Chapter 8

The cell was too quiet.

Charlotte lay sprawled on the thin mattress, staring at the ceiling like it might suddenly split open and crush her, but maybe that wasn't the worst thing. Her knee bounced with restless energy, the only thing breaking the silence besides the faint hum of voices somewhere in a building nearby, every once in a while she'd hear a conversation of people passing by thanks to the small window that was keeping her sane. She even heard some about herself, they were all pretty boring though.

She'd lost all privileges to leave the scorching cell after her escape attempt. No farming. No church chores. No slipping outside to at least feel the air on her face.

Just the cell.

And the walls were starting to feel more closed in every day.

The sound of boots scraping against the concrete stairs toward the cell she called her own made her sit up, eyes narrow and curious. What had come to entertain her today?

Daryl's shadow filled the doorway, a grumpy expression on his face as he leaned against the metal, gated frame.

"You gonna sulk in here all day?" he quipped, leaning against the frame, arms crossed like a moody child.

"Why, you here to check?" she shot back, eyebrow raised as she stretched slightly.

He didn't rise to the bait. "Get up."

She didn't move an inch, if anything she sunk further into the floor. "I'm fine here."

His voice dropped, calm but had a sharp edge to it, not taking her answer. "Wasn't askin'."

Charlotte sighed, sitting up but keeping her back against the wall. "If you're here to drag me somewhere, forget it. I'd rather stay in this shitty place than go anywhere with you assholes."

"Not here to drag you." He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. The room instantly felt smaller without the scarce sunlight she rarely got. "Here to get answers."

Her brows arched in question and maybe uneasiness. "Answers about what?"

"Negan."

The name alone made her shoulders tense, going up to her cheeks as she curled into herself, speaking in a soft but somehow firm voice. "What about him?"

"Where he is. What he's plannin'." He slightly paced the room, eyes everywhere but Charlotte. He seemed as if it was painful to look at her. It always bothered her that he never spoke about why he was so upset after Beth's death. They both disappeared then only one reappeared.

She stared at him, her expression unreadable. "And why would I do that? "

He took a slow step closer, threatening and taunting. "You still protectin' him? After everything?"

She let out a small, incredulous laugh. After this whole thing. Were they all really that stupid? "You think I'm gonna sell him out to you?"

"You're sittin' in a cage. And you're still actin' like he's worth somethin'."

"He is," she snapped, eyes meeting his.

That earned her a sharper look. "He's the reason Maggie's dead."

Her jaw clenched, Daryl was sure he heard a tooth crack. "No. He's not."

Daryl's voice hardened, unwavering. "You know damn well—"

"I know Carl's the reason she's dead," She cut in, stepping forward until there was barely a foot between them, besides the bars. "Carl didn't listen. He didn't do what he was told. That's why—" She stopped, biting the words back, trying not to pain herself more than she already had.

Daryl didn't back up. His voice went quiet, which somehow made it worse. "You think Negan didn't make that happen? You think Carl pulled the trigger?"

She folded her arms tight over her chest, eyes flickering from the ground to him, unsure of how confident she was under his steady gaze. "Negan didn't tell anyone to shoot her."

"He didn't have to. He lined us up. Put guns in their hands. Pointed 'em at people he knew we couldn't lose. That was killin' everyone enough, don't ya think?"

Charlotte shook her head, jaw tight. She ignored his last statement and question, feeling cornered. So she did what she always did. Ran. "Carl started it. He made the whole thing spiral."

"Negan made sure it had a chance to, just waited for the perfect moment to hurt us all."

Her mouth opened, then closed again. She didn't have an answer for that. So she stayed silent.

Daryl saw it, and his tone softened just a fraction. "You keep sayin' you hate Carl for what happened, but you're blind if you can't see who set the damn board. Who made sure there was a bullet in that gun."

She looked away, the fight in her voice faltering. "You don't know what it was like after... you weren't there. He was...Negan—"

Her voice stopped dead, the air thick as she refused to meet the archer's eyes.

"Negan what?" Daryl asked, stepping closer, voice unwavering.

She shook her head quickly. A bit too quickly. "Forget it."

"What'd he do?"

"I said forget it." Her voice cracked slightly, just enough to betray something underneath, she looked down at her shaking hands, praying to God that he didn't hear. She didn't even believe in that anymore but she had to take everything she could get.

He studied her for a moment, like he was weighing whether to push harder. "You tellin' me he didn't use you? Didn't keep you close 'cause you were an innocent kid and it made him feel better about himself? Had somethin' to show off?"

"That's not—" Charlotte started, but the words died in her throat, feeling too cornered for her liking.

"That's exactly what he did. You know it."

Her hands curled into fists, but her shoulders slumped slightly. "He... looked out for me." The words sounded small, even to her, the voice barely recognisable compared to how she was any other day of the week.

Daryl didn't smile. Didn't gloat. "Yeah? And you think he'd still be doin' that if you weren't useful? Another piece in his game?"

She stayed quiet.

"Look, I ain't sayin' Carl's perfect. But you keep blamin' him for somethin' Negan built. You're lettin' that man rent space in your head for free. We're the ones who kept lookin' for you. The saviors were the ones who gave us a reason to."

The heat in her chest buzzed, replaced by a heavy ache she didn't want to acknowledge. She scooted backwards, closer to the wall as it hit her spine again, eyes dropping to the floor.

"You don't get it," she muttered, head shaking, holding onto the fragments of conviction she had left of this lie that was slowly uncovering itself.

"Then make me get it."

She shook her head. "Not your business. If you let me outta this place, then you won't have to worry about it. You won't even want to get it."

He studied her a moment longer, then stepped back toward the door.

"You keep this up," he said, voice low and even, "you're just lettin' him win. That what you want? The people who shot that bullet to win over your sister's grave?"

The door closed behind him, leaving her with the quiet again.

And for the first time since he walked in, she didn't feel so sure about her answer.