Page 7 of The Wrong Man

What if he never believes me? What if I never get to go home?

What if this is how my story ends?

Chapter three

Dante

My thoughts are in turmoil. Even my soul feels uneasy.

The file sits open on my desk, Declan O’Shea’s photograph staring up at me like an accusation. I’ve been looking at it for twenty minutes, comparing every detail to the face I just left tied to a chair in my studio. Same jawline. Same nose. Same fucking freckles scattered across pale skin like a constellation I’m starting to memorize.

But something is wrong. Something is eating at me like acid in my chest, and I don’t understand it.

I excel at reading people. It’s my gift, my curse, my entire fucking career. I can spot a lie before it leaves someone’s lips. I can see deception in the way they hold their shoulders, the micro-expressions that flash across their faces for milliseconds. It’s what makes me valuable to my employers and what ensures I have no real friends.

People are afraid of being seen too clearly. And I see everything.

Except apparently not this time.

The boy in my chair... Dylan, he insists his name is Dylan... he doesn’t feel like he’s lying. Everything about his body language screams genuine terror and confusion. His breathing patterns, his eye movements, the way his voice breaks when he talks about his aunt. Either he’s the most gifted actor I’ve ever encountered, or he’s telling the truth.

And I have no wish to torture an innocent person. I’m not wired that way. Never have been. My work is exactly that, work. A profession. One I’m extremely good at. But it’s not a hobby. Not something I do for fun.

I reach for the bottle of whiskey I keep in my desk drawer. The amber liquid burns going down, but it doesn’t wash away the growing certainty that something is very, very wrong here.

The photograph taunts me. I pick it up, studying Declan’s face again. Cold hazel eyes that hold no warmth, no vulnerability. A mouth that’s never offered to bake cakes for someone pointing a weapon at him. This is a hard man, someone who’s spent years learning to hide his thoughts behind a mask.

The man in my chair rambled about chocolate tempering techniques.

Identical twins should have some differences, shouldn’t they? Subtle variations that come from different life experiences, different personalities shaping their features over time. But looking at this photograph and remembering that sweet, terrified face…

The only difference between that man and this photo is the expression, the light in his eyes. But expressions can be lies.

I slam the photo down on my desk and reach for my phone.

Nicolo answers on the second ring.

“Have you given me the wrong man?” I don’t waste time with pleasantries. I never do.

“Of course not!” His indignation crackles through the speaker. “What kind of question is that?”

“I have my doubts.” The words taste like ash in my mouth. Admitting uncertainty feels like confessing weakness, but I need answers.

Nicolo sighs, the sound heavy with exhaustion. “Dante, Declan O’Shea is a con artist by trade. He weaponises his Irish charm. He’s made a small fortune by fooling people into believing he is something he is not. The man could probably convince his own mother he’s a saint while picking her pocket.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. Of course. Of course that’s what this is. A performance, carefully calculated to exploit any shred of human decency I might have left. The wide-eyed innocence, the rambling about baking shows, the offering to make me lemon drizzle cake.

All of it a lie. All of it designed to make me doubt myself.

But even as I tell myself this, something rebels in my chest. The way he fainted when I raised the pliers. The genuine terror when I showed him the knife. The soft, broken sound he made when he begged me not to hurt him.

I want to ask Nicolo about a twin. The question burns on my tongue, desperate to be voiced. But I can’t. Even when I just say it in my head it sounds ridiculous. Does he have a sweet and innocent identical twin that nobody knows about?

Asking it out loud would reveal just how thoroughly this man has gotten under my skin, how close he’s come to breaking through defenses I’ve spent years building. My reputation would be tarnished. My credibility questioned.

In my world, doubt is weakness. And weakness gets you killed.

I hang up without saying another word.