Chapter Text
Dick sped towards Gotham, weaving through traffic before rush hour locked the city down. Red lights streaked across his visor as he gunned the throttle, threading between cars—gone before anyone could blink.
An hour earlier, Bruce had sent a single decrypted message: “Mission briefing at 5. Don’t be late.” No details. No context. Just an order. Dick was used to that by now. Bruce’s summons always took priority.
These days, missions were the only time they saw each other. No matter how busy Blüdhaven kept him, Dick dropped everything the moment Bruce called. He hated that part of himself, the part that still craved his approval. It was left over from his Robin days, when one mistake felt like exile waiting to happen. And maybe he’d been right to worry; Bruce had proved as much when he fired him at sixteen.
Some lessons, Dick thought, never truly went away.
As soon as he hit Bristol, the traffic thinned. The rolling hills kept the estates spread far apart, with most overlooking Gotham from above. And at the highest point sat Wayne Manor, looming over the skyline like a shadow that refused to wane.
Dick veered right and slipped through one of the hidden passages that led underground. He passed the line-up of vehicles without really seeing them and climbed the final set of stairs.
The cave was a whirlwind of energy when he arrived. Tim and Steph sparred on the mats, their movements sharp and quick; Duke hunched over a workbench, the pieces of an escrima stick scattered before him; and Damian was perched at the Batcomputer, typing into one of the files.
Damian noticed him first. His eyes lit up for a fraction of a second before he schooled his expression back to neutral—too many prying eyes.
“Grayson,” he said evenly. “You’re here.”
Dick caught the warmth beneath the words. Damian was glad to see him, and even more so to be working with him again. Just like old times.
Tim and Steph paused mid-spar, giving Steph the perfect opening to land one last jab that sent Tim flat on his back.
“Dick!” called Steph, grinning. “Long time no see!”
Tim laughed as he got up. “Took you long enough. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were avoiding us.”
“Me? Never.” Dick flashed a grin. “Been busy, that’s all.”
He glanced around the cave, noting the one person missing. “So,” he said, “where’s B?”
Duke pointed his screwdriver towards the stairs, not looking up from his work. “Upstairs. Said he’ll be down in a sec.”
That tracked. Bruce wasn’t one for small talk. If the briefing started at five, he’d show up at exactly five. No seconds wasted. No unnecessary chatter.
Dick moved to stand beside Damian, resting a hand on his shoulder. A few years ago, that would’ve earned him a knife to the ribs. Now, Damian only brushed him off after a moment’s pause. Progress, in its own way.
“So, anyone know what this is about?” Dick asked the room.
“I assume it concerns her,” Damian said, pointing to the screen.
The image showed a beautiful woman—blonde, early thirties, impeccably dressed. The sort of woman people whispered about at galas, a trophy wife on the arm of the rich.
“Her name is Emily Washburn,” said Bruce from the top of the stairs. His cape trailed behind him as he descended, each step echoing in the cavernous cave. Damian rolled his chair aside, giving Bruce the space to take command at the Batcomputer.
“And this,” Bruce said, opening another file.
The next image made Dick pause. A familiar face—bald, mid-forties, wearing a garish tie that clashed with his suit. James Stridham. Dick remembered him from Wayne galas: friendly, patient, the kind of man who didn’t mind talking to a restless twelve-year-old stuck at a charity dinner.
“...is James Stridham,” Bruce continued. “One of Wayne Enterprises’ senior executives. He was also the third husband of Emily Washburn. And the third to die unexpectedly within a year of marriage.”
Everyone gathered around the screen.
“Cause of death?” Dick asked.
“Organic heart convulsions,” Bruce replied. “During their honeymoon in Greece.”
“And the others?”
“The first husband, Flynn Rakeem, died in a car accident. Blunt-force trauma,” Bruce said. “The second, Ryan Shore, suffered heart complications. Died in his sleep.”
Dick gave a low whistle. “Two heart attacks and a car crash. All within the first year of marriage?” He leaned back against the console, arms folded. “Paints a pretty picture, doesn’t it?”
Behind him, Tim’s fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up files. “Police ruled them natural causes,” he said, scanning the coroner’s reports. “No foul play suspected.”
“What about the vehicle from the first death?” asked Duke. “Surely the wreck would’ve shown something?”
“Tim, you got a trace on the plates?” asked Bruce.
“Running it now.” Tim pulled up the crash file. The car had wrapped around a tree, thirty miles over the limit. “Tox screens were clean. No alcohol, no drugs. But he did have elevated troponin.”
Troponin released when the heart muscle suffers damage. The crash might have caused it, or it could’ve been a warning sign that triggered the crash. Dick’s money was on the latter.
“Any proof the troponin spike happened before the crash?” he asked.
“Inconclusive,” Tim replied.
“How about the bodies?” Dick pressed. “No puncture marks? Anything strange ingested?”
“Nothing,” Tim said. “It’s about as cut and dry as you can get.”
“Three deaths in six years?” Dick scoffed. “This deserves a closer look.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Bruce. “There may be no physical evidence, but the inheritances make Emily our prime suspect. James and the husband before him both died on their honeymoons, within weeks of marrying her.”
Dick shook his head. The audacity made his skin crawl. “It’s like she’s daring us to catch her.”
“I’m glad you’re on board, Dick.” Bruce met his eyes. “We need someone who can get close. Someone she’ll set her sights on.”
He paused, and Dick felt the weight of it before Bruce said the words.
“I need you to make yourself her next target. A wealthy, eligible heir positioned to inherit Wayne Enterprises.”
Dick’s stomach sank. Suddenly, it all clicked. This wasn’t about his expertise. Bruce intended to use him as bait.
And he wasn’t the only one who found the plan objectionable.
“Father,” Damian said, voice clipped. “Surely you don’t expect Grayson to cosy up to her. Isn’t there a better way to gather intel?”
“I see it,” said Steph, circling Dick like a cat sizing up its prey. “A guy like you—sweet, handsome, loaded—is the perfect target for our black widow.”
Tim gave her a look. “Seriously?”
“What?” she shot back. “I’ve got eyes.”
“As long as it doesn’t get that far,” Duke joked. When no one laughed, his grin faltered. “Wait... you’re not actually planning on marrying her, are you?”
Dick clapped a hand on Duke’s shoulder. “It won’t come to that. I’m sure we’ll crack the case before I even get to the second date.”
But inside, Dick was panicking.
There was no doubt he was the best at undercover work. He could slip into any role, any lie, without missing a beat. But this? Pretending to court someone, to play at marriage? That hit too close to home. It scraped at old wounds, ones that never fully healed. They festered quietly beneath the surface, eating away at him piece by piece.
None of them knew that part of his past, not even Bruce. They’d been estranged back then. Dick left Gotham after losing Robin, throwing himself into the Titans and trying to build a name that wasn’t tied to Batman.
Now those memories pressed hard against the back of his mind, threatening to drag him under.
But he couldn’t afford to slip up. Not here. Not with every eye in the cave on him. They were watching, waiting for the first crack to show.
So he did what he always did. He smiled through the fracture in his chest and shoved everything else down deep, until he couldn’t feel it anymore. No one noticed the panic. They never did. He’d gotten too good at hiding.
“...she’s attending a charity dinner next Sunday,” Bruce was saying, his voice cutting clean through Dick’s thoughts. “Hosted by the Beaumonts, at their estate.”
Dick blinked, forcing himself back into the conversation, as if he’d been listening the whole time.
“I’ll handle the seating arrangements,” said Tim, already accessing the guest list. “We’ll make sure Dick’s at her table.”
Within minutes, a plan took shape: Dick would attend as himself—Gotham’s most eligible bachelor—armed with just enough charm to draw her interest. It would be her first public outing since her husband’s passing, and it’d be up to him to get close, earn her trust, and secure a date.
Damian still didn’t agree with the plan, and Duke had his doubts, but the others were all in. Dick might’ve appreciated their confidence if his stomach wasn’t sitting in his throat.
“I’ll wear my best suit,” Dick quipped, hoping to cut through the tension.
Damian didn’t bite. He just stared; expression unreadable. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Grayson,” he muttered.
He hoped so, too.
Dick left the cave feeling blindsided. His mask had cracked somewhere along the way, its pieces slipping through his fingers faster than he could catch them. He needed air, space to breathe. Somewhere the others couldn’t see him fall apart.
The ride home was a blur. He remembered the weight of his helmet, the roar of the engine, and then nothing. By the time he reached his apartment, it felt like waking from a dream he couldn’t quite recall. The roads, the turns—all gone. Only the ache in his chest remained. It pulsed in time with the city outside, a phantom heartbeat that followed him through the door.
His apartment was steeped in darkness, hollow in its loneliness. Dick staggered forward, one hand pressed to his forehead, the other fumbling blindly until he found the couch. His throat burned; he swallowed dryly, the taste of copper lingering on his tongue.
Past. Present. The edges blurred until time folded in on itself.
The city’s steady hum faded, swallowed by the rasp of his own breathing. Every sound bent sideways, carrying voices that weren’t there.
Fragments surfaced; shards of memory breaking through.
He was nameless again. No Robin. No mask. Just a boy set adrift in a world that didn’t care.
“You don’t need him,” said Roy.
“Yeah, you’re better off without him,” added Wally.
Their voices echoed like ghosts from another lifetime.
An investigation. High-profile deaths. Clues clicking into place like a loaded gun.
Deathstroke.
The name burned itself into his skin.
Obsession followed. He dug deeper. Slept less. Breathed the case until it was all he was.
“Why don’t you take a break?” asked Donna.
“You’re gonna run yourself ragged,” said Garth.
He hadn’t listened. He never did.
Then, the rooftop.
Cold wind. Rain-slick concrete. The flash of a scope.
He thought he’d caught Deathstroke. He was wrong.
Pain seared behind his eyes. Dick clutched his head, pulling a blanket around himself like armour. He didn’t want to remember. Didn’t want to be there again.
Nanobots. Blackmail.
An apprenticeship.
Training. Bruises. Blood.
He hit the floor again and again until even pain lost its meaning.
“Pathetic,” spat Slade. “You call yourself a fighter?”
Anger bit where blood had dried, refusing to heal.
He struck back. Fought dirty. Whatever it took. His friends’ lives depended on it.
Weeks bled into months.
No one came.
No one was coming.
Bruce had moved on, replaced him with someone younger, better. And Dick had been left to rot in the shadow of his own choices.
“You’re mine, apprentice,” Slade’s voice echoed. “Your body. Your mind. They belong to me.”
Hands on his back. Pressing. Claiming.
No.
No, he wasn’t there.
Dick bolted upright, bile burning his throat. He stumbled to the bathroom, gripping the sink as he retched. Nothing came up but air and acid.
Just a dream.
He turned the tap and let the water run cold, splashing it over his face until the sting brought him back to the present.
When he lifted his head, his reflection stared back: pale, sweat-slick, eyes wide and hollow. For a moment, he swore he saw black and orange in the glass before it vanished, leaving only himself.
Outside, a siren wailed. The world kept moving, indifferent to his unravelling. Dick gripped the sink, let the sound anchor him, and breathed.
Sunday arrived quicker than Dick expected. He pulled up at the Beaumont Estate in one of Bruce’s sleek cars, playing the part of a wealthy, unattached bachelor. His best suit—usually reserved for weddings and galas—clung to his body like a second skin, stiff and restrictive. He unbuttoned the top two buttons, opting to skip the tie. “For the bachelor persona,” he’d told Bruce. In truth, it was the only way to stop the suit from feeling like a noose.
When he stepped through the doors, the crowd turned. He rarely made public appearances, preferring to stay out of Gotham’s spotlight. But tonight was different. He untangled himself from admirers who clung to his arms or clapped him on the back, and made his way to the table. Tim had arranged it so he’d sit directly beside her.
She was already there. Silver fabric hugged her curves, dipping into a plunging neckline. While the jewels at her throat caught the light and dared eyes to linger. Even seated, Emily commanded attention.
Their gazes met, and Dick smiled, letting himself appear charmed by her presence. “May I say, that’s a beautiful dress?” he complimented.
“And you are?” Emily asked, one eyebrow raised.
“Dick Grayson-Wayne,” he said, letting the Wayne roll off his tongue. He hadn’t legally changed his name—Bruce had never adopted him—but she didn’t need to know that. The name carried weight, and tonight he intended to use it.
“A Wayne, huh? And which one would that be?” she teased, lips curling with amusement.
Bruce had a reputation for taking in strays. “Charity cases”, the elite whispered. The term always made Dick’s jaw tighten.
“His first,” Dick grinned. The unspoken “next in line for Wayne Enterprises” hung between them.
He could see the cogs turning in her mind, every calculation pointing toward what she thought would be an easy mark.
“I’m Emily,” she said. “Emily Washburn.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Washburn... or should I say Mrs?”
“Mrs is far too formal, don’t you think?” she said, her smile playful. “Miss will do... for now.”
Dick had his in. Their conversation flowed as easily as the champagne. Emily leaned close, hanging on his every word like one of the jewels at her throat. Not once did she mention her late husband or her widowhood. Every topic circled back to him: his work, his travels, his hobbies. Especially his spending habits.
She was putting out feelers, gauging just how “generous” he might be.
If she ever found out the truth—that Dick wasn’t a millionaire and not a cent of Bruce’s fortune had ever been his—she wouldn’t give him the time of day. When Bruce cut him off, the money went with him. Dick had to start over, building a new life in a different city. He was comfortable now, sure. But nowhere near the level of wealth Emily imagined.
Then came the donation round. The organisers moved around the tables, all polite smiles and hopeful eyes. For some guests, it was like pulling teeth. For Dick, it was an opportunity.
He wrote a generous cheque, enough to turn heads but not enough to look suspicious. He slipped it into the organiser’s hand with an easy grin. Bruce’s chequebook weighed heavily in his jacket pocket, a reminder of how carefully this performance had been choreographed.
Emily’s eyes glittered as she watched him sign. To her, it wasn’t about the cause. It was about the size of the gesture. If this were pocket change, what might he spend on her?
“I hope you don’t throw away all your money,” she teased.
Dick matched her tone. “Only if it’s for a good cause.”
She giggled, assuming he meant her. Dick didn’t correct her.
As the night deepened, so did her boldness. A hand found his shoulder, fingers trailing down the fabric of his sleeve until they curled around his arm. Her touch was warm, purposeful, almost possessive in its grip. A bead of sweat trickled down his spine, disappearing beneath his shirt. The only sign of his struggle.
Touch had always been a double-edged sword. In the right hands, it could connect. A hug, a kiss, a shared closeness. But in the wrong ones—in hers—it controlled. And Dick had spent too long learning what it meant to be caught in someone else’s grasp.
A hand at his hips. Grabbing. Taking.
“No,” he'd said. But it wasn’t enough. Not when his body wasn’t his to command. Not really.
He looked down at the hand atop his; slim, feminine. Different, yet somehow the same.
“Let’s get some fresh air,” Emily murmured, all traces of coyness gone.
Dick offered his arm, still the picture of a gentleman, and led her onto a quiet terrace where no eyes could follow.
The moment they were alone, the act shifted. Dick pressed her against the wall, their bodies fitting together. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer until their mouths met. Tasting. Wanting. A blur of desire and calculation.
Her leg hooked around his, locking him there. Heat pressed between them until the air thinned.
Then something shifted. Her perfume twisted into something colder, metallic. The edges of his vision wavered. The estate's glow dimmed, bleeding into fluorescent lights and concrete walls. A warehouse. His pulse quickened; his breath became ragged. Her hands worked into his pants, and he felt himself grow hard.
He... he couldn’t breathe.
There was a flicker in his periphery. Movement. One of the waitstaff had spotted them.
Emily felt him still and followed his gaze. “Oh, excuse us,” she said sweetly, adjusting her dress. “We were just...” Her smile never faltered. “...getting some fresh air.”
The waiter blushed a deep crimson and hurried off, no doubt to spread gossip about the two guests caught on the balcony.
Dick laughed with Emily, feigning embarrassment, but inside he felt relieved. The interruption was a mercy—an excuse to slow things down, to breathe again.
“Close call, huh?” he joked.
“Very.”
“We’d better head back before they send a rescue team.”
“Can’t have that, now can we?” she teased.
He straightened his suit, checked everything was in place, and offered her his arm. Together, they walked back inside, the perfect image of composure.
At the end of the night, Dick asked her out, and as expected, Emily said yes. He’d been leaving breadcrumbs all evening, guiding her towards the conclusion he wanted. Dick was an easy target. Wealthy. Naïve. Smitten.
When he slid into the driver’s seat of Bruce’s borrowed car, his comm crackled to life.
“Report,” came Bruce’s voice. Clipped, all business.
“Date secured,” said Dick. “She bought it. Hook, line, and sinker.”
“Good. Continue the investigation. Keep me updated. Batman out.”
The line went dead.
For a second, the silence felt all too familiar. Just him, the mission, and a voice that was already gone. After a night surrounded by laughter and lights, Dick had never felt more alone.
Dating Emily was easier than Dick expected, maybe because love had nothing to do with it. She was simply after her next victim.
Their first date was at the Ocelot, one of Bruce’s high-end restaurants. Candlelight flickered against glass, fracturing into a million rainbow shards. Romantic—if it were with anyone else. They talked, drank, laughed in all the right places, performing as much for themselves as for each other.
Dick listened more than he spoke, noting everything of interest. Emily didn’t work, not officially, but her connections told another story. An art curator at Gotham Gallery. The head chef at Bamonte’s. A vintner who bottled Puccio’s wine. People who could open doors… for the right price.
He tried prying into her past relationships, but every attempt was deftly deflected. “Can’t a girl keep her secrets?” she’d said with a sly smile. Dick couldn’t fault her. He wouldn’t want to talk about his exes either.
By the end of the night, she’d invited him back to her home—a mansion overlooking the ocean, just outside Gotham. Every detail oozed wealth: marble floors, gilded accents, and art that could’ve funded a small gallery. Dick silently wondered if it was the inheritance from the first husband or an accumulation of all three.
“Can I get you a coffee?” quickly transitioned to the bedroom. Dick let himself fall into her arms, every bit the lover she wanted. Yet his mind remained elsewhere. If he allowed himself a single thought, even for a heartbeat, he feared what might surface: truths he wasn’t ready to face, memories that still haunted him.
His hands traced her body, lips meeting lips, responding on instinct. Dick had always been a performer, and this was no different. He could feel the heat of her skin, the closeness of her body pressed against his. Even as she murmured his name, nails scratching across his back, Dick’s mind catalogued rather than indulged. It was the only way to keep the panic at bay.
When it was over, Emily fell asleep curled beside him. Dick lay on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, unease creeping through every thought. The mission, the deaths, the lies. He felt himself slipping.
One date led to two, then three.
He took her to the finest restaurants, sailed private yachts, flaunting wealth that wasn’t his. Extravagance built on deception.
The days blurred together: a night at the opera, champagne bubbles at a rooftop bar, the same rehearsed smile reflected in a dozen mirrored surfaces. Nothing felt real.
“She’s warming up to me,” he said over comms, Emily’s laughter drifting from the other room.
“Good,” replied Bruce. “Stay close.”
And so he did.
Dinner became drinks. Drinks became late nights. He spent as much time in her company as possible, ever the charmer, always the spy.
While she showered, Dick cloned her phone, copying every message, contact, and photo onto a drive. Nothing was left private. He searched the mansion, rifling through drawers and framed pictures, piecing together a timeline that refused to fit.
Each relationship followed the same pattern: months of courtship, a proposal, a wedding overflowing with love and laughter. And beneath it all—a lie.
Sometimes she waited before striking; lately, she hadn’t bothered. Her husbands died on their honeymoons, each death ruled a heart attack. Different countries. Different meals. No shared link.
It didn’t make sense.
Her contacts had nothing in common except one thing: what they could offer her. Emily was a user. People were her currency, and she’d perfected the exchange.
It sickened Dick.
Surrounded by more wealth than any person could need, he saw only emptiness. Emily had everything she wanted, and still wanted more. Maybe it wasn’t greed. Maybe it was addiction. The thrill of control. The power to decide who lived and who didn’t.
One night, Dick awoke to find her standing on the balcony, a cigarette glowing between her fingers. The moonlight turned her silhouette silver.
He shifted in the sheets, letting her hear him stir.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked groggily.
“Something like that,” she murmured. Her back stayed turned; her nightgown billowed in the breeze.
He joined her, ignoring the sour smell of smoke. This version of himself didn’t mind cigarettes; he’d grown up around cigars, though he never cared for them.
“Bad dreams?” he asked, testing.
“Nothing that concerns you, darling,” she purred. But her heart wasn’t in it. She was exhausted, not just from the lack of sleep, but from living a lie.
“I’m here if you want to talk.”
A confession. A slip. Anything would help.
She hesitated, eyes reflecting the moonlight. For a fleeting moment, she looked almost human. “Do you ever feel...” She shook her head, letting her hair fall forward. “It’s silly.”
“I won’t laugh,” Dick promised.
“Sometimes I feel like none of this is real. Like I’m not real. One gust of wind and it’ll all come crashing down.”
You should feel afraid, he thought. But aloud, he said, “I know what you mean. When I was young, I travelled the world with my parents, performing from city to city. After the crowd went home, we’d sleep together in a trailer. And now, when I wake up surrounded by all this, it still doesn’t feel real.”
It was true enough. He just left out how he’d gone from circus trailers to billionaire mansions. Murder wasn’t exactly a bedtime story.
“Were you the same?” he asked.
“I grew up with my mother. My father left us when I was three. I barely remember him. But she did her best to raise me. She taught me everything I know.”
She rested her head on his shoulder. He’d already looked into her mother’s past. She died ten years ago, long before the murders began. But he understood. Parents shape who you become. He was living proof of that.
Dick took the stairs two at a time, eager to collapse onto his own bed. It had been weeks since he’d been home. Most of his nights were spent at Emily’s mansion, pretending he belonged there.
He hadn’t realised how much he missed the city until now. The honk of traffic, the distant rumble of construction, the buzz of people constantly on the go. It held life. Blüdhaven might have been chaotic, but it was his chaos. Here, he could breathe. Here, he could be himself. Not the bachelor persona he’d constructed for Emily—just Dick.
He slid the key into the lock and turned it until the deadbolt clicked.
The moment the door swung open, he knew he wasn’t alone. Nothing was out of place, but Dick had been in the game too long to ignore instinct.
In the corner, shrouded by darkness, stood a familiar figure. No armour, which was something. But when had a visit from Slade ever meant anything good?
Dick shut the door behind him, the click sounding too final. Like locking himself in a cell and throwing away the key.
He edged closer, positioning himself near the kitchen, close enough to grab a knife if it came to that. His odds weren’t great. His gear was stashed in the back of his wardrobe, and all he had on him was a taser, a couple of Wingdings, and a blade strapped to his ankle. Barely enough to make a difference.
His heart sat in his throat; sweat dotted his forehead. It had been over a year since Slade’s last visit. Sometimes he dropped by just to give chase. A game Dick never won, even when he caught him. Other times, it was business. Intel. A job.
But most of the time, Slade showed up simply because he could.
Their lives were too tangled to ever part cleanly, no matter how much Dick wanted to.
“What brings you here?” Dick asked, keeping his tone even.
Slade’s eye never left him, not for a second. A slow grin spread across his face as he stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Dick felt the counter press into his back. Cornered. The only way out was through Slade.
“A little birdie told me about a certain blonde of yours,” Slade drawled. “Emily, is it? Peculiar that she’s suddenly taken such an interest in you.”
Dick didn’t know how he found out. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Slade knew, and that meant damage control. He’d be spending his evening putting out fires.
“What’s it to you?” he snapped, forcing himself to hold Slade’s gaze. “I can date whoever I want.”
“Oh?” Slade tilted his head, amusement glinting in his eye. “Can you now?”
“Yes. I can.”
Dick went to shove past him, but Slade caught his wrist mid-motion. He yanked, but it was like pulling against concrete. Unmoving.
“Let. Me. Go,” Dick ground out.
Slade didn’t budge. His grip only tightened.
“I don’t like your tone.”
The words hit harder than they should’ve. They echoed, dragging him backward, to a time when that same voice had snarled, “Watch your tone, apprentice.”
A boot slamming into his back.
The ground rushing up to meet him.
Back then, he’d bitten his tongue, too afraid to risk his friend’s lives. But now? There weren’t any nanobots holding him hostage.
He could fight back.
“And I don’t like yours,” snapped Dick. “So where does that leave us?”
For a beat, neither moved. Dick half-expected to feel the crack of bone as his wrist snapped. But then, Slade’s grip loosened.
Dick tore his arm free, rubbing the tender skin already darkening with bruises.
“I know what you’re doing,” Slade said, his voice measured. “And it’s not going to work.”
“You don’t know that.”
Slade stepped back towards the window, face swallowed by shadow. Only the white of his hair caught the light.
“She’s not going to give you what you want unless you marry her first,” he said. “And we both know why you can’t do that.”
He was right. And that’s what stung most.
“It won’t come to that,” said Dick, wishing he could believe it.
Slade lingered at the windowsill, his silence louder than words. Then, finally, he said, “I’ll be watching.” A promise, more than a threat.
When he was gone, Dick slammed the window shut, frustration boiling over. The investigation. The murders. The endless lies. He was getting nowhere, and time was running out.
Something had to give, or it’d be him who broke first.