Page 8 of The Wrong Man

The silence in my office feels oppressive. I pour another drink, then another, but the alcohol does nothing to quiet the war raging in my head. Professional ruthlessness battling against an instinct I don’t understand and definitely don’t trust.

I think about the way he looked at me when he woke up after his faint. The confusion in those hazel eyes, followed by something that might have been hope. Hope that I might believe him. Hope that I might show him mercy.

Hope that I’ve already started to crush.

The rational part of my brain insists this is exactly what Nicolo described. A master manipulation designed to exploit the one thing I’ve never had to worry about. Compassion.

But the rational part of my brain is at war with something deeper. Something that’s telling me the boy in my chair is exactly what he claims to be.

And I hate it. Just like I hate the way his voice catches when he talks about his aunt. I hate the way he blushes when he mentions his bakery’s ridiculous name. I hate the way he makes me want to believe him, even as every professional instinct screams that I’m being played.

Most of all, I hate that I can’t bring myself to hurt him. Not while I still have these doubts eating me alive.

I drain my glass and stand up. There’s another way to find the truth. A method that doesn’t require knives or pliers or any of the tools that have served me so well over the years. Psychological pressure can break someone just as effectively as physical pain, and it has the advantage of leaving no permanent marks.

If Dylan O’Shea is really the innocent baker he claims to be, he’ll break under the right kind of stress. And if he’s Declan O’Shea playing the role of his life, well... con artists rely on their ability to think, to plan, to maintain their performance. Remove those abilities, and even the most talented actor will slip up.

I make my decision and head back to the studio.

He looks up when I enter, those impossible eyes wide with something between hope and terror. “Please,” he starts, the word tumbling out before he can stop himself. “I know you don’t believe me, but I’m telling the truth. I’m Dylan, not Declan. I run a bakery, I make cakes, I’ve never stolen anything in my life. My aunt can vouch for me, my employees can vouch for me. You could call them, you could...”

I let him babble, watching the desperate hope fade from his face as I remain silent. He’s good, I’ll give him that. The tremor in his voice sounds genuine. The tears gathering in his eyes look real. Even the way his breathing speeds up as panic sets in seems authentic.

But Nicolo’s words echo in my mind. He weaponises his Irish charm.

I walk to the chair without speaking, my footsteps echoing in the concrete space. He flinches when I reach for the bolts that secure the chair to the floor, but I ignore his soft whimper of fear.

“What are you doing?” His voice climbs higher as I work. “Please, I told you everything I know. I don’t know anything about a tiara. I don’t know where it is. I don’t know where Declan is. I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

The logical arguments, the reasonable tone despite his obvious terror. All carefully calculated to appeal to whatever humanity I might have left. I have to admire the dedication to character.

The last bolt comes free, and I tip the chair backward. He squeaks, the sound high and genuinely terrified, his bound hands flexing uselessly behind him. I grab the back of the chair and start dragging it across the concrete floor.

The noise is horrendous. Metal scraping against stone, his weight making the chair heavier than it should be. He’s trying to say something, but I can’t hear him over the screech of steel on concrete. Not that it matters. Whatever pleas he’s making, whatever promises he’s offering, I’ve heard them all before.

The door to the Dark Room is set into the far wall, reinforced steel painted the same color as the concrete. Soundproofed. Lightproof. A sensory deprivation chamber that’s broken many men into pieces.

I unlock it and drag him inside.

The room is barely large enough for the chair, a concrete box with no windows, no light sources, nothing but darkness so complete it has weight. I position the chair in the center and step back.

“Wait,” he says, and now there’s real panic in his voice. The kind that’s hard to fake. “Wait, please, what is this? Where are you going? Don’t leave me in the dark, please. I’m afraid of the dark. I’ve been afraid since I was a child, my brother used to lock me in closets and tell me monsters would get me. Please, I’ll tell you anything you want to know, I’ll help you find Declan! just don’t leave me here.”

I ignore the way his voice breaks on the last word and step out of the room.

“Please!” The word is a raw scream now. “Please don’t do this! I’m not lying to you! My name is Dylan O’Shea and I’m not the man you’re looking for!”

I close the door.

The silence is immediate and absolute. The soundproofing swallows his cries as if they never existed. I slide the bolt home and lean against the wall, suddenly exhausted.

If he’s innocent, truly innocent, he’ll break within hours. The darkness will strip away his defenses, the silence will amplify every fear he’s ever had.

In the profound silence, he’ll hear his own body working, and the sound of his blood pumping through his veins will make him viscerally, terribly aware of his fragile mortality.

He’ll scream, he’ll beg, he’ll confess to anything just to make it stop.

And if he’s the con artist Nicolo described, if this is all an elaborate performance, then he’ll maintain his composure for longer. Professional liars are used to pressure, to maintaining their roles even under stress. But even they have limits.