Page 24 of The Wrong Man

I enjoyed holding him.

The thought makes me feel sick, but I can’t deny it. When I climbed into that bed to warm him up, when I pulled his frozen body against mine and wrapped my arms around him, something inside me settled into place. Like a key turning in a lock. Like coming home after a long journey.

He fitted into my arms so perfectly. Small and slight, and warm once the hypothermia started to fade. His hair smelled good. His breathing evened out against my chest, and for a few hours, I wasn’t alone.

It’s been so long since I held anyone. So long since I allowed myself that kind of vulnerability. In my line of work, intimacy is a liability. Connections can be exploited, loved ones can be threatened. It’s safer to be alone. Easier.

But God, I didn’t realize how much I missed it until I had Dylan in my arms.

The eggs are done. I slide them onto a plate and pop two slices of bread into the toaster. While I wait, I pour a large glass of orange juice, making sure it’s cold and fresh. He needs fluids. He needs vitamins. He needs so many things I don’t know how to give him.

The toast pops up, golden brown. I butter it quickly and arrange everything on a tray. It looks pathetic, really. A sad little breakfast for a broken man, prepared by the monster who broke him.

But it’s something. It’s a start.

I head to the laundry room next, searching through the clean clothes I haven’t bothered to put away. Most of my wardrobe is dark and practical. Black shirts, black trousers, the occasional gray sweater. Not exactly cheerful.

I find a soft cotton t-shirt that’s faded from too many washes and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring waist. They’ll be too big for him, but at least they’re comfortable. At least they’re clean.

I add them to the tray and make my way back to the bedroom, my footsteps heavy on the stairs. Each step feels like walking toward a judgment I know I deserve but am not ready to face.

The bedroom door is still closed. I push it open with my elbow, the tray balanced carefully in my hands.

The bed is empty.

My heart stutters to a stop. Has he escaped? Has he somehow found a way out while I was playing house in the kitchen? Has he gone to the police, and armed officers are surrounding the building right now, and everything is about to come crashing down?

Then I notice the bathroom door. Closed. Locked, probably.

Relief washes over me, but it tastes bitter.

He’s hiding from me. Of course he is. Why would he want to stay anywhere near me?

I approach the bathroom door slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements even though he can’t see me. The tray feels heavy in my hands, weighted with more than just eggs and toast.

I set it down on the floor, right in front of the door. The clothes go on the side, folded as neatly as I can manage. Then I back away, putting as much distance between myself and the door as the room allows.

“Dylan.” I keep my voice soft. Gentle. The voice I use for frightened animals and traumatized witnesses, though I’ve had precious little practice with either. “I’ve left some clothes and breakfast by the door. Scrambled eggs and toast. Orange juice. It’s not much, but it’s what I have.”

Silence from the other side of the door. I can picture him in there, pressed against the far wall, heart racing, wondering what fresh hell I’m about to unleash.

“I’m going to stay over here,” I continue, gesturing uselessly toward the far side of the room even though he can’t see me. “On the other side of the bedroom. You can open the door and take them whenever you’re ready. I won’t come any closer.”

More silence. Then, after what feels like an eternity, the soft click of a lock disengaging.

The door opens a crack. Just a sliver, barely wide enough for a hand to fit through. A pale, freckled arm emerges, fingers grasping blindly until they find the fabric of the clothes. The arm retreats, pulling the bundle through the gap.

A moment later, the arm reappears. This time it grabs the tray, nearly overbalancing it in the process. I take an involuntary step forward, then freeze when I hear a sharp intake of breath from behind the door.

“I’m not moving,” I say quickly. “I’m staying right here.”

The arm steadies the tray and pulls it through the gap. The door slams shut. The lock clicks back into place.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

For a long moment, I just stand here, staring at the closed door. Then, slowly, I move closer. Not close enough to threaten, but close enough to be heard without raising my voice.

I lean against the wall beside the door and slide down until I’m sitting on the floor. The position feels strange, vulnerable in a way I’m not used to. I’m always standing, always ready, always on guard. Sitting on the floor like a child feels almost obscene.