Page 26 of The Wrong Man

I want to break down the door. I want to gather him in my arms and promise him that everything will be okay. I want to fix this, fix him, fix the unfixable mess I’ve made of both our lives.

But I can’t. I can’t do any of those things. All I can do is sit here on the cold floor outside a bathroom door and listen to the sound of a broken man trying not to cry.

The situation is fucked. Completely, irreparably fucked. There’s no good outcome here, no happy ending waiting around the corner. I’ve destroyed something precious, and no amount of scrambled eggs or soft words is going to put it back together.

But I’m going to try anyway.

Dylan is going to be as comfortable as I can make him. He’s going to have good food and clean clothes and a warm bed. He’s going to have books to read and things to do and whatever else he needs to make this bearable.

And I’m not going to be alone anymore.

Chapter nine

Dylan

The bathroom floor is cold and hard beneath me, and I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been sitting here.

Hours, probably. Maybe longer. Time has become slippery and strange, measured only by the ache in my bones and the growing chill that seems to have settled permanently into my marrow.

I’m wearing his clothes. The thought makes my skin crawl, but it’s better than being naked. The t-shirt hangs off my shoulders like a tent, the neckline slipping down to expose my collarbone. The sweatpants are cinched as tight as the drawstring will allow, and they still threaten to slide off my hips every time I move.

I finished the food hours ago. Forced myself to eat every bite, even though my stomach rebelled with each swallow. I need to keep my strength up. I need to stay alert. I need to be ready for whatever comes next.

The empty plate sits beside me on the tiles, the fork resting across it at an angle. The glass that held orange juice is empty too, a thin film of pulp clinging to the inside. Evidence of a meal I barely tasted, consumed out of necessity rather than hunger.

Everything is silent now.

I press my ear against the door for what must be the hundredth time, straining to hear any sound from the bedroom beyond. Nothing. No footsteps, no breathing, no rustle of movement. He said he was leaving, and it seems he was true to his word.

I was planning on staying in here for as long as possible. At least until he kicked the flimsy door down and dragged me out. I know this illusion of safety is just that, an illusion. The lock on this door wouldn’t hold against a determined shove, let alone a man of his size and strength. But it’s the only small comfort I can find in this nightmare, and I’ve been clinging to it like a lifeline.

Now, though, something is wrong.

My body aches in ways that have nothing to do with sleeping on hard floors or being tied to chairs. There’s a heaviness in my chest, a tightness that makes each breath feel like I’m pulling air through wet cotton. My head is pounding, a dull throb behind my eyes that spikes into sharp pain whenever I move too quickly.

And I’m cold. So cold, despite the clothes, despite the fact that I swear the bathroom isn’t actually that chilly. The shivering started about an hour ago and hasn’t stopped since, fine tremors running through my muscles that I can’t seem to control.

I think I might be sick. Really, properly sick.

The thought should frighten me, but I’m too exhausted to feel much of anything except miserable. My eyelids keep drooping, my head nodding forward before I jerk myself awake. Every muscle in my body is screaming for rest, for warmth, for the soft embrace of a proper bed.

The bed.

The thought rises unbidden, seductive and dangerous. That big, soft bed I woke up in this morning. The expensive sheets, the heavy blankets, the pillows that cradled my head like clouds. It’s right there, just on the other side of this door. Warm and inviting and infinitely more comfortable than this cold tile floor.

I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. The bed belongs to him, to the monster who broke me. Climbing into it feels like surrender, like acceptance, like admitting that I’ve given up on ever escaping this place.

But Sweet Jesus, I feel awful. My chest rattles with every breath, and the shivering is getting worse, and I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open.

I press my ear to the door one more time, listening with every fiber of my being. Still nothing. Still silent. He’s gone, at least for now.

Maybe I could get into the bed for just a little while. Maybe just long enough to get warm and rest my eyes. I can always retreat back to the bathroom if I hear him coming.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach up and turn the lock. The click sounds impossibly loud in the silence, and I freeze, heart hammering, waiting for the door to burst open and strong hands to grab me.

Nothing happens.

I ease the door open, just a crack at first, peering through the gap like a frightened animal checking for predators. The bedroom is empty. The lights are dim, just a soft glow from a lamp on the nightstand. And the bed, oh the bed, it looks like heaven. The covers have been straightened since this morning, the pillows fluffed and arranged invitingly against the headboard.