Page 42 of The Wrong Man

And I’m lying here watching baking shows in a murderer’s bed.

The absurdity of it hits me like a slap. What am I doing? Why am I just lying here, passive and compliant, waiting for Dante to come home like some sort of kept pet?

I should be trying to escape.

The thought crystallizes in my mind with sudden clarity. I’ve been so ill, so weak, so focused on simply surviving from one moment to the next that I haven’t even considered it. But Dante is gone. He’ll be gone for hours, he said so himself. This might be my only chance.

My heart starts to pound. Can I even walk? The last time I tried to move any significant distance was the bath, and Dante had to carry me. But that was… however long ago. At least a day, maybe more, I’m sure. The point is, I’m stronger now. I must be stronger now.

There’s only one way to find out.

I push myself upright, and the room tilts alarmingly for a moment before settling. Okay. Sitting up is fine. Sitting up, I can manage.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and the cool air hits my bare feet. The sweatpants I’m wearing are still far too big, pooling around my ankles. I’ll have to be careful not to trip on them.

Standing is harder. My legs shake beneath me, muscles that haven’t been properly used in days protesting the sudden demand. I grip the nightstand for support, knocking the remote to the floor with a clatter that makes me flinch.

For a long moment I just stand there, breathing hard, waiting for the dizziness to pass. On the television, someone’s showstopper has collapsed and they’re trying not to cry. I know the feeling.

One step. Then another. My hand trails along the wall for balance, but I’m moving. Actually moving under my own power for the first time since this nightmare began.

The bedroom curtains catch my attention. Heavy velvet things in a dark burgundy color. I realize I’ve never seen them open. Not once in all the time I’ve been here. Dante always keeps them closed, keeps the room dim and cocoonlike.

I should check. I should see what’s on the other side.

It takes me longer than it should to cross the room. By the time I reach the window, I’m breathing like I’ve run a marathon. Pathetic. But I grab the edge of the curtain anyway and pull it back.

The window behind it is small. Smaller than I expected. And on the other side of the glass is a metal shutter, the kind you see on industrial buildings and storage units.

My heart sinks.

I press my face closer, peering through the gaps in the shutter. Beyond it, I can see concrete. Gray, featureless concrete, and the edge of what looks like a car park. Empty and barely lit.

There is a long strip of single-story buildings, clad in some kind of corrugated metal. The neat row interspersed with large doors of loading bays.

This is an industrial estate. He lives in a building on an industrial trading estate. His whole place is designed to look like just another small warehouse, storage facility or workshop from the outside. No one would ever know there’s an apartment hidden inside. No one would ever know there’s a torture chamber on the other side of these walls.

It’s clever. Horribly, terrifyingly clever.

I let the curtain fall back into place and lean against the wall, trying to catch my breath. The exits will be locked. I know they will. A man like Dante wouldn’t leave anything to chance. He wouldn’t leave me here alone if there was any possibility I could simply walk out.

But I have to check. I have to try. Because if I don’t, if I just lie in that bed and accept my fate without even attempting to fight, I’ll never forgive myself.

My eyes flick to one of the doors that lead out of this room. I’m pretty sure it’s the bathroom, but it’s the closest so I’ll check.

I slowly make my way over to it. Then I take a deep, rattly breath and open the door with an absurd amount of trepidation.

It is the bathroom. I recognize the white tiles, the deep tub where Dante bathed me with such unexpected gentleness. I keep moving.

I fling open the second door in an act of angry defiance.

The hallway stretches out before me, dim and unfamiliar. The walls are bare. No pictures, no decoration of any kind. Just plain white paint and closed doors leading to unknown rooms. It feels less like a home and more like a stage set. A facade of normality covering something dark underneath.

I keep one hand on the wall as I walk, shuffling forward in my too-big sweatpants. My legs are trembling with the effort, but I push through it. One foot in front of the other. That’s all I have to do.

The next door opens into what must be the living room.

I stop in the doorway and stare.