“Excuse me?”
He casually cut himself another piece of meat. “With all due respect, I’ve only seen you and the other officers askingherquestions. She doesn’t ever seem to respond.”
Just by the expression that crossed Draccon’s face, Bruce knew the answer—the girl hadneverresponded to anyone’s questions. She probably stared off into space the entire time they questioned her, pretending that they weren’t even there, folding her bits of origami. He was surprised they didn’t ball up her creations in frustration.
Draccon muttered a curse. “The Nightwalkers give us an endless string of cases.”
Nightwalkers. Bruce leaned forward. “What do they want?”
Draccon shrugged. “You’ve seen their symbol, right? A coin in flames, usually spray-painted on a wall? They’re a massive network of thieves and killers. They go after the rich—we’re talking hundreds of millions of dollars. And they use it to fund their operations.”
“Operations?”
“So far, things like targeted assassinations, bombing factories. Terrorizing the city. They see themselves in a Robin Hood light, however twisted, and like to frame their tactics as taking from the rich and giving to the poor—although all they’ve really given the poor in this city is a more dangerous place to live.”
“Taking from the rich and giving to the poor.” Bruce couldn’t help uttering a chuckle at that.
Draccon eyed him. “What?”
“It’s just that—people always seem to conveniently forget to follow through on the second half.”
Draccon pulled down her red-rimmed glasses to look at Bruce over the top. “Philosophical,” she said, sounding slightly amused. Then she waved her hand once. “It’s nice of you to ask, Wayne,” she said as she stood up and pulled her tan coat off the back of her chair. “But you’re here on probation, not detective duty. Let’s work on getting you out of this place, not more entangled in itsweb.”
—
When Bruce headed down to the basement level after lunch, one of the lights in the corridor was flickering in an unsettling rhythm. It cast a trembling glow against the walls, making the hall seem surreal, as if it might blink out of existence if he shut his eyes. A couple of the cells were empty, while several of the remaining inmates were napping. Already, he didn’t recognize some of them. Inmates didn’t stay down here for long. Maybe the girl had been moved by now, too, even though Bruce felt strangely disappointed at the thought.
He reached the end of the hall, where the girl’s cell sat beside the flickering light. He slowed his steps. She was still here, this time alone.
She’s in there for a good reason.
But she was soyoung.Decades younger than everyone else in here. Bruce frowned as he watched her, waiting for something, anything—a violent tantrum, an insult—to reveal a clue about why everyone found her so threatening that they locked her up down here. His gaze returned to the new shape she was folding with her napkin. It looked like an unfinished lion. He wondered what it would transform into when she was done with it.
As he looked on, she glanced up at the door. Athim.
Again, her look caught him off guard. This time Bruce forced himself not to jerk away. He walked toward her door’s window and stopped right in front of it.
She stared at him for a long moment. Of course she wouldn’t speak, Bruce reminded himself. She had been in here for weeks, at least, maybe even months, and hadn’t uttered a single word. How much longer would Draccon try to get something out of her? What exactly did they want to hear from her, anyway? If—
“You’re Bruce Wayne.”
Bruce stilled.
Did he just hear herspeak? And not just that. She recognized him. The sound of her voice surprised him so much that, for an instant, he couldn’t move. She was soft-spoken, but her words rang clear as a bell. Lovely. Soothing, even.
“Guilty,” he finally replied. He wondered if she could hear him.
There was another pause, but the girl never turned her stare away. Instead, she continued to look at him in her calm, quiet manner, barely blinking, her eyes dark pools set against white marble. Finally, one edge of her lips tilted up by a hair. “You’redifferent from the regular crowd.”
Keep her talking.“Could say the same about you,” he managed.
She put her lion-shaped napkin aside. “Who has the nerve to hit a billionaire?”
Bruce blinked, his hand rubbing instinctively at his jaw. She was talking about his bruise now. “It’s nothing,” he mumbled.
She pressed her lips together. “Hmm. Someone close to you, I bet, someone who knows you well.” She tilted her head to one side, and her hair spilled over her shoulders in a river of midnight. There was something about her movements that made him think of a dancer, all grace and cunning, like she was aware of him watching her every gesture. “Everyone has their enemies. But look at your eyes—so tight and frustrated. Whoever did it is still on your mind.”
Bruce didn’t answer. There was something unnerving about the way she was studying him, splitting the puzzle of him into smaller pieces as she went.
