Page 39 of The Wrong Man

Dylan stares at me for a long moment. Something shifts in his expression, something I can’t identify.

“What are you going to do about it?”

The practical question grounds me. Brings me back to the problem at hand and away from the dangerous emotional territory we’ve been skirting.

“Soundproofing,” I say. “The studio needs to be completely sealed. No sound getting in or out. I should have done it years ago. It’s a security risk as much as anything.”

I’m already mentally cataloguing what will need to be done. The walls, the ceiling, the door. Acoustic foam. Mass-loaded vinyl. Multiple layers of drywall. It’s not a small project, but it’s not impossible either. I know people who can do the work quickly and discreetly.

“Until then,” I continue, “I’ll need to make other arrangements. Find somewhere else to conduct business. That’s why I’m going out today.”

Dylan’s eyebrows rise slightly. “You’d do that? Change your entire setup?”

“Yes.”

The simple answer seems to confuse him. I can see him struggling to reconcile this, the man who tortured him for days, going to great lengths to protect him from the sounds of that same torture being inflicted on others.

“I don’t understand you,” he says finally.

“That makes two of us.”

A ghost of something crosses his face. Not quite a smile, but closer than anything I’ve seen from him before.

“When will you go?” he asks. “Tonight, I mean.”

“Probably around eight. I’ll make sure you have everything you need before I leave. Food. Water. Your medication. The television remote.”

“Television?”

I gesture toward the corner of the room where a flatscreen is mounted on the wall. I haven’t turned it on since he’s been here. Haven’t thought about entertainment or distraction or anything except keeping him alive.

“You should watch something. It will help pass the time.”

Dylan looks at the television like he’s never seen one before. Like the concept of watching shows while held captive in a monster’s bedroom is too bizarre to comprehend.

“I used to watch a lot of cooking shows,” he says quietly. “Before. In my flat. After work I’d come home and put on Bake Off or MasterChef and just... decompress.”

The image hits me harder than it should. Dylan in his own space, surrounded by his own things, comfortable and safe and happy. Dylan before I ripped him out of his life and destroyed everything he knew.

“You can watch whatever you want,” I say. “I’ll show you how to use the remote.”

He nods, but he’s somewhere else. His eyes have gone distant, probably thinking about his bakery. His aunt. The life he may never get back.

“When will you be home?”

The question catches me off guard. The casual domesticity of it. When will you be home. Like I’m a husband going off to work, not a torturer going off to torture.

“Late,” I manage. “Maybe two or three in the morning. Possibly later, depending on how things go.”

“How things go,” he repeats flatly. “You mean how long it takes to make someone talk.”

I could lie. Could soften the truth or deflect the question. But Dylan deserves better than lies. After everything I’ve put him through, he deserves at least that much.

“Yes.”

He takes a breath. Then another. His knuckles are white around the bowl of porridge.

“And this person. Are they...” He stops, seeming to search for the right words. “Are they like me? Innocent?”