Page 25 of The Wrong Man

But it also feels right, somehow. Like I’m lowering myself to his level. Like I’m trying to be less threatening, even though we both know what I’m capable of.

“I’m not a serial killer,” I say, and the words surprise me as much as they probably surprise him. I hadn’t planned to speak. Hadn’t planned to say any of this. But something about sitting here, separated by a door from a man I’ve wronged so terribly, makes the words come spilling out.

“I know that probably doesn’t mean much to you right now. But it’s true. What I do... it’s a job. Just a job. I’m good at it. I take a certain professional pride in being good at it. But I don’t enjoy it. Not the way some people think.”

I pause, listening. No response from the other side of the door, but I can hear the faint clink of a fork against a plate. He’s eating. Good. That’s good.

“Everyone is scared of me,” I continue, and I don’t know why I’m still talking. These are secrets I’ve never told anyone. Truths I’ve barely admitted to myself. But sitting here in the quiet of my bedroom, speaking to a closed door, it feels safe somehow. Like confessing to a priest through a screen.

“Even the small handful of friends I have. I can see it in their eyes when they look at me. They respect me. They trust me, to a point. But they’re also terrified of what I could do to them if I wanted to.”

I tip my head back against the wall and stare at the ceiling. There’s a small crack in the plaster that I’ve been meaning to fix for months. Somehow, I never get around to it.

“It’s a lonely profession,” I say quietly. “Lonelier than I ever expected when I started. But I didn’t know what else to do. This is what I’m good at. This is all I’m good at.”

More silence. More clinking of fork against plate. I take a strange comfort in the sound. It means he’s still there. Still alive. Still eating the pathetic breakfast I made him.

“In all my years of doing this,” I say, and my voice catches slightly on the words, “I’ve never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. Until you.”

The clinking stops.

I close my eyes and press on, even though every word feels like pulling teeth.

“I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t mean anything. I know words can’t fix what I did. But I’m going to make it up to you. Somehow. I don’t know how yet, but I will.”

The silence stretches out, thick and heavy. I strain my ears for any sound from the bathroom, any indication of what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. But there’s nothing. Just the quiet hum of the ventilation system and the distant sounds of traffic from outside.

I should stop talking. I should leave him alone, give him space, stop forcing my presence on him when he clearly wants nothing to do with me.

But I can’t seem to shut up.

“This place could be nice,” I say, and I’m not sure where the words are coming from. “I know it doesn’t look like much. An industrial unit on a trading estate isn’t exactly homey. But the space is good. I’ve just never bothered to do anything with it.”

I look around the bedroom, seeing it through fresh eyes. The bare walls. The functional furniture. The complete absence of anything personal or warm.

“I never had a reason to make it nice,” I continue softly. “Never had anyone to make it nice for. But now...”

I trail off, lost in a fantasy so absurd I can barely believe my own mind is conjuring it. Dylan, smiling at me across a dinner table. Dylan, curled up on a comfortable and pretty sofa that doesn’t exist yet, reading a book while I sit nearby. Dylan, turning this cold, sterile space into something that actually feels like a home.

Dylan, looking at me with something other than terror in those beautiful hazel eyes.

I shake my head sharply, horrified at myself. What the fuck am I doing? What the fuck am I thinking? The man is my prisoner, my victim, someone I tortured and traumatized and nearly killed. And I’m sitting here daydreaming about domestic bliss like some lovestruck teenager.

There’s something seriously wrong with me.

“You’re going to keep me as a pet?”

The whisper is so soft I almost miss it. Dylan’s voice, thin and reedy, filtering through the crack under the bathroom door.

I blink, caught off guard by the question. A pet. Is that what this is? Is that what I’m proposing?

The thought of having someone around, someone who already knows everything I am and everything I’ve done, settles into my chest with unexpected weight. I didn’t realize how lonely I was until this moment. Didn’t realize how desperately I craved connection, companionship, the simple presence of another human being in my empty life.

“I guess,” I answer, and my voice comes out gruffer than I intended. I’ve never been good with people. Never been good at being nice to them, at saying the right things, at making them feel comfortable. I haven’t had the practice.

A small sound comes from behind the door. A whimper, maybe. Or a sob. The sound of someone whose last hope has just been extinguished.

My heart cracks down the middle.