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He has her pinned. Much to his great surprise. She doesn’t even struggle against him as he works the handcuffs out from his pocket to fasten around her wrists. He doesn’t bother to think about why that would be.
Her tears would answer any question he might have.
It’s only when she’s properly restrained, a fact that will change as soon as she moves from grief to anger, does he go back to where his torn mask and her dropped stilettos lay together.
It’s poetic in a way. Their secrets, tangled up together as the man and woman writhe separately in their agony.
He smothers that thought, along with any other emotion he might feel.
He’s never been much of a poet