Shattered

Chapter 47

Sometimes we have to accept defeat.

And then we win the next battle.

So I didn't fight it. I stood still and kept my mouth shut. To defend myself without any evidence to prove my false innocence wasn't worth it. What did I have to say that wouldn't incriminate me further? Based on my past experiences with Chandler, if he knew I was lying, everything would end up worse than if I just admitted I did something he didn't like.

Without breaking eye contact, I stepped away from the door slowly, moving until I was close enough to sit on the bed, as if to show him I wasn't about to put up a fight over this. His gaze followed me, not a detectable emotion showing, either because I shocked him that much or he was severely pissed. Take a guess on which one I hoped was the truth and which was likely the reality.

I dropped my eyes toward my legs, where I anxiously shifted my hands, awaiting his voice, expecting it to be loud and angry, despite hoping for different. He continued this prolonged silence, which I didn't dare to break, and began examining the room. From my downturned view, I could see his shoes right by the nightstand, and then I heard him touch the distorted hairpin I had forgotten about in my haste.

"Do you have more of these?"

Flat. His tone was flat.

"Yes," I said quietly with a nod, not needing to look at him to understand what he meant.

"Where?"

My right hand began to shake, but it was subtle at first.

"The blue bag in the bathroom," I spoke a little louder this time.

The funny thing is, I'm not even the one who put them in there, I hardly used hairpins at all, it was Stella. Figuring out how to pick a lock was unfathomable for me unless I had been taught, so without Nakoa, there was quite literally no use for me to have them.

When I noticed the shake in my hands get a bit faster, I tucked them under my thighs, as if hiding them would lessen my anxiety any amount. I didn't like this, not at all. If he were going to punish me, I'd rather have him get it over with. This guessing game of how he would react felt endless, and only left me more susceptible to making bad choices.

He returned a few moments later, after surely confiscating every little metal piece, and crouched in front of me, picking up my chin. His touch only lasted a second, simply lifting my gaze before he let go. Then, he took my loose braid between his fingers, and, to my surprise, started threading the strands together as I had done before.

"Did you put any in your hair?" he asked with his attention focused on his work.

"I didn't," I answered in a breath.

"Was this the first time you've gotten out of the handcuffs?"

"Yes."

Chandler didn't say anything, he kept his eyes on his hands and my hair, tying it off when it was reformed once again. I assumed he learned from his sisters; the braid was well-done, consistent, and not too loose.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?"

As if I have a choice.

"You want to know why I'm not where you left me." It was a statement, not a question. If I were him, I suppose I would also like to know. A deep breath went in and out before I spoke again.

"The handcuffs are uncomfortable, I wanted to see if I could get out of them on my own."

He stood now, taking a step back so he could lean against the wall and crossed his arms.