Page 41 of The Wrong Man

I think about Dylan.

I think about the way he looked at me this morning, fear and confusion and something else warring in his pretty eyes. I think about how he said thank you like he meant it. I think about when will you be home, and how those five words made me feel things I have no right to feel.

He’s my prisoner. My victim. My responsibility.

But he’s also the first person in years who has looked at me and truly seen everything that I am. The first person who has made me want to be something other than what I am.

It’s dangerous. Foolish. A complication I don’t need in an already complicated situation.

I should be thinking about how to keep him quiet. How to ensure he never tells anyone what happened, what he witnessed, what he knows. I should be thinking about exit strategies and contingency plans.

Instead, I’m thinking about how to make him comfortable. How to make him feel safe. How to earn back even a fraction of the light I destroyed.

I pick up the phone and start making calls.

The first is to a contact who specializes in construction. I explain what I need, emphasizing discretion and speed. He quotes me a price that would make most people flinch. I agree without negotiation.

The second call is to Nicolo. I tell him I need an alternative location for tonight. He doesn’t ask why, just gives me an address and a time.

Dylan won’t be inflicted with hearing my work. Not tonight. Not ever again.

It’s not enough. It will never be enough.

But it’s something. A small step toward becoming whatever I need to become to deserve his gratitude.

Whatever I need to become to be worthy of keeping him.

The thought should horrify me. Instead, it settles into my chest like a weight I’m learning to carry.

I’m going to keep him. Not as a prisoner, not as a victim, but as... something else. Something I don’t have a name for yet.

And I’m going to do whatever it takes to make that something else worth having. For both of us.

Chapter thirteen

Dylan

Dante’s lair is different when I’m alone in it.

Bigger somehow. Emptier. The silence has a weight to it that presses against my skin and makes me hyperaware of every small sound. The hum of something mechanical. The tick of a clock I can’t see. The soft whisper of my own breathing.

Dante left three hours ago. Maybe four. I’ve lost track of time, which seems to be a recurring theme in my captivity. He showed me how to use the remote before he went, demonstrating the buttons with careful patience, like he was teaching a child. Then he checked that I had water on the nightstand, that my medication was within reach, that the lamp was positioned where I could turn it on and off easily.

He fussed. That’s the only word for it. A torturer fussed over me like a worried mother before leaving for the evening.

And now I’m lying in his bed, watching a rerun of The Great British Bake Off, trying very hard not to think about what he’s doing right now.

It’s not working.

Every few minutes my mind drifts. I wonder if the person in his chair is screaming yet. I wonder if Dante is using the pliers, the ones he raised toward me that first night before I fainted like a pathetic fool.

I turn up the volume on the television. Paul Hollywood is saying something cutting about an underbaked bottom, and Mary Berry is trying to soften the blow with her gentle grandmother energy. It should be comforting. This used to be my favorite way to unwind after a long day at the bakery.

Now the familiar voices just make me homesick.

I think about Sean and Teagan. They must be frantic by now. I’ve been gone for so long. Have they called the police? Have they told Aunt Moira? The thought of her worrying about me, not knowing if I’m alive or dead, makes my chest ache so badly I have to press my hand against it.

She’s probably not sleeping. She’s probably pacing the floors of her little house in Peckham, clutching her rosary beads and praying for my safe return. She’s probably called everyone she knows, begged them for information, cried herself hoarse.