Page 47 of The Wrong Man

“I used to do this at the bakery,” he says between bites. “Save the best bits for the end. Sean always teased me about it. Said I ate like a five-year-old.”

Sean. His assistant. Someone from his real life, his actual life, the one I tore him away from.

“Tell me about the bakery,” I say, surprising myself again.

Dylan looks up, searching my face for something. I don’t know what he finds there, but after a moment he starts to talk.

“It’s small. Just a little shopfront in Borough Market with a kitchen in the back. I bought it three years ago with money Aunt Moira had been saving for me. She said it was my inheritance, that she wanted me to have it while she was still alive to see me use it.”

His voice softens when he mentions his aunt. The affection there is unmistakable.

“What do you make?” I ask. “What’s your specialty?”

“Traditional Irish bakes, mostly. Soda bread, barmbrack, porter cake. But I do modern things too. Sourdough. Fancy pastries. Wedding cakes, sometimes.” A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “Mrs. Murphy was supposed to pick up her anniversary cake the day after you... after I...”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and the words feel inadequate. Pathetic. What good is sorry in the face of everything I’ve done?

“I know.” Dylan sets down his spoon and looks at me. “I believe you, actually. Which is strange. I shouldn’t believe anything you say.”

“No. You shouldn’t.”

“But I do.” He tilts his head, studying me with those clear hazel eyes. “You’re not what I expected. When I first woke up in that room, I thought... I thought you were cruel. Sadistic. That you would enjoy hurting me.”

I think about the studio downstairs. The tools. The chair. All the things I’ve done in that room over the years.

“I am cruel,” I say quietly. “I have been sadistic. There are people who would tell you I enjoyed every moment of their suffering.”

“But you didn’t enjoy mine.”

It’s not a question. He says it like a fact, like something he’s worked out on his own.

“No,” I admit. “I didn’t.”

The silence that follows is different from the silences we’ve shared before. Less tense. More thoughtful. Dylan picks up his spoon again and takes another bite of porridge.

“This is good,” he says. “The raisins were a nice touch.”

“I found them in the back of the cupboard. I don’t even remember buying them.”

“You should get more. And maybe some fresh fruit. Bananas would be good. And apples.” He pauses, then adds almost shyly, “I could make you a list. If you want.”

He’s offering to help. Planning for a future here, in this flat, with me. Like he’s accepted that this is where he lives now.

The thought should trouble me. Should remind me of the wrongness of this situation, the coercion inherent in every interaction we have.

Instead, it makes that strange warmth bloom in my chest again.

“I would like that,” I say. “A list would be helpful.”

Dylan nods and returns to his breakfast. I watch him eat, this man I broke and am trying to put back together. And I think about what it felt like to come home last night. The knowledge that someone was waiting on the other side of the door.

I’ve spent so many years alone. I told myself it was necessary, that isolation was the price of what I do. That connections were liabilities, that caring about anyone was a weakness that would eventually be exploited. Or nothing more than a falsehood built on lies because who would want to be near me if they knew my profession?

But sitting here now, watching Dylan eat raisins one by one, I wonder if I was wrong. If the isolation wasn’t protection but punishment. A prison of my own making, no less confining for being invisible.

Dylan finishes his porridge and sets the bowl aside. He looks better already, colour in his cheeks, clarity in his eyes. The human body’s capacity for healing never ceases to amaze me.