Page 44 of The Wrong Man

I don’t know how much time passes before I hear it. The sound of a lock turning. Heavy and metallic and unmistakable.

My whole body goes rigid.

Footsteps. Measured and deliberate, moving through the flat. I track them with my ears, mapping his progress. The front door closing. The hallway. A pause, probably at the living room. Then closer, closer, until they stop outside the bedroom.

The door opens.

Dante stands in the doorway, a dark silhouette backlit by the hall light. He looks tired. Shoulders slightly bowed, movements slower than usual. He’s wearing different clothes than when he left. Dark trousers and a gray sweater instead of the all-black ensemble he departed in.

My eyes dart to his hands before I can stop myself.

Clean. No blood. No visible evidence of what he’s been doing for the past several hours.

Because he changed. Because he showered and put on fresh clothes and hid all the evidence before coming home to me.

My stomach lurches.

“You’re still awake,” he says quietly.

I shrug. The gesture feels stiff, unnatural. My body is still thrumming with residual panic, muscles locked tight and unwilling to relax.

We stare at each other across the dim room. The television casts flickering light across the walls, someone explaining the importance of the perfect crust. It feels surreal. All of it feels surreal.

Dante looks exhausted. Not just tired, but bone-deep weary in a way I haven’t seen before. There are shadows under his eyes, a tightness around his mouth. I find myself wondering when he last slept properly. Every time I surfaced from my fever dreams, every time I opened my eyes in the night, he was there. Sitting in that chair by the bed. Watching over me.

Has he slept at all since I’ve been here?

“Do you need anything?” he asks.

I shake my head.

Another long moment of silence. He seems to be waiting for something, though I don’t know what. Finally he nods, just once, and takes a step back.

“Goodnight then.”

He pulls the door mostly closed behind him, leaving just a crack. I hear his footsteps retreat down the hall. Hear him moving around in the living room, the creak of that ancient sofa as he settles onto it.

He’s going to sleep on that horrible couch. Because I’m in his bed.

The realization sits uncomfortably in my chest. He gave me his bed. His only bed, apparently, in this sad excuse for a home. He’s been sitting in a chair watching me for days, and now he’s going to fold himself onto a sofa that’s probably older than both of us combined.

I feel bad.

The emotion catches me off guard, and I immediately feel stupid for feeling it. This is the man who tortured me. The man who made me watch while he killed someone. The man who is keeping me prisoner in his flat with no intention of ever letting me go.

Why should I feel bad that he’s sleeping on an uncomfortable couch? He deserves far worse than that. He deserves to sleep on a bed of nails. He deserves to never sleep again.

But the feeling persists, lodged somewhere behind my ribs like a splinter I can’t dig out.

I try to get comfortable. Punch the pillow into a better shape. Adjust the blankets.

I keep seeing that room. The chair. The tools. The stains on the concrete floor.

I keep seeing Dante in the doorway, wearing his clean clothes and his tired eyes and asking if I need anything.

I’m a mess. A complete and utter mess.

I’m sure I won’t be able to sleep. How can anyone sleep with all this chaos churning inside them? How can anyone rest when they’re imprisoned by a monster?