Page 9 of The Wrong Man

In the dark, with nothing but his own breathing for company, one of two things will happen. Either Dylan O’Shea will break, or Declan O’Shea will crack.

Either way, I’ll have my truth.

I just hope I can live with it.

The whiskey in my system has left me with a headache, and I massage my temples as I walk back to my office. Every professional instinct tells me I’m handling this correctly.

But something cold has settled in my chest, and I can’t shake the image of those hazel eyes going wide with terror when I closed the door. The way his voice cracked when he mentioned being afraid of the dark since childhood.

If he’s lying, if this is all performance art designed to manipulate me, then it’s the most convincing act I’ve ever seen.

And if he’s telling the truth...

I don’t let myself finish that thought. Can’t let myself finish it. Because if Dylan O’Shea is exactly who he claims to be, then I’ve just locked an innocent man in a nightmare that will break him in ways that are just as awful as physical torture.

I pour another drink and try to convince myself I’ve made the right choice.

The clock on my wall ticks steadily, marking the passage of time in a space where a man who might be innocent is learning what true darkness feels like.

Three hours, I tell myself. If he hasn’t broken in three hours, I’ll know he’s stronger than he appears. And strength like that doesn’t come from baking cakes and watching television shows.

Strength like that comes from years of lying for a living.

The minutes crawl by like hours, and I find myself watching the clock more than working. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice that sounds disturbingly like conscience, whispers that I might have just made the biggest mistake of my career.

Chapter four

Dylan

The darkness is complete.

Not just dark like my bedroom at night with the curtains drawn. Not even dark like hiding under blankets as a child. This is darkness so absolute it feels like it’s pressing against my skin, filling my lungs, seeping into my bones.

If I could move my hand, I wouldn’t be able to see it in front of my face. I can’t see anything at all.

The silence is just as oppressive. No hum of machinery, no distant traffic, no sound at all except my own breathing and the thundering of my heart in my ears.

I know what this is. I’ve been here before, in a different room but the same kind of hell. Locked in the coat cupboard under the stairs while Declan told our parents I was sulking.

So I do what I did then.

I sing.

“Danny Boy, oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling...” My voice cracks on the first line, but I push through. It’s what Aunt Moira used to sing to me when I first moved in with her and used to wake up screaming from nightmares about monsters in dark places.

The sound of my own voice is startling in the absolute silence, but it’s something. It’s proof that I’m still here, still alive, still me. It is creating something out of the nothing. And something, any something, keeps the endless void at bay.

When I finish that song, I start another. “Molly Malone” this time, then “The Wild Rover,” working my way through every Irish ballad I can remember. My voice gets stronger with each song, more confident. The darkness can’t touch the melodies, can’t steal the words that Aunt Moira gave me.

When I run out of songs, I switch to recipes.

“Irish soda bread,” I say aloud, my voice echoing slightly in the small space. “Four cups plain flour, one teaspoon baking soda, one teaspoon salt, fourteen ounces buttermilk. Mix the dry ingredients in a large bowl, make a well in the center...”

The familiar ritual soothes me. These are the building blocks of my life, the foundation of everything I’ve built since escaping my family’s world. Each recipe is a small act of rebellion against the violence and fear I was born into.

“...knead lightly on a floured surface, just until the dough comes together. Too much kneading will make it tough. Score a deep cross on top, down to the base of the loaf...”

I can almost smell the bread baking, can almost feel the warmth of my kitchen around me. For a moment, I’m not tied to a chair in a torture room. I’m home, safe, where the worst thing that can happen is burning a batch of scones.