Page 28 of Shattered

“We still need to?—”

“Her lawyer will be in touch tomorrow. Tonight she’s coming home.”

The officer nodded and left. Axel looked at me.

“Ready?”

That was it? He wasn’t asking questions?

I stood, testing my ankle gingerly. It hurt worse than before. Definitely worse.

“I can walk,” I said when he moved toward me.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

We made it to his car in silence. The drive home was equally quiet. Not the comfortable kind of silence—the kind where words sat between us like landmines, where anything either of us said would probably detonate into a fight.

So we said nothing.

Back at my apartment, Axel made pasta. I watched him move around my kitchen with that same irritating smoothness, and neither of us spoke. He set a plate in front of me and one at his own spot. We ate in hostile silence.

I picked at the food. It was good—everything Axel made was good. The space between us felt charged with mutual frustration,like we were both waiting for the other to make the first move—and neither of us trusted what would happen if we did.

He didn’t ask me to explain. I didn’t offer.

After dinner, I tried to paint. Set up in front of my canvas with brush in hand while Axel worked at the kitchen table, his laptop open, his focus apparently on whatever financial reports or museum budgets or world domination plans he was reading.

But I could feel him here. His attention—pretending not to watch but absolutely watching—was on me. It felt like I was carrying the weight of someone witnessing my failure in real time.

Fifteen minutes. That’s all I lasted before I threw the brush down hard enough that it bounced.

Axel glanced over. “Creativity doesn’t happen on command. Maybe you’re being too hard on yourself.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Probably not.” He closed his laptop. “But watching you beat yourself up seems counterproductive.”

Something in me snapped. “If you have a problem with how I handle things, then say it.”

“I don’t have a problem.”

“Right. Because showing up at a police station to bail out your charity case is totally normal behavior.”

“Delia—”

“If this is about what happened tonight?—”

“I’m just glad you’re safe.” He said, meeting my gaze.

The words should have been comforting. Instead they made me feel worse. Made me feel small and reckless—like a child who needed constant supervision.

“Don’t do that,” I said.

“Do what?”

“Pretend to be all understanding and patient and above it all.”

“I’m not pretending anything.”