Page 124 of The Wrong Man

He transforms.

Through the gaps in the slats, I watch my brother change. His shoulders hunch. His posture shifts, becoming smaller, more vulnerable. The wild desperation in his eyes softens into something that looks almost like fear. He even changes his breathing, making it quicker, shallower, like someone on the verge of panic.

He looks like me. He’s become me.

The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. He’s going to pretend to be me. He’s going to use our identical faces to trick Dante. My brother is going to con his way out of trouble yet again.

Dante looks at Declan, and his whole expression changes.

Softens.

No, I think desperately. No, no, no. Don’t fall for it. Please.

“Dante?” Declan breathes, and his voice is perfect. The exact pitch, the exact cadence, the way I say Dante’s name when I’m scared. “Oh God, you came. You actually came.”

Dante lowers his gun slightly. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay. I’m okay now that you’re here.” Declan edges sideways, so casual, so natural.

Looking for all the world like he wants to embrace Dante but doesn’t want to get in the way of the battle.

All while he is moving towards the mantlepiece. Towards the gun.

My heart stops. My blood turns to ice. No, no, no! This cannot be happening!

“I knew you’d find me. I never stopped believing,” Declan gushes.

Dante lowers his gun. His shoulders relax.

I try to thrash against the closet door, but it’s just out of reach. I can barely brush against it. It rattles in its frame, but Dante doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are fixed on Declan, on the perfect imitation of me.

“I was so scared,” Declan continues, his voice trembling beautifully. “I thought I’d never see you again. I thought about everything I wanted to say to you, everything I should have said before...”

His hand reaches toward the mantlepiece.

I try to swing against the door again. Once, twice. The third time, it rattles loudly enough that Dante’s eyes flicker toward the closet.

But Declan is faster. His fingers close around the gun.

And Dante punches him in the face.

The blow comes out of nowhere. One moment Declan is raising the gun, the next he’s on the floor, the weapon clattering away across the hardwood. Dante stands over him, shaking out his fist, his expression cold as ice.

“You’re nothing like Dylan,” he says flatly.

He calmly picks up Declan’s gun and tucks it into his own waistband.

Declan groans, blood streaming from his nose. “How...” he manages. “How did you...”

But Dante isn’t listening. He’s already turning toward the closet, and as he does, his whole demeanor changes. The cold violence melts away, replaced by something soft and desperate and achingly tender.

“Dylan? Are you in there?”

I make a sound behind the gag. It’s not a word, just a desperate noise, but in the newfound silence it’s enough.

Dante crosses the room in three strides and wrenches the closet door open. He yanks on the handcuffs holding my arms above my head, and the chain breaks. I tumble out, my legs tangled in suitcases, and he catches me before I hit the ground.

His hands are on my face immediately, pulling away the gag, cupping my cheeks, tilting my head so he can look at me properly.