Page 64 of The Wrong Man

The name could use some work.

Dante left about an hour ago. He didn’t say where he was going, just that he had errands to run and that I should rest. As if I could rest. As if my brain ever stops churning long enough for actual relaxation.

But his absence does give me an opportunity. A chance to explore without those intense dark eyes tracking my every movement.

I stand up from the sofa and immediately feel guilty. Which is ridiculous. I’m a prisoner. Prisoners are supposed to try to escape. It’s practically in the job description.

Still, the guilt sits heavy in my stomach as I move toward the front door. Just to look. Just to see.

Along with the guilt, something that feels an awful lot like dread and terror is swirling in my guts. It’s a very nausea-inducing sensation. And very understandable, given how last time I tried to look for escape routes, I ended up having a breakdown.

Somehow, I make it to the front door. It’s solid, reinforced with what looks like a steel plate on the inside. There are three locks, all requiring keys from both sides. No deadbolts I can turn from within. No chains I can unhook.

I already knew this. I’ve walked past this door a hundred times. But knowing and confirming are different things, and I need to be thorough.

The windows next. I move through the bedroom, then the tiny kitchen, examining each one. They’re all covered with those metal shutters, bolted from the outside. No handles or latches on my side. No way to open them without tools.

Even if I could get them open, I have no idea what’s on the other side. Could be a sheer drop. Could be a private courtyard where no one would hear me scream.

Not that I’m planning to scream. Screaming seems counterproductive.

The bathroom has a small window near the ceiling, but it’s barely big enough for a cat to squeeze through, let alone a fully grown man. Even a small, somewhat malnourished, fully grown man who hasn’t been eating properly due to kidnapping-related stress.

The only room left to check is beyond that reinforced door. The one that leads to unspeakable horrors. The one whose existence I’m deleting from my mind, and certainly never going anywhere near, ever again.

Which means I’ve checked everywhere. I stand in the middle of the hallway and take stock of my findings.

Exactly nothing useful. Brilliant.

My grand escape plan is going swimmingly. At this rate, I’ll be free by the time I’m ninety. Assuming Dante doesn’t get bored and kill me first. Or the family decides I’m a liability. Or I die of old age on that wretched sofa.

I’m spiraling. I can feel it happening, the way my thoughts pick up speed and tumble over each other like clothes in a dryer. Aunt Moira always said I had a tendency toward catastrophic thinking. She said it kindly, with warm hands wrapped around a cup of tea, as if it were a charming quirk rather than a fundamental personality flaw.

I miss her so much it physically hurts.

Focus, Dylan. Focus on your plan. Focus on what you can control.

I can’t control the locks or the windows or the shutters. I knew this, it’s hardly some great revelation. But I can control how Dante sees me. I can make myself useful, indispensable, someone he wants to keep around. Someone he trusts.

And eventually, inevitably, he’ll slip up. He’ll leave a door unlocked or a phone unattended, or he’ll trust me enough to take me outside. And when that happens, I’ll be ready.

Or perhaps I’ll manage to charm him so much, he decides he wants to let me go. Just to make me happy. Or because he thinks he loves me.

That’s what you do with people you love, isn’t it? Set them free? If I make Dante fall for me, he’ll want to unlock that door.

The thought should make me feel better. Instead, it just makes me feel tired.

I wander back to the kitchen because I don’t know what else to do with myself. The equipment Dante bought me is still neatly arranged in the cupboards and on the shelves. Mixing bowls and measuring cups and that beautiful stand mixer that I still haven’t properly christened.

Maybe I should bake something. Baking always helps me think. And it would be a nice gesture, something to continue building the illusion of a willing captive settling into his new life.

The illusion. Right. That’s all it is.

I open the fridge and examine its contents. Eggs, butter, milk, cream. Some vegetables that are starting to look a bit sad. Cheese. Various condiments.

Not a lot to work with, but I could make a quiche. Or maybe some Welsh cakes, if there’s enough sugar in the cupboard.

I’m halfway through checking the pantry when I hear the front door open.