Page 45 of The Wrong Man

But my body has other ideas. The illness has left me weak, wrung out like a dishcloth. The panic attack drained whatever reserves I had left. Despite everything, despite the fear and the confusion and the memories lurking at the edges of my consciousness, exhaustion drags me under.

At least in sleep, I can escape.

Chapter fourteen

Dante

For a moment I don’t know where I am. The surface beneath me is too hard, too narrow, the angle all wrong. My neck aches and my lower back is screaming in protest. Then memory floods in and I remember. The sofa. The horrible, ancient sofa that I’ve been meaning to replace for years and never bothered because I so rarely use it.

Because I never have guests. Because no one has ever needed my bed before.

I lie still and listen. The sounds are coming from the bedroom. Soft footsteps, the creak of floorboards, the rustle of fabric. Dylan is awake. Dylan is moving around.

Dylan is still here.

The relief that washes through me is embarrassing in its intensity. Some part of me, some paranoid corner of my brain, had been convinced I would wake to find him gone. That he would have somehow escaped in the night, slipped out through a window I forgot to lock, or picked a lock or simply vanished like smoke.

But he’s here. Still here. Still mine.

I catch myself on that thought and shove it away. He’s not mine. He’s my prisoner. My responsibility. There’s a difference.

Isn’t there?

I sit up slowly, every joint protesting the movement. I’m too old for this. Too old to be sleeping on furniture that was outdated when my grandmother was young. My spine cracks audibly as I stretch, a symphony of pops and clicks that speaks to years of physical neglect.

The flat is quiet except for Dylan’s movements. Grey morning light filters through the gaps of the industrial shutter covering the living room’s single small window, painting stripes across the worn carpet. I check my watch. Seven thirty. I’ve slept for nearly five hours.

It’s the longest uninterrupted sleep I’ve had since Dylan arrived.

I stand and roll my shoulders, trying to work out the worst of the kinks. The bathroom first, then breakfast. Routine. Normal. As if anything about this situation could ever be normal.

But as I move through my flat, I’m struck by how different it feels. How different I feel. For years I’ve woken alone in empty silence, moved through my mornings like a ghost in my own home. The only sounds were the ones I made. The only presence was my own.

Now there’s someone else here. Someone breathing, moving, existing in my space. And instead of feeling invaded, instead of chafing at the intrusion, I feel...

I don’t know what I feel. That’s the problem. I don’t have words for this strange warmth in my chest, this loosening of muscles I didn’t know were tense. It’s like I’ve been holding my breath for years and only just now remembered how to exhale.

Coming home last night to someone waiting. Even if that someone should have been asleep. Even if that someone hates me. It felt good.

It felt like something I didn’t know I was missing.

I splash water on my face and stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. Dark circles under my eyes. A shadow of stubble across my jaw. I look tired and old and nothing like the monster I’m supposed to be.

Get a grip, I tell myself. He’s a prisoner. A complication. A problem to be managed.

But even as I think it, I know it’s not true anymore. Dylan stopped being a problem the moment I realized he was innocent. Now he’s something else entirely. Something I don’t have a name for.

I dry my face and head to the kitchen.

Breakfast. Focus on breakfast. Porridge again, because it’s easy and bland and good for someone recovering from illness. I add honey and a handful of dried raisins I find in the back of a cupboard, a small attempt at variety. Then I pour a glass of orange juice and arrange everything on a tray.

Domestic. That’s what this is. Domestic and strange and utterly foreign to everything I know about myself.

I carry the tray to the bedroom and pause outside the door. I can hear him in there, moving around. The television is off.

I knock softly before pushing the door open.

Dylan is standing by the shuttered window.