Alice stood in the bathroom—the only one in the house. She caught her reflection in the mirror, fingers brushing the fine lines at the corners of her eyes.
Junior and Barbara were brushing their teeth beside her, elbowing and nudging each other like it was a game.
"Come on, Junior."
"I said no."
Alice didn't raise her voice, but she teetered on being annoyed. "What's going on?"
"Nothing," they said, perfectly in sync. Too perfectly. Her brow lifted.
She studied them both. Barbara's big doe eyes were lying to her already—too young to pretend at innocence, but there she was. Junior, on the other hand, had Jim's face. Sturdy. Unyielding. But he wasn't like his father. Not yet.
Alice touched his thick red hair, knowing Jim would insist on cutting it soon. She kept stroking until Junior finally looked up.
"What is it?" she asked softly.
Junior reached into his pajama pocket and pulled out a sharp black blade with pointed ears.
Alice turned it over slowly in her hands. Lightweight. Razor-edged. It wasn't a toy—and it wasn't meant for play. Her chest tightened. He'd hidden it like a secret worth protecting.
"Where did you get this?"
Junior stayed silent. Alice turned to Barbara, whose face had stiffened into a challenge.
"I'm not saying nothing," Barbara said.
"Anything," Alice corrected.
Barbara's chin lifted. "Kids at school say 'nothing.' Like: See nothing, say nothing."
Alice's jaw tightened. She hated hearing one of the city's many mottoes out of their mouths. "Go to bed."
They spit, rinsed, still poking at each other as they drifted down the hallway toward their bedroom.
They both blamed each other.
"Are you going to tell Dad?" Junior called over his shoulder.
Barbara lingered by her bedroom door, both kids wearing the same worried look—tight mouths, furrowed brows. Jim's look.
Before she could answer, a knock echoed through the house—sharp, unexpected. Her stomach tightened.
"Go to sleep," she said firmly, waiting until both doors closed. Then she went downstairs.
Through the curtain, she saw the silhouette of a man—tall, broad-shouldered.
She moved closer and peeked through the window.
A man stood at the door—buzz cut, soaked from the rain, wearing a brown raincoat. His thick, battered hands held up a badge. She read the name:
Captain Arnold Flass.
She exhaled slowly and cracked the door.
The rain fell in a heavy patter against the porch.
"Mrs. Gordon?" His voice rasped like gravel. "I'm looking for Jim."
She looked past him. Just rain and darkness.
"He's at work," she said.
"Yeah, I figured. Thought maybe you could page him." He shifted his weight. "It's urgent."
His breath reeked of liquor. His raincoat glistened. So did his jaw. There was a scowl etched deep into his face, like his skin had been carved from stone.
"No, I don't think I can do that, Captain," she said, keeping her voice even.
He nodded slowly, eyes crawling over her. Not subtle.
The kind of look she'd grown up dodging—eyes that didn't care what you wore, said, or did.
She narrowed the door. Her hand whitened on the handle.
"I'll tell Jim you stopped by."
Flass didn't move. His gaze went colder.
"Have a good night, Captain," she added, forcing civility into her voice.
She started to shut the door, but his boot stopped it.
Alice's stomach dropped. Her pulse hammered at the base of her throat.
"You make sure he understands I need to see him," Flass said, voice low, breath sour.
"Because if I don't find him, I'll be back. When he's not here. And I'll wait. With you."
The rain hissed against the windows like static.
She shoved the door closed hard enough to rattle the frame, flipped the lock, and backed away.
That was how Alice described it.
Now, Gordon sat alone on the roadside. The rain hammered the windows. He blinked, dragged back to the present.
He checked his watch: 3:03 a.m. No one on the road. The forest pressed in on both sides—thick, black, swallowing the road behind him.
His thoughts drifted back to Alice, remembering how she paced the room. The coffee table between them, his rifle resting beside a spread of magazines.
"Aren't you going to say something, Jim?"
Her voice was firmer than when she scolded the kids. Sharper. He finally looked at her. She looked scared—and upset. She crossed her arms.
"I'll take care of it."
"That's not good enough," she said, biting at her nail as she paced the living room. "I want to know if the kids are safe."
He stood slowly, brow furrowed—the only sign he was thinking hard. "Tomorrow morning, get a room on the mainland."
Her voice cracked. "What did you do?"
"Alice, I'll handle it," he repeated. "Just pack a bag for you and the kids. Leave in the morning."
He moved to hold her, but she was stiff in his arms. He held her anyway.
"I'll fix it," he whispered—but he didn't believe himself.
She pulled away and walked upstairs without looking back. He didn't stop her.
The house around him—the photos on the wall, the couch, the coffee table with his rifle—it all felt hollow like his life had already slipped away.
A car roared past outside. He snapped back to the present and glanced in the side mirror. The headlights were wrong. When it flew past, he confirmed it wasn't Flass's make or model.
Lying to Morrow and Willis had been easier than expected. The words came quick. He told them it was a family emergency—he'd be back soon. When they offered to go with him, he said Alice had heard someone at the back door, that she'd feel safer if they stayed.
He added, "Wouldn't mind knowing what Flass drives. Make it easier to dodge him."
Willis gave him a partial license plate and said Flass drove a black 1980 Diplomat.
Another vehicle approached—too tall. Probably a truck.
Gordon's thoughts drifted back to Flass. Average height. Stocky. Built like a boxer. Rumor was, he fought amateur during his Marine days. Hot temper. Two ex-wives. Kids he never talked about—both out of state. Lived alone in Newtown.
Only dirty cops lived in Newtown. Mostly married or divorced. It was a quiet suburb an hour past Tricorner, with only three ways in from Gotham: the coastal highway along the Jersey shoreline, the upper route through Milton Village's walled estates, or the backroad—a narrow two-lane that carved through the woods beyond Tricorner.
That's the route Gordon would've taken. He didn't have an address, but he hoped Flass would do the same.
And if Flass wasn't alone—if there was another man in the car—Gordon figured he could handle it.
He knew what rage could do to a man.
It was all he had left.