Page 74 of The Wrong Man

The words echo through my mind on repeat, a loop I can’t seem to break.

He threatened his friend. For me. He was ready to kill someone, maybe actually would have killed someone, because that someone suggested disposing of me.

I don’t know what to do with this information.

My hands are trembling as I measure out the almond flour. The recipe says to weigh everything precisely, that macarons are unforgiving of imprecision. I’m trying to be precise. I’m trying to focus on the familiar comfort of baking, the one thing in my life that has always made sense.

But nothing makes sense anymore.

“Are you sure you don’t need help?”

Dante’s voice comes from the kitchen doorway. I manage not to jump, but only barely.

“I’m fine,” I say, and my voice comes out almost normal. “Just... getting everything ready. Mise en place. That’s what the professionals call it. Having all your ingredients measured and prepared before you start. It’s French. Obviously. Because they’re French words. Which is why it’s French.”

I’m rambling. Sweet Jesus, I’m rambling worse than usual, and I can feel Dante’s eyes on me, that intense gaze that always seems to see more than I want it to.

“You seem nervous,” he observes.

Nervous. That’s one word for it. Terrified, confused, and having some sort of emotional crisis would be more accurate, but nervous works too.

“Macarons are stressful,” I say. “Very temperamental. Lots of things can go wrong. The meringue could be over-whipped or under-whipped, the batter could be over-folded or under-folded, the oven could be too hot or too cold. It’s basically a miracle when they turn out right.”

I’m not looking at him. I can’t look at him. If I look at him, I might say something stupid. Like, thank you for threatening to kill someone for me. Or why do you care so much? Or what is happening between us and why does it make my chest feel like this?

“Would you like me to leave you alone?”

The question catches me off guard. I risk a glance over my shoulder and find him hovering uncertainly in the doorway, his body language unusually hesitant. He looks tired again, I realize. There are shadows under his eyes that weren’t there yesterday, and a tension in his shoulders that speaks to a sleepless night.

Because of me. Because of what happened with his friend. Because he’s put himself at risk to keep me alive, and now he’s dealing with the consequences.

The guilt that rises in my throat is thick and choking.

“No,” I hear myself say. “You can stay. If you want.”

Something in his expression shifts. Softens. That look again, the one I don’t know how to interpret, the one that makes my stomach do complicated things.

He moves to his usual spot at the tiny kitchen table, settling into the chair with a grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone his size. I turn back to my ingredients and try to remember how to breathe.

This is fine. This is all part of the plan. Make him care about me, make him trust me, make him slip up so I can escape. Make him fall in love with me so he unlocks the door.

Except he already cares about me. Cares enough to threaten violence against his friend. Cares enough to put himself in danger. Cares in a way that goes far beyond what my fumbling manipulation could have achieved in such a short time.

Which means either I’m much better at this than I thought, or...

Or it’s real. Whatever Dante feels for me, it’s real. Not a response to my scheming, but something genuine that grew on its own.

The thought makes me feel sick.

“The egg whites need to be room temperature,” I say, because silence is dangerous right now. Silence leaves too much room for thinking. “That’s why I separated them yesterday. Aged whites whip up better, something about the proteins relaxing. I read it in the cookbook. The one you bought me. It describes a slightly different process to the ones I’ve tried before, so I’m hopeful I might actually be able to do it this time.”

“I remember.”

Of course he remembers. He remembers everything. Every throwaway comment, every casual mention of something I like or want or need. He files it all away and then acts on it, buying cookbooks and pistachio nuts and three different types of butter because he wasn’t sure which brand I preferred.

When did this happen? When did my captor become someone who pays attention to my preferences? Someone who cares about my comfort? Someone who looks at me like I’m something special?

I pour the egg whites into the bowl of the stand mixer and start it on low. The whisk attachment begins its slow rotation, and I watch the clear liquid start to foam.