Page 5 of The Wrong Man

“I was at the bakery,” I begin, my voice shaking slightly. “Tuesday is always quiet, and Sean and Teagan can cope with serving customers, so I spent most of the day working on Mrs. Murphy’s anniversary cake. She wanted three tiers with sugar flowers, and the roses were giving me trouble. I must have redone them six times before I got them right.”

He leans back in his chair, watching me with those dark eyes that seem to see everything. “Go on.”

“I stayed late to finish the decorating. It was nearly nine o’clock when I finally locked up.” My heart starts to thump loudly in my ears. I can feel my panic building. “They grabbed me when I still had my key in the lock, and they put a cloth over my mouth. At first, I thought it was some of Declan’s associates and I was terrified. Then I heard Italian accents just before I passed out and I was relieved.”

His eyebrows rise slightly. “Relieved.”

“I know it sounds mad, but Declan’s people... they’re vicious. I thought anyone else would be less dangerous.” I swallow hard, studying his face for any sign of what he’s thinking. “I was wrong, wasn’t I?”

He doesn’t answer, just continues watching me with that unnerving intensity. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the distant hum of machinery and my own rapid breathing.

I try to shift in the chair, testing the restraints again. They’re definitely looser than before, but not loose enough to slip free. My wrists can move a little, but the zip ties are still secure. If I could just... but no. Even if I got my hands free, where would I go? I don’t even know where we are.

“You’re thinking,” he says suddenly, and I jump.

“What?”

“You’re thinking about escape plans. I can see it in your eyes.” His voice is conversational, almost amused, but there’s an edge to it that makes my skin crawl. “Let me save you some time. You are never going to escape. You are only leaving here when I say so. And I’m the one who decides if that’s alive or in a bag.”

The casual way he says it, like he’s commenting on the weather, sends ice through my veins. This man has done this before. Many times.

“I wasn’t...” I start to protest, but he holds up a hand.

“Don’t lie to me, Declan.”

The way he says my brother’s name makes me nearly throw up. This can’t be happening. It can’t. Being mistaken for Declan? Taking the blame for one of his many shitty actions? This is the stuff of nightmares, and I can’t believe the possibility of it never crossed my mind. Although, that’s probably a good thing because if it had, I never would have been able to sleep. Ever.

“I’ve been doing this for a long time. I know what people look like when they’re plotting.” My torturer says calmly.

“I’m not plotting anything. I just want to go home.” The words come out smaller than I intended.

He tilts his head, studying me like I’m some sort of fascinating specimen. “Home to your bakery. Your aunt. Your ordinary life.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about the tiara.”

My stomach heaves. “I already told you, I don’t know anything about any tiara.”

“Humor me.” He leans forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. The movement brings him closer, and I catch another hint of his cologne. “Walk me through Monday night. Every detail.”

“Monday night?” I try to think. “I... I was at home. It was my day off. I watched The Great British Bake Off and went to bed early because I had to be up at five for the bread.”

Something flickers across his face. So quick I almost miss it. Doubt? Uncertainty? But then his expression hardens again.

“You’re sure about that.”

“Yes, I’m sure. It was the semi-final episode. Paul Hollywood was being particularly brutal.” I’m rambling now, desperate to fill the silence. “I made notes about a technique Mary Berry mentioned for tempering chocolate, and I fell asleep on the sofa with my notebook on my chest. Sean found me there the next morning when he came to pick me up.”

He’s very still now, listening to every word. I can practically hear my heart hammering in the quiet room.

“Sean,” he says.

“My assistant. He...” I trail off as I realize I’m giving him information about people who matter to me. People he could hurt.

“You care about Sean.”

It’s not a question, and I should try to pretend I don’t give a fuck about Sean, but I nod anyway. “He’s a good person. He works hard. He doesn’t deserve to be dragged into whatever this is.”