Page 23 of The Wrong Man

He gestures carefully toward a door I hadn’t noticed before, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. “There’s a bathroom through there. Clean towels, soap, everything you need. I’ll find you some clothes.”

I still don’t respond. My fingers are aching from how tightly I’m gripping the blankets, but I can’t seem to make myself let go.

“I’ll make you something to eat,” he says, his voice gentle in a way that feels wrong coming from him. “You need to eat. You haven’t had anything in days.”

Days. I’ve been here for days. The thought makes my head spin, and I have to close my eyes against the sudden wave of dizziness.

When I open them again, he has gathered his clothes. He cradles them against his chest and takes a step toward the door, then pauses. He turns back to look at me, and there’s something in his eyes that I can’t identify. Something that looks almost like regret.

“For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “I am sorry. I know that doesn’t help. I know it doesn’t change anything. But I am.”

He waits, as if he’s expecting me to respond. To accept his apology or reject it or scream at him or something. But I have nothing left. No anger. No fear. No hope. Just a vast, echoing emptiness where all those things used to be.

When it becomes clear I’m not going to speak, he nods once. A small, defeated gesture. His shoulders slump slightly as he turns away.

“I’ll be back with food,” he says.

And then he’s gone, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

I stare at the door for a long moment, listening to his footsteps fade away. The silence that follows is deafening.

And then I burst into tears.

Chapter eight

Dante

I’m standing in my kitchen and staring at the contents of my refrigerator like they hold the answers to questions I don’t know how to ask.

What do you feed someone you’ve been torturing for days? What’s the appropriate breakfast for a man you nearly killed through hypothermia?

A man who moments ago assumed you were about to rape him.

And that just might be worse than everything else I have done to him. I hate I put him through that particular kind of dread. I hate he thought that of me, even if just for a moment. But what else was he going to think, waking up naked in my bed, with me pressed up close to him.

I should have thought about how it would look. But what choice did I have? I needed to warm him up, and fast.

Now it’s just another thing on the long list of atrocities I need to make amends for.

My heavy sigh echoes in the empty kitchen. I guess my redemption arc begins with breakfast. But what do I make him? Is there an etiquette for this situation that I somehow missed during my upbringing?

The refrigerator stares back at me, offering no wisdom. Just a carton of eggs, a block of cheese that’s seen better days, some wilting lettuce, and a bottle of orange juice. The shelves are mostly empty, the lighting harsh and unforgiving.

I am, I realize with a wry twist of my lips, the walking stereotype of a bachelor. A man who eats takeaway more often than not, who views his kitchen as a place to store whiskey rather than prepare meals. I can’t remember the last time I cooked for anyone. I can’t remember the last time I wanted to.

Scrambled eggs on toast it is, then. It’s pretty much all I have, and at least I know I can make them without poisoning anyone. That would be an ironic end to this disaster. Survive the torture, survive the hypothermia, survive the terror of thinking you were about to be sexually assaulted, then die from food poisoning.

I pull out the eggs and set them on the counter, then rummage through my cabinets for a pan. The motions are automatic, muscle memory from a thousand solitary mornings. Crack the eggs, whisk them together, add a splash of milk. Heat the pan, drop in some butter, watch it sizzle and melt.

As I cook, my mind drifts back to the bedroom. To Dylan, huddled against the headboard with blankets clutched to his chest like a shield. To the way he flinched when I moved too quickly. To the raw, broken sound of his voice when he talked about Vinnie.

The guilt hits me like a physical blow, so strong I have to grip the edge of the counter to stay upright.

I did that to him. I broke him. I took a sweet, innocent man who bakes cakes and makes anniversary presents for old ladies, and I shattered him into pieces that may never fit back together.

The eggs are starting to set. I push them around the pan with a spatula, watching the yellow curds form without really seeing them. My mind is elsewhere, trapped in a loop of self-recrimination that I can’t seem to escape.

And underneath the guilt, something else. Something I hate myself for even more.