Page 3 of The Wrong Man

I stop in front of him and lean down so we’re eye to eye. “You intercepted a shipment of stolen French Crown jewels three nights ago. Among the pieces was a sapphire tiara worth twelve million euros. The buyer is very unhappy about the delay, and my employer is very unhappy about the theft. So I’ll ask you again. Where is the tiara?”

“I swear to you, I don’t know anything about any tiara.” Tears are starting to form in his eyes, and I feel that strange tightness in my chest again. “I’ve never stolen anything in my life. The most valuable thing in my flat is my stand mixer, and that’s only because it was a gift from my aunt. Please, you have to believe me.”

Stand mixer. Aunt. The details keep coming, each one more mundane and believable than the last.

But I push down the doubt. This is what I do. I break people. I extract information. And sometimes that means dealing with very convincing liars.

I straighten up and walk over to the table where I keep my more specialized tools. Pliers, wire cutters, a small blowtorch that I use for more delicate work. I make sure he can see everything, make sure he understands what’s at stake.

“You know,” I say conversationally, selecting a pair of needle-nose pliers, “in my experience, everyone breaks eventually. Some people just take longer than others. Some people need more encouragement.”

I can hear him crying now, soft hiccupping sobs that should sound pathetic but somehow just make that tightness in my chest worse.

“Please,” he whispers. “I can’t tell you where something is if I don’t know where it is. I can’t tell you about crimes I didn’t commit. If you hurt me, it won’t change the fact that I don’t have the information you want.”

It’s the same words I’ve heard a thousand times. Everyone says it. Everyone tries it. It should be like water off a duck’s back to me. It shouldn’t even register. Just background noise.

But something in his earnest expression is giving me pause. I stare into desperate, too-pretty eyes for a long moment. Then I rouse myself.

No. I don’t make mistakes. I can’t afford to make mistakes.

I walk back to him, pliers in hand. “We’ll see about that.”

But as I reach for him, he looks up at me with those incredible hazel eyes, and I see something there, beyond the desperation, that makes me freeze. Not guilt. Not deception. Just pure, genuine terror.

“I’m really no good with pain,” he says, his voice small and broken. “Or blood. I faint at the sight of blood. I know that probably makes me seem like a coward, but I can’t help it. And germs, I’m terrible with germs. I wash my hands about fifty times a day because of the bakery.”

He trails off, seeming to realize how ridiculous he sounds.

It’s a convincing act. Details like that don’t seem like a lie. No criminal hardman would admit to fainting at the sight of blood while being interrogated. Not in a world where reputation is everything.

“Declan is horrible,” he says, the words tumbling out like he can’t stop them. “He’s been horrible our whole lives. He used to lock me in closets when we were children, tell me monsters were going to eat me. He stole money from our grandmother’s purse and blamed it on me. He’s selfish and cruel and I’m not surprised he’s done something to get you angry. But I’m not him. I’m nothing like him.”

The pain in his voice seems so real. Raw. A fantastic imitation of genuine hurt, the kind that comes from a lifetime of being overshadowed by someone you love but can’t stand.

“If you let me go,” he continues, “I promise I’ll never tell anyone what happened here. I’ll go back to my bakery and my quiet life and you’ll never see me again. I’ll even... I’ll even make you things. Cakes, pastries, whatever you want. I make the most amazing lemon drizzle cake you’ve ever tasted. I could bring you one every week if you want. Just please, please don’t hurt me.”

Lemon drizzle cake. He’s offering to bake for the man who’s about to torture him.

That’s definitely something new. Just when I thought I’d reached a stage in my career where it seemed like I’d seen it all.

Oh well. At least torturing Declan O’Shea is not going to be dull.

I walk to the corner of the studio where I keep a box of disposable gloves. He watches me with growing panic as I pull on a pair, snapping them into place with practiced efficiency.

I walk back toward him, and he closes his eyes, bracing himself for whatever I’m about to do. His whole body is trembling, and I can hear him whispering what might be a prayer under his breath.

I stop directly in front of him and raise the pliers.

And then he opens his eyes, looks up at me with all that terror and dread, and promptly faints dead away.

His head lolls forward, his body going completely limp in the restraints. The only sound in the studio is Puccini and my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.

That’s a real, genuine faint, not a fake one. I can tell the difference.

I stand there for a long moment, staring at his unconscious form, pliers still raised like some kind of terrible conductor’s baton.

Finally, I lower my hand and speak the first honest words I’ve said in years.