, vivid and terrible, and I have to close my eyes against it.

“I know,” he says again. His voice is rough. Wrong. Like it’s been scraped over gravel.

“You know.” I open my eyes and stare at him, something hot and bitter rising in my chest. “That’s all you can say? You know?”

“What do you want me to say?” There’s something raw in his voice now, something that sounds almost like pain. He spreads his hands in a gesture of helplessness that looks foreign on him. “That I’m sorry I made you watch that? That I wish I could take it back? Words don’t mean anything. Words can’t fix what I’ve done.”

“Nothing can fix what you’ve done.” I hold his gaze, refusing to look away even though everything in me wants to hide.

“I know that too.” His voice is barely audible now, and he’s the one who looks away first. His eyes drop to the floor, and for a long moment neither of us speaks. The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating.

Suddenly he moves, and my body reacts before my mind can catch up. I flinch so violently that my head cracks against the headboard, a burst of pain blooming across my skull.

He freezes instantly, his hand hovering in mid-air. His eyes find mine, and he watches me with dark, too-knowing eyes. Like he can hear just how fast my heart is beating. Like he can see exactly how broken I am.

My gaze flicks down to the floor, to where he was reaching for, and I see his clothes crumpled in a pile.

Shame burns through me. He was reaching for his clothes and I reacted as if he was doing something terrible.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says softly, straightening up slowly, leaving his clothes where they are. “I know you don’t believe that. I know I haven’t given you any reason to believe that. But I’m not going to hurt you anymore.”

I don’t respond. Can’t respond. My throat has closed up completely, and I can feel myself trembling, fine vibrations running through my whole body that I can’t seem to stop.