Page 38 of The Wrong Man

“Morning,” I say quietly.

“Morning.” His voice is still rough from sleep, but it’s stronger than yesterday. Stronger than the day before. He’s healing. Slowly, but he’s healing.

“I made porridge. With honey.”

He pushes himself up against the pillows, and I notice he doesn’t need as much help as he did yesterday. Progress. Small and incremental, but real.

“Thank you.” He accepts the bowl when I hand it to him, and this time our fingers brush without him jerking away. More progress.

I watch him eat, taking small careful bites, and my decision becomes easy. Now all I have to do is try to figure out how to say what I need to say.

“I have to go out.”

The words drop into the quiet morning like stones into still water. Dylan’s spoon pauses halfway to his mouth.

“Out?”

“For work.” I keep my voice neutral. Steady. “I’ll be gone for several hours. Maybe longer.”

He doesn’t ask what kind of work. He already knows. I can see it in the way his face goes pale, the way his hand tightens around the spoon.

“Oh,” he says. Just that. Just oh.

The silence stretches between us. I should leave it there. Should let him draw his own conclusions and spare us both the discomfort of speaking them aloud.

But something compels me to explain. To justify myself to this man who has every reason to hate me.

“It’s not something I can refuse. When Dario calls, I have to answer. That’s how this life works.”

Dylan nods slowly. He’s not looking at me anymore. His eyes are fixed on the porridge in his bowl, but I don’t think he’s seeing it.

“And I’ll be here,” he says. “Alone.”

“Yes.”

“While you’re...” He stops. Swallows hard. “While you’re doing what you do.”

I don’t confirm it. I don’t have to.

“I’ve been thinking,” I say, and this part is harder to get out. This part requires admitting things I’m not sure I’m ready to admit. “About the layout of this building. The studio is just down the hall. The soundproofing isn’t complete. If someone were to...” I trail off, unable to finish the sentence.

Dylan has gone very still.

“You mean I might hear,” he whispers.

“Yes.”

The word hangs in the air between us. I can see him processing it, imagining it. The muffled sounds of suffering ricocheting down the hallway. The screams. The pleading. All the terrible sounds that are as familiar to me as breathing.

“I don’t want that,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended. “I don’t want you to hear any of it. Not ever again.”

He looks at me then. Really looks at me, with those hazel eyes that see too much and forgive too little.

“Why?” The question is barely a breath.

Because it would hurt you. Because you’ve already been hurt enough. Because the thought of adding even one more nightmare to the ones you already carry makes me want to tear my own heart out.

“Because you don’t deserve it,” I say instead. It’s a fraction of the truth, but it’s all I can manage.