Page 6 of The Wrong Man

“No one deserves to be dragged into this,” he says, and for a moment, something raw and almost vulnerable crosses his handsome face. But it’s gone so quickly I wonder if I imagined it.

He stands abruptly and walks over to his table of tools. My blood turns to ice as he picks up a small, sharp blade and tests the edge with his thumb.

“Please,” I whisper. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

“Have you?” He turns back to me, the knife held loosely in his hand. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re either a pretty little liar, or...”

“Or what?” I gulp, while some part of me is far too excited that he called me pretty.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he walks slowly around my chair, and I can feel his presence behind me like a physical weight. The knife gleams in the harsh light.

“Do you know what this is?” he asks, his voice close to my ear now.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “A knife.”

He huffs out a sound of surprise, tinged with amusement, and I feel his breath on the back of my neck.

“It’s a Japanese Petty Knife. It’s very sharp. Designed for precision work.” He says calmly, fully composed once more.

His breath is still warm against my neck, and despite everything, my body starts to respond to his proximity in ways that make me feel sick with shame.

“I can cut you in ways that would take hours to kill you. Days, if I’m careful.”

A sob catches in my throat. “Please don’t.”

“I don’t want to.” The admission seems to surprise him as much as it does me. He steps back, and I hear him set the knife down on the metal table with a soft clink.

When I open my eyes, he’s standing across the room, running a hand through his dark hair. For the first time since I’ve been here, he looks... unsettled. Conflicted.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says quietly.

“What did you expect?”

“Someone harder. Someone who belonged in this world.” He gestures vaguely at the concrete walls, the tools, the chair I’m tied to. “Not someone who claims to watch baking shows and make notes about chocolate tempering.”

Hope flickers in my chest. “Because I’m telling the truth. I’m not Declan. I’m not a thief. I’m just...”

“Just Dylan.” He looks at me with those dark, unreadable eyes. “The baker from Borough Market who makes anniversary cakes and falls asleep watching television.”

“Yes.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and I can see something warring behind his expression. Professional certainty battling against growing doubt.

“I need to make some calls,” he says abruptly, already moving toward the door.

“Wait,” I call out, desperation making my voice crack. “What happens to me?”

He pauses in the doorway, his hand on the handle. When he looks back at me, his expression is unreadable again, but I can see the tension in his shoulders.

“That depends,” he says quietly, “on what I find out.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me alone with my thundering heart and the terrible certainty that my life hangs in the balance of whatever he discovers.

The silence presses in around me, thick and suffocating. I pull against the restraints again, testing them more urgently now. The zip ties cut into my wrists, but I can feel them give slightly. Maybe if I keep working at them...

But even if I get free, then what? I don’t know where I am, don’t know how many other people might be here, don’t know if there are locks or alarms or worse things waiting between me and freedom. Trying to escape is a terrible idea, it will only get me into more trouble.

So I close my eyes and try to imagine I’m back in my kitchen, with flour dusting my apron and the radio playing softly in the background. But even in my imagination, I can’t quite block out the fear that’s growing larger with every passing moment.