Page 60 of The Wrong Man

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. No one has ever made anything for him. This man who has lived alone for years in this sad flat with his horrible sofa and his empty cupboards. No one baking him treats. No one cooking him dinner. No one caring enough to create something just for him.

It’s pathetic. It’s tragic.

It’s also, I remind myself firmly, not my problem. He kidnapped me. He tortured me. He’s holding me prisoner. I don’t owe him sympathy.

But the sympathy rises anyway, unwanted and inconvenient.

“Well,” I say, aiming for brisk and landing somewhere closer to gentle, “now someone has. So you’d better appreciate it.”

“I do.” His voice is low. Intense. “I appreciate it more than you know.”

We stare at each other for a moment that stretches too long. My heart is doing something concerning in my chest. My plan feels very far away, like something that happened to someone else.

Then Dante reaches for another scone, and the moment breaks.

“You’re taking the runt,” I observe as he picks up the smallest, most misshapen one.

“I said I would.”

“There are better ones.”

“This one needs me.”

It’s such a strange thing to say. Such a strangely sweet thing. I don’t know what to do with it, so I just watch him split the little scone and load it with cream and jam.

He catches me watching and raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing.” I look away quickly. “Just making sure you’re doing it right.”

“Am I?”

“Adequate.” But I’m fighting a smile, and I think he can tell.

We eat in silence after that. Or mostly silence. Dante makes small sounds of appreciation that are frankly indecent, and I try very hard not to react to them. I focus on my own scone, on the familiar flavors, on the strange surreal comfort of sitting here eating something I made with my own hands.

This is working, I tell myself. The plan is working. He’s softening toward me. Trusting me more. Every shared moment is a step closer to freedom.

But somewhere underneath that thought, in a place I don’t want to examine too closely, something else is stirring. Something that has nothing to do with plans or strategies or escape.

Something that notices how the tension in his shoulders has eased. Something that catalogs the small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Something that feels warm when he reaches for the runt scone and says it needs him.

It’s nothing.

It really is nothing.

It has to be nothing.

Because if it’s something, then I’m in far more trouble than I realized.

Chapter eighteen

Dante

Sleep will not come.

I’ve been lying on this wretched sofa for hours, staring at the ceiling, listening to the silence of the flat. The cushions are lumpy and smell faintly of dust. The springs dig into my back in ways that will make tomorrow unpleasant. I should replace this thing. I’ve been meaning to replace it for years.

But that’s not why I can’t sleep.