Page 58 of The Wrong Man

I don’t shift. Obviously. That would be too much. Too obvious. Even for my fumbling attempts at manipulation.

“I need a cutter,” I say, breaking the silence. “Or a glass. Something round.”

Dante turns and opens a cupboard, producing a drinking glass. Our fingers brush when he hands it to me, and I absolutely do not feel a small jolt of electricity at the contact. That would be absurd. That would be my body betraying my very sensible brain.

“Press straight down,” I instruct, demonstrating. “Don’t twist until you’re all the way through. Twisting seals the edges and stops them from rising properly.”

I cut out one scone, then another. Golden circles of dough, each one hopefully destined to become light and fluffy and delicious.

“Can I try?”

I look up at him. He’s watching the dough with an expression that seems almost nervous. As if he’s worried about getting it wrong. As if my opinion matters to him.

The thought should make me feel triumphant. Instead, it just makes me feel slightly queasy.

“Wash your hands first,” I say, stepping aside to make room.

He moves to the sink and scrubs his hands with intense thoroughness. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, trying not to think about what those hands have done. What they’re capable of. How gentle they were when he washed my hair.

Focus, Dylan. Scones. You’re making scones.

Dante returns and picks up the glass with careful precision. He positions it over the dough like he’s defusing a bomb, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Straight down?” he confirms.

“Straight down. Firm pressure. Then twist.”

He presses. The glass sinks through the dough. He twists, lifts, and produces a scone that’s only slightly misshapen.

The look of pride on his face is completely disproportionate to the achievement. It’s like watching a child show off a finger painting. This man who has done unspeakable things, looking delighted because he cut a circle out of dough.

It’s absurd. It’s ridiculous.

It’s also, against all reason, slightly adorable.

No. Not adorable. Murderers are not adorable. I am not finding my captor adorable. That would be Stockholm syndrome, and I am absolutely not developing Stockholm syndrome. I have a plan. I am in control.

I’m in control.

I’m definitely in control.

“That’s good,” I say, and my voice only wobbles a little. “Try another one.”

We work together for the next few minutes, taking turns with the glass. Dante’s technique improves with each attempt. By the time we’ve cut all the scones, his circles are almost as neat as mine.

“This one’s smaller,” he says, frowning at the final scone made from re-rolled scraps.

“It’s the runt of the litter. Every batch has one.”

“It looks lonely.”

I stare at him. He’s gazing at the misshapen scone with what appears to be genuine concern. For a piece of dough. A piece of dough that’s about to go in the oven and be eaten.

“It’s a scone,” I say slowly. “It doesn’t have feelings.”

“I know that.” But he’s still frowning at it. “Can I have that one? When they’re done?”

“You can have whichever one you want. You bought all the ingredients.”