Chapter Eleven

The funeral was on a Tuesday.

Everyone knew the casket was empty. Somehow that was the worst thing. Austin didn't allow himself to think too much about that, the fact that there was no body to recover from the wreckage. Everything charred to ash, all of them arriving too late.

They'd had to identify her using old dental records. He'd thought that was only something they did on TV. He could imagine some worn, baggy-eyed detective standing outside the precinct, sky the color of concrete, ashy cigarette in hand, turned away from the camera just so, so you could see the sharp angle of a clenched jaw, the insistence of a five o'clock shadow. The way his colleague would come jogging down the steps, young, fresh out school, a newbie. Coltish and thin. Maybe a little quirky or weird. He would have gotten teased in school. He'd stand behind the seasoned detective, rattle off some police jargon that nobody outside of the profession would understand, and then the detective would crane his neck to glance over his shoulder, lower his cigarette. He'd exhale slowly to let out all that billowy smoke, and then he'd raise his eyes and say, "Get the dental records."

It made Austin laugh, the absurdity of it.

And then it just made him cry.

He tried not to imagine the intensity of her suffering, the scorching heat of the flames, the suffocating black smoke. They told him she had died upon impact—but how could they really know that for sure? What if she had still been alive when her car hit the tree? What if she had been injured—trapped—unable to free herself as the flames engulfed her? It was hard not to imagine what must have been going through her mind in those final moments: if she'd thought of him, if she was able to think of anything other than the pain that ravaged her, the desperate need to escape, to free herself. What it must have felt like to burn alive.

The first couple of days, after, he spent them alternating between sobbing in their bed and clutching the seat of the toilet, hunched over it on his knees, dry heaving, forcing up the empty contents of his stomach. The back of his throat burned, raw from the acidity of his own gastric juices. His mouth tasted sour and stale no matter how much he brushed his teeth. He'd never get that taste of out of his mouth.

Friends brought by food, casseroles and home-baked goods that Austin did not have the stomach for. He had accumulated quite a large collection of Tupperware in the fridge. He should have felt bad he'd have no way of getting the dishes back to whoever they belonged to—he couldn't remember who had brought what.

Taylor's friends were the most supportive of all, even more than his own. There were always new condolences in the mailbox, cards addressed to him, others for Taylor, which he read, all these personal anecdotes from her coworkers, her friends, private memories he had not been privy to until now, when suddenly he was reading and imagining them all in startling clarity. He read them over and over again, until his eyes blurred with tears and he couldn't see.

The letters took up residency throughout the house—there was no specific place for them. He left them on the coffee table and on the kitchen counter, on the dining room table and lining the bedroom dresser. Some he clipped to the fridge, and all of them served as too-tender reminders that Taylor was not here, and she never would be again.

Sometimes, he went out of his way to drive past the site of the wreckage—that mangled tree—still standing but charred, a staggering, black monster amongst a sea of trees that were otherwise full and lush, blooming with summertime growth. Sometimes he felt like he wanted to tear the tree down with his bare hands, as if it alone were responsible for this unspeakable tragedy.

He wondered often what had brought Taylor here specifically, in the middle of nowhere, far from work, her friends, all her usual haunts. There was nothing out here but winding roads, land that had been forgotten, untouched by time. He wanted to know what she had been thinking, coming out here, if she had just needed to clear her head, get away from the city, or if she had come with a plan, if the crash had been intentional, perhaps premeditated. Everyone treated it like an accident, telling him the roads were dangerous, the curves sharp, unforgiving, coming up on you before you even really knew they were there. But he knew a sour truth that many did not—she had tried to take her own life before. There was nothing from stopping her from attempting the act for a second time.

It frightened him to not know, whether it truly was an accident, if she had been driving too fast, lost control of the car… or if she had swerved the wheel in a moment of heartbroken resignation, unable to sift through all the accumulations of pain in her life. Unable to bear it, any of it. Unable to bear the thought of her own husband not believing her, siding with the detectives. That sharp sting of betrayal.

He would have liked to of seen her one last time. Run his fingers through her hair. Cradle her face in his tender hands, press his forehead to hers—even if the skin was cold. Sallow. He just wanted one last memory with her, something he could cling to, something other than his real last memory of her: fighting on the stairs outside her father's house, her cold dismissal of him in the hallway, as he was about to leave—all of which he could not blame her for. If their roles had been reversed, he might have treated her the same way.

He remembered—and he was glad for this—that the last thing he'd said to her was that he loved her. They had not parted in a firestorm of angry insults, at least. And though it should not have hurt that she did not echo the sentiment back to him in that moment, he couldn't help but feel torn by it. She had always been so generous with her endearments, saying them often and freely. Instead she had asked him to leave. Please go, she'd said, and then something about a byline, perhaps to soften the blow. Translated: Leave. I don't want to see you right now. Trying to make light of it, when really she was hurt by him, could hardly bear to look at him. He had betrayed her trust.

It was confusing to think back on the events that had led up to this, like trying to untangle a bunch of necklaces that had accidentally gotten knotted together. He knew how extensive and tedious of a task that could be. Taylor had been given a jewelry box of old costume jewelry that had belonged to her mother. Clara had collected the items as a little girl—necklaces, earrings, broaches and pins—which Taylor had been fascinated with. The jewelry box, though hadn't survived their first move, having gotten tumbled around in the back of the moving truck, and she had spent a good hour or so trying to untangle all the necklaces, sitting at the dining room table, working meticulously. He knew how much the jewelry meant to Taylor, even if it most of it was too gaudy to wear outside of a Halloween costume. He remembered the way he'd come up behind her, winding his arms around her neck, coaxing her to come to bed. But she wouldn't until she had finished, something he had always loved about her. She was such a fighter, the kind of person who found it hard to put down a Rubik's cube until she had solved it. She did not like to leave a job unfinished.

Was. She was a fighter.

Austin drove himself to the cemetery that morning. His mother had called the night prior, offered to send a driver over to pick him up, which he had declined. He didn't need to make a show of arriving to his wife's funeral in a stretch limo with tinted windows. He'd be in a rental for the next couple of days, until the insurance could work out the claims and he could shop for a new one.

It was a pale, cloud-heavy day, the sky the color of milk. No sun. It had rained the day prior, and the ground was soft. Soggy. From the car, he watched a woman's black heels sink into the soft earth as she made her way to the burial site. A friend of Taylor's from the hospital. He couldn't remember her name.

He sat in the parked car for a long time, the engine off, soaked in that new car smell, dressed in a suit that was too stiff. He felt like a stranger. Misplaced, or something, like he was from another time. He'd had to dig the suit out of the back of the closet the night before, couldn't remember the last time he would have worn something so formal. He'd tossed it over the back of a chair to air out, and it hung there, looking like some deformed, shapeless humanoid, something viscous and black, like that painting with the melting clocks. No amount of fabric freshener was going to correct the stench of mothballs. He could still smell that, too.

He stared out at all the headstones in the distance, thinking about all of the hundreds of people buried here, all the loved ones they'd left behind, all the people who had stood in this cemetery and cried, all the roses and bouquets and crosses left on headstones, tokens of love for the afterlife. A last parting gift.

He wondered how many of the people buried here had died of old age—natural causes—and how many had died young, their life cut so short they'd barely had time to really even live. People like Taylor.

The crowd was growing thicker in the distance, turning into a dense, black glob the longer he stared, his vision fuzzing, until there was nothing there at all and he was forced to blink. He heaved a sigh and opened the door. His head throbbed, concentrated near the front of his skull, so that he even felt it behind his eyelids. The Tylenol he'd popped that morning at four AM was wearing off. He just wanted this to be over.

It was a nice service. Generic. Respectful. The priest had been provided to him through the funeral home. Austin had met with him briefly several days prior to tell him about Taylor. And it was strange, describing what she was like to a complete stranger, to someone who had never seen the way she moved her hands when she talked, or that way she always tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, only to have it slip back into her face moments later. Or the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, that dimple on just the right side of her mouth. The brief way she always tilted her head up at the sky and closed her eyes every time she stepped outside, just for a second, always looking for the warmth of the sun, even on cloudy days. It was a comfort to her just to know it was there, even if she couldn't see it.

It was embarrassing, the way he'd choked through the whole thing. Taylor was kind. Taylor was beautiful. Taylor loved people. Taylor doodled on everything. Taylor was stubborn. Taylor always left notes for him around the house. Taylor read all of his writing, even the boring stuff. Taylor loved the color yellow. Taylor always said "I love you" every night before bed. Taylor only ever sang in the shower. Taylor loved long car trips. Taylor always laid out her clothes the night before. Taylor loved strawberries and pink lemonade. Taylor's favorite time of the year was Christmas. Taylor always packed him a lunch before work. Taylor loved the cheap games at the carnival and always wanted to play every single one.

Taylor was the only person he had ever truly loved.

It was impossible trying to compose a single snapshot of the person that Taylor was—he couldn't communicate even a fraction of her vibrancy, her passion; how could he possibly hope to put it into words?

A couple of people threw roses onto Taylor's coffin as it was lowered into the ground, and he was struck by a spark of annoyance; Taylor didn't like roses. She always pricked her fingers on the thorns. She said once that they were deceptive beauties, the petals baby soft, but the stems sharp enough to draw blood.

Afterwards was a whirl of handshakes and hugs, pats on the back, a sea of condolences, tender apologies. His mother and father hovered close by throughout, also receiving sympathies and hugs, as if they too were burdened by this great tragedy. It made Austin sick to his stomach, thinking about the way his parents had treated Taylor throughout their marriage. Such a farce, them being here. His mother was probably preparing a mental list of all the eligible women in the tristate area. His father—an imposing man, forever stoic—gave firm handshakes to everyone who approached, followed by a stern nod.

With Austin's blessing, a couple of Taylor's friends from the hospital had put together a wake at a local recreation hall near Darber Park, not far from the cemetery. Taylor's friends insisted on paying for the whole thing, the rentals, the catering, the decorations, and he was grateful for it. He would never have been able to arrange something like that himself.

His mother and father did not attend. At the cemetery, his father clapped him on the back before departing, looking as tight and upright as ever, years of military training so deeply imbued, it was probably impossible for the man to slouch. He had deep, hard-earned lines etched into his forehead and cold, gray eyes. He had no final parting wisdoms to share, no sympathies.

His mother took this opportunity to pull him aside, looking polished and refined, not a blemish in sight. Even her wrinkles looked well cared for. Her only giveaway was that she smelled like an old woman—that department store perfume stench, carefully selected for this particular occasion. Something heavy, a mix of too-potent florals and patchouli.

"Austin," she said, laying a finely manicured hand upon his forearm, "I don't know what your plans are in all of this, but I was thinking perhaps it might be wise for you to sell the house and consider moving back in with us for a time. We can help you work out where to go from there. I have made plans for—"

"Mom." Austin cut her off before she could continue, already nauseous at the thought of selling the house. He hadn't even considered what he was going to do in regards to the house, all of Taylor's stuff. "I am not ready to think about that yet, okay? It's too soon."

"Austin—"

"I said it's too soon," he snapped. "Leave it."

His mother heaved a great sigh, the dramatism of which made him want to roll his eyes. He could see in her own eyes that she wanted to push further, that he had upset her. Austin had racked up a long history of wounding the pride of his parents by not allowing them the full authority of dictating his entire life, as if they were the captains of this voyage and he just a lowly passenger on his own ship.

But wounded pride was the expectation now, after so many years of sour-tasting disappointments, and he watched his mother reach for his father's arm as they marched back to the car. He watched them go. They were miserable, bitter old people, but they would always have each other. They would always have each other, and that had to count for something when you had nobody, didn't it?

The wake passed in a blur. Ryan made sure that Austin got something to eat, kindly forcing a plate of hors d'oeuvre into his hands and sitting down with him as Austin shuffled food around on his plate, poked at different meats and cheeses with his plastic fork, those multi-grain, sesame seed crackers that leave too many crumbs. The finger foods had come from one of those oversized party platters with the variety of cubed cheese and the baby vegetables, carrots and celery that had browned around the edges, surrounded by a plastic pot of sour ranch dressing.

"Alice is sorry she couldn't be here," Ryan was saying, "she couldn't do the drive with the baby and all."

Austin shook his head. "Don't worry about that. It means a lot that you're here."

"Matt's sorry he couldn't come, too. I know he feels like shit about that. He said he was gonna give you a call later."

Austin nodded. There was soft piano music playing. In the center of the room, a round table with a corkboard propped up, pinned from top to bottom with pictures of Taylor. There was a small, clean box there too, where people could slip cards and condolences inside. He stood in front of the corkboard for a long time, looking at all the photos of her. Some of them he'd never seen before.

He felt a hand on his back, and he turned to see one of Taylor's friends, Elizabeth. They'd known each other for several years, since Taylor had started working at the hospital. She had always said Elizabeth had been one of her closest friends.

"Hey," she said. She rubbed his back a little, offering him a half smile.

"Hey. Thanks for being here."

"How are you holding up?"

Austin's eyes slid back towards the corkboard full of memories. "Oh, you know," he said. "Just barely." He laughed a little, trying to make light of it, but it tasted stale the moment the words left his mouth.

"I know," she said quietly.

"Thanks for setting this all up, by the way. It—it means a lot."

"Oh, don't thank me. This was mostly Amanda and Kaitlyn's doing."

He nodded. Couldn't think of anything else to say.

One photo in particular had caught Austin's interest, something from her college days, at the beach with friends, a starfish cupped tenderly in both hands, a look of utter awe and elation spread across her face, eyes all lit up in that way he loved. It made him smile.

"Hey," Elizabeth was saying, "last time Taylor and I talked, we thought about having dinner together. We should still do that. Christian and I would love to have you over. Any time. Consider it an open invitation."

Austin swallowed. "Thank you," he said. "That would be nice."

People began departing a little while later. Ryan and Amanda helped him load the box of cards and the corkboard and a few leftovers into the trunk of his car. He shut the trunk, and then hovered for a few minutes beneath the overhead concrete awning of the rec center. The sky was starting to gray. It looked like it might rain again.

"Should I—?" He nodded towards the inside, where people were folding up chairs and clearing off the tables.

"Absolutely not," Amanda said. "We've got it from here."

"Thank you again, for all this. Taylor—she would have liked this."

Amanda smirked. "Taylor would have been embarrassed as hell by all this and you know it, but I appreciate your gratitude."

Austin chuckled, the first of the day. He felt some of the tension slide off his shoulders. "Yeah, yeah I know."

More hugs exchanged, and then Austin was sliding into his seat, pulling out of the rec center as his friends waved to him in the rearview mirror.

It was dusk now, half past seven, the sky gray-blue. The rain had held off. He thought about heading straight home, but the idea of the empty house—where Taylor's memory clung so imperviously to every object, embedded in the air, even—was unbearable.

He took the next turn left instead, and ten minutes later was standing on the porch to her father's house, illuminated by the glow of sherbert orange street lamps. Austin hesitated before knocking. Down the street, a dog was barking, followed by the sound of rustling trash cans. Midtown traffic.

He rang the doorbell.

William looked even worse than Austin expected. Neither of them said anything for a moment, and then William's face was crumbling, and he pushed himself forward into Austin's arms.

"I'm sorry," he was saying in between sobs. "I'm sorry, I couldn't come—"

"I know."

"She was my baby girl," he blubbered, "I always promised her I would take care of her. When her mother died, I promised—"

Austin held him and let him cry, knowing that's what Taylor would have wanted. He was the only family that William had left. They had to be there for each other now. Whatever feelings Austin had felt towards William before, whatever grievances he had allowed to cloud his judgment, he had to put those things aside, if not for William, then for Taylor.

The house was dark and hot, all the blinds and curtains drawn to shut out the light. The air conditioning didn't seem to be on, and even the fridge was quiet. Austin wondered if he'd paid his utility bill, and then realized that Taylor had probably always taken care of that for him.

"I just don't understand what happened," William was saying as he pulled away. He held a hand over his eyes for a long time, the bottom part of his face twisted in a grimace. "Where she was going, or why." He sniffled, finally found it in himself to look up at Austin. His voice was heavy, cracked. "Did she do it on purpose?"

Austin swallowed. There was no use hiding his expression, the fact that he had grappled with that very same question. There was a visceral ache in his chest when he responded, a sharp pull. He heaved a sigh. Shook his head.

"I don't know."

The men in clown masks led Taylor to the end of the hall towards a waiting stairwell.

She counted the flights as they led her down them; four in total. The stairwell was hot, muggy, and dark, with no natural source of outside light to aid the way. Ace followed behind her, and she kept looking over her shoulder at him, unnerved by his proximity, the way he breathed hot and damp on the back of her neck, walking too close, practically stepping on the backs of her heels. The long, cold barrel of a machine gun nosed against the bare backs of her thighs, a silent warning. He barked at her to move faster, and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end every time he nudged her with the gun.

She gripped the railing with a vice the whole way down. Her legs were burning by the time she reached the bottom—it felt like it'd been years since she'd last gone down a set of stairs, let alone descended four flights. She had to catch her breath at the bottom, hands on her knees, breathing hard. Her lungs were on fire. Had she really gotten that deconditioned in the time that she'd been here? Just how much time had passed?

"Hurry up," Ace snapped. He fisted the back of her t-shirt and yanked her back into a standing position. She exhaled a noise of surprise but did not fight him.

The bigger clown—Chuckles—held open the door at the bottom, allowing her to pass through first, with Ace close on her heels.

They stepped out into a long, narrow hallway, where they were greeted with some natural light, spilling out from the open doorways along the expanse of hall. It was that kind of shaded sunlight, as if it were having to fight its way through an overgrowth of green foliage. She wanted so badly to go outside in that moment, to breathe air that was fresh, undiluted by dust and rot.

Her eyes were wide—hungry—as she frantically tried to drink in her surroundings, possible routes of escape, desperately cataloging everything for later.

Another hallway, then, and suddenly Chuckles was pushing open a set of swinging double doors. Ace urged Taylor through them with a harsh shove, nearly making her trip over her own feet.

She looked around in confusion. It was a kitchen—or whatever was left of one.

She imagined, at one time, it had been beautiful. Sprawling and large, with gorgeous stonework floors, black and white diamond-shaped tiles, which were now dull and chipped from years of abuse. Five oversized stoves were lined up next to each other along the far wall, and then there was a long, metal island in the middle of the room that ran along the entire expanse of the kitchen. Pots and pans and other cooking utensils hung from hooks along the top bar of the island, along all four sides; most of those utensils now lay on the floor, soaking in dark patches of dank-smelling water. She could imagine how that island had acted as a sort of centerpiece, or been the general hub of the kitchen. The line of cooks on one side helping to prepare the food, chopping and slicing and dicing, and then on the other side, the people who plated the food, adding a little tree of parsley nestled beside a rum-soaked steak, or a pretty dollop of cream on top of a frosted, almond amaretto cake, making sure every dish was perfect and pretty before it was whisked into the dining room.

Above them, the hot bank of florescent lights sizzled, occasionally flickering off and on. The room smelled rotten—a mixture of piss, animal droppings, and something that had crawled up some pipe somewhere and died. She resisted the urge to cover her nose and mouth and instead turned back to look at Ace.

"Boss wants this place sparkling." He nudged a bucket of cleaning supplies in her direction with his boot. "Think you can handle that?"

She gaped at him. That was not at all what she was expecting. "Are you serious?"

It was a moment before Ace remove his clown mask, taking a menacing step towards her after. He cocked his head. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

"No, I just—" Her eyes darted towards Chuckles for support, but he only stared at her with his red-rimmed eyes, those gleaming metal teeth, his arms hanging limp at his sides. She wondered what he looked like behind the mask, if his actual face was just as terrifying. Like a dead man walking. Her eyes skirted back to Ace, at a loss for how to explain. "There's no way I can clean all this," she stuttered. "It's—"

"Are you telling me no? Is that what I'm hearing?" Taylor took a cautious step back as Ace advanced closer. "Barker, is that what you're hearing? That this spoiled cunt doesn't want to do what she's told?"

'Barker' didn't say anything. Taylor cowered further backwards, eyes darting back and forth between the two of them. "That's—" she paused to pick her words carefully. "Please, that's not what I meant…"

She didn't get a chance to finish before Ace was lunging for her, grabbing fistfuls of her t-shirt with both hands and shoving her back against the huge metal island. A jarring clang of metal pots and pans rattled above her, making her flinch as some came crashing to the ground. She ducked out of the way as one narrowly missed her head, but Ace was quick to right her, the table shifting slightly beneath their combined weight.

"I'd think long and hard about how you plan on speaking to me in the future," he snarled. He reached a hand up to grip her jaw with a vice, his nails digging into the soft flesh there, and she cried out, unable to pull herself away. "You've got a nasty mouth on you. It'd be a shame for you if something were to happen to it, wouldn't it?" Taylor whimpered in response, breathing hard, struggling against him. "But maybe that's just what you need," he mused, thoughtful. "A good wash out." It was a moment before he spoke again, and when he did he pressed himself along the length of her for emphasis, his spittle spraying all over face when he spoke. Hard not to look at his sharpened canines. "I'll clean your mouth out with bleach if you disobey me again. Then I'll fuck my cock so far down your throat I'll split it in two. Do you understand me?"

Taylor swallowed hard. Her eyes filled with angry, unshed tears. "Yes," she whispered, a word ground out through gritted teeth.

Ace roughly let her go, and the island rattled as he stepped back. She kept her eyes on him as he reached for a nearby mop leaning up against the wall, throwing it at her. She caught it with both hands.

"Then get the fuck to work."

Taylor watched both men leave, the double doors to the kitchen swinging closed behind them.

She exhaled slowly, releasing all the tension and anxiety that had coiled up inside her body like a snake. She was going to have to watch herself around Ace—she did not think for a second that his threats were empty-handed. She wondered if he hated all women as viciously as he seemed to hate her, or if she was just a special exception.

She allowed herself one more moment to gather her wits, and then she turned to assess the damage. There wasn't time to waste, even if all she wanted to do know was crumple to the floor and lie there.

There was a section of ceiling above the stove where it was blackened and starting to cave in, indicating a fire of some sort. Broken glass, a shattered pile of ceramic plates, and other ruined kitchenware littered the floor. It was as if a tornado or earthquake had come hurdling through.

Aside from the sizzle of lights above, the only other source of light in the kitchen came from a square pane of window near a side door, what appeared to be an exit to the outside. The temptation of escape was tantalizing, lighting up all her nerves, but her split-second of fire was dimmed by her fear. She looked up into the corners of the ceiling, half wondering if there were cameras, if she was being watched or monitored in some way. Maybe Ace and Barker were lurking just outside the door.

No. Now was not the time to run. Not yet. Not until she had garnered more freedom. More trust.

It was tedious work, the kind of slow, back-breaking labor she hadn't sloughed through since she was a teenager, working in some mom-and-pop restaurant that had just nearly skated by on the health inspector's report. Mack's or something. She had worked there in the eleventh grade, after school and sometimes on the weekends, with the intent to save for college. She had wanted to go to art school—drawing was something she was good at, that she was passionate about. It anchored her. But her art school dreams died when Clara did. Suddenly the prospect of NYU or Columbia was far too daunting without her mother's support. And the idea of attending university in another state was out of the question given her father's rapidly deteriorating mental health.

Taylor crouched on her haunches to inspect the bucket of supplies Ace had left her. Some crusty bottles of Clorox and bleach, a few questionable looking sponges and stiff rags. An off-brand bottle of dish soap that was only a third of the way full. She sighed and assessed her surroundings once more. She decided that the best course of action was to get everything up off the floor first, tackle the mess from the ground up; at the very least it'd give her better mobility to maneuver around the kitchen. She wasn't sure why the Joker wanted her to do this—but she wasn't going to risk questioning it.

She worked diligently for hours. Sometimes she'd pick up a pot from the floor only to have a mouse or some other rodent come skittering out, racing back into the recesses of the darkness to hide beneath the row of stoves or disappear inside some hole in the wall.

There was a bank of sinks near the back of the kitchen where she stacked all the salvageable pots and dishes. The broken bits and dishes that were ruined beyond repair she swept into the corner until she could locate a trash can. It took the better part of the day just to get everything up off the floor, and the kitchen itself was still filthy, reeking of decay and things long ago expired. She'd need more than some mostly-empty bottles of bleach and a couple of moldy sponges if they expected her to get anything done.

She searched for sharp things while she worked, bits of broken plates, metal shards, knives—something small enough that she could conceal it in the pocket of her shorts, but large enough that it would inflict debilitating damage when the time came. It wasn't hard; she was surrounded by broken objects, things that screamed for the thrumming pulse of an engorged carotid, but it was her paranoia that won out in the end, her fear of retribution, punishment—maybe another round of electroshock therapy, or perhaps being starved again. She couldn't risk her hard-earned freedom quite so soon.

She hadn't even touched the mop yet when she was forced to stop in her tracks, reaching out a hand for the nearest solid surface to steady herself. The headaches weren't as sharp or severe as they once had been, but they still let her know when she was nearing the time for her next dose.

She tried to ignore it, at first, the dull, persistent throb. Tried to continue working. But it was too hard to focus, and she was hot, and thirsty, and her stomach cramped with hunger pains.

She didn't hear when the doors had opened, but suddenly there was the sound of someone clearing their throat, and her heart skipped a beat, maybe two. She spun around to find the Joker there, watching her.

"Well," he said with a flourish, when he knew he had her attention. She watched his gaze sweep over the room, and she couldn't tell whether or not he was pleased. "Haven't you been a busy little bee," he said, his words reeking with sour condescension. When he took a step further into the room, Taylor felt caught in the clenched fists of fight or flight.

"I—I'm not finished yet," she faltered, forcing herself to speak, unsure of what he really thought of her progress—or perhaps the lack thereof.

He hummed in acknowledgement, and then he was ducking his head a little to see her—his view partially blocked by the pots and pans that hung suspended from the island that separated them.

There was something paralyzing then—seeing him at a distance like this—all his features blurred nastily together, the red and white and black, and the sheer bulk of him, even from across the room. His head ducked at that angle, broad shoulders hunched towards his ears, the way he held so still, like an animal just having spotted its prey. His unflinching assessment of her, how small she felt caught in his open stare, how he made her feel like her vulnerability bled itself all over the floor, coming completely undone just from the way he was looking at her. It took her breath away.

"Come here," he said.

She couldn't move, at first, like some centrifugal force was inhibiting her from taking a step forward. But she did move, eventually, forcing herself to do as he asked. She rounded the corner of the island and stopped, afraid of proximity, of being too close, knowing that distance was her only trustworthy ally.

For a moment, he didn't do anything at all, and she waited, her heartbeat throbbing all over, in her ears, her throat, her belly.

"Clo-ser," he finally said. "I won't bite."

She highly doubted that. She must have hesitated for a second too long, the Joker's impatience snapping like a frayed thread. He moved on her with a speed that startled her, grabbing her arms and crowding her back against the metal island. He used his weight to trap her, then his gloved hands were hooked under her thighs, hoisting her onto the counter.

"Wait—!" she gasped, trying to pull away.

He grappled for both of her wrists, capturing them with one hand. When he revealed a syringe in the other, she understood. The fight died out her, and she breathed hard as she slumped weakly against the counter, her heart racing. She felt like an idiot as she lifted her eyes to his. He cocked his head at her curiously.

"What did you think I was gonna do?" he asked, his eyes dark and glimmering. She could see the amusement swirling behind them, even if he wasn't smiling.

She elected not to reply, lowering her gaze to her PICC line. She straightened out her arm to him, and he took it in his hands, laying it in the position he wanted it. She watched him procure a saline flush from inside his jacket, and then was unable to avoid catching the glint of something shiny, and then some small, bulbous protrusion. A grenade.

She swallowed and pretended she hadn't seen it, even if the ripple of goose bumps that lit up all over her forearms was a dead giveaway. If he noticed, he didn't say anything, and she tried not to think about it while she let the waves of reprieve slowly wash over her. She closed her eyes as she felt the drug enter her system. It was like candy, that sweet rush of euphoric relief. Her pulse slowed, and her grip on the edge of the counter loosened some. She felt weightless.

When she opened her eyes and looked up, she was surprised to find him staring at her. She glanced down at her line and realized he had already finished administering the medication. She hadn't even noticed. She felt embarrassed that he had caught her so off guard. She wondered what he had been thinking about as he looked at her.

She shifted uncomfortably beneath the weight of his intense gaze, unnerved by his silence. When he leaned in close, just slight, just enough for him to fit his mouth near the shell of her ear, her entire body tensed up, shoulders drawing up to her ears out of protective instinct.

"Don't move," he said. And then he was gone.

Taylor's heart sank to the pit of her stomach, where it felt like all her muscles desperately clenched around it, needing a lifeline, something to hold onto. She couldn't imagine what he had in store for her now. The temptation to escape was stronger than before, tugging at her with an urgency hard to ignore, but she forced herself to remain still. Do as he asked. She had to plan her escape right, needed to have all the intricacies and details in place; she operated under the unnerving knowledge that if she escaped and was caught, the Joker would make her wish she was never born—even more so than he already had. She shuddered to think about the repercussions of another failed escape attempt. No, she would continue to nurture thoughts of patience. She would wait. The time wasn't right yet, but it would be.

It felt like a long time before he came back. She swung her legs beneath the counter and wiped the sweat that was beading along her forehead with the back of her forearm. It was so hot. She would have done anything for air conditioning. An icy cool shower. A glass of water.

When he returned, there was something clutched in his hands, a small package of some sort. When he laid it out on the counter next to her, she realized that it was a kit to change her PICC line dressing. Relief flooded over her. He hadn't brought back a knife, or an axe, or some other method of torture.

Central line dressings were supposed to be changed every seven days, and the tape on hers was starting to furl around the edges, crusted and browned. She'd be lucky if she didn't develop some kind of infection from it.

The Joker ripped open the package, and she watched him set to work. She was surprised to see him put on sterile gloves—and don them properly. A question hung on the tip of her tongue, and it was spilling out without her consent, before she could stop it.

"Where did you learn how to do that?"

The Joker paused, raising a brow to look at her. Taylor's heart pulsed once, thrusting all her blood forward in a violent rush, only, none came back to refill the empty chambers. She waited, breathless, for his answer, terrified that she had overstepped her bounds and upset him.

She watched him stretch the rubber glove against the palm of his hand until it snapped sharply back into place.

"I'm just full of surprises."

She exhaled in something like relief. That was the understatement of the year.

She expected him to say more, or elaborate in some way, but he was silent while he worked, and she was left to wonder whether he'd practiced some form of medical training in a previous life. It was strange to imagine him having once inhabited some shell of a normal existence, one where he might have worked nine to five, maybe worn a uniform, or a suit that wasn't purple. Someone who punched into work on time, and then at the end of the day punched out. Someone who owned a house and drove a car, maybe even been in a relationship, or had a family.

She dared to raise her eyes to study him, his own downcast as he worked. The heat of the day was setting behind them in that small pane of window, just a little sliver of yellow sun left, like a slice of lemon. It turned his eyelashes golden at the ends. There was something incredibly boyish about it, something humanizing, reminding her there was a man buried beneath those thick, nasty layers of white and black. Just a man, but perhaps a monster too, or perhaps an urgent convergence of the two, something given birth to in the dark, something that nobody had wanted, that had been left to rot upon the doorstep. Perhaps that was the real genesis of his story, cast out upon the fringes of society, into the weeping, bloody periphery. Forced to bleed out in the wasteland, only, he had blossomed instead, needy and insistent, blooming into something hungry. Something terrible.

The silence had become unnerving the longer it dragged on, and Taylor licked her lips and swallowed, desperately coaxing moisture back into her mouth.

"How long have I been here?"

It was pitiful—the whispery, cracked sound of her voice—but speaking at a normal volume felt too bold, too insolent. She did not want him to think she was challenging him.

How long have I been here? There was a part of her that didn't really want to know—that did not want to think about how long she had been left to suffer trapped inside the Joker's clenched fist. She did not want to know exactly how many days Austin and her father had had to process her "death", to mourn her, how many days they'd had to think about the last things they'd said to her, and the last thing she'd said to each of them.

But the other part of her—the one that clung so stubbornly to hope—had to know. She had to know for how long she'd endured this. She had to get hear bearings back, some sense of time to orientate her.

It was a moment before he responded. Her question hung suspended in the air for so long she was almost afraid he would not answer it.

"Dunno," he said at length. "Do I really look like the kinda guy who pays attention to a calendar?"

Taylor breathed out heavy through her nose, her teeth clamped so tightly together it hurt. She wanted to scream; she wasn't buying his "crazy" act—she didn't believe for a second that he didn't know what day it was. The Joker was the kind of man who knew the exact hour of the day, down the minute, maybe even down to the second.

She kept her eyes on his hands as he changed her access ports—still sterile—working slowly but efficiently. Perhaps he wanted to draw this out.

"Was there a funeral?"

That drew the Joker to a pause. She watched his expression carefully for any telltale slip, some sign, some indication that his answer was honest, that he wasn't concocting some other lie to feed to her. He finished twisting on the new access ports. Removed his gloves. It was hard not to stare at his hands—she'd rarely seen him without his leather gloves. There was white greasepaint stained on his fingers, some black on the palm of his left hand, like a black spot, a warning of death. His nails were sharp, jagged. Too long.

"Closed casket," he said. "Ob-vi-ously. Wasn't much of you left in the fire." He looked at her in a way that made her feel like he was bearing down inside her, or maybe peering over some inner ledge, his eyes like hot coals, raking up and down her insides, into the very recesses of her soul, burning all the secret places she'd been too scared to look at too closely.

"Big turnout," he went on. "Shame about Austin, though."

Taylor's head snapped up. Hearing the Joker say Austin's name sent an ice-cold frisson of fear tearing through her. Suddenly possessed by an overwhelming fury, she was reaching out for him, emboldened by anger, fisting the lapels of his jacket in her hands. There wasn't fear, then, only rage—madness—as she gripped him, white-knuckled, and spit out through gritted teeth.

"What did you do to him?"

The Joker grinned, feeding into her mania, leaning in close. "Nothing you haven't already done yourself." He licked his lips, the whites in his eyes gone, edged out by black.

"What are you talking about?"

"The flames were still going when he got there, you know. All that black smoke. But it was already too late. He could hardly stand it."

"What did you do?" she snarled. She felt sickened by the excitement in his eyes. The hunger. Her fingers ached from where she gripped the Joker's jacket with a vice. She felt a bead of sweat trickle from her hairline down the side of her face, curving along the line of her jaw.

"Y'know, if you really think about it, it's almost as if you've been slowly killing him for years. All the shit you put him through."

Taylor's heartbeat faltered at his words. She felt her grip loosening, her jaw growing slack.

He took this opportunity to fit himself between her spread legs, pushing her thighs apart with one hand, before she could stop him. A noise tangling in her throat, and suddenly he was pushing her down, forcing her back onto her elbows, his abdomen pressed against the lower half of hers as he leaning way down, holding himself above her. Too close, now, the heat and weight of him pressed so solidly against her, enveloping her.

"But you don't need me to tell you that, do you?"

"I don't understand—"

The Joker interrupted her by settling more of his weight on top of her. She squirmed underneath him and he smiled for a second, like he was enjoying that. Then he rolled his eyes skyward, dramatic and exasperated, as if he was having to explain something to a child for the third time.

"All those sleepless nights. The nightmares. Fighting in the dark. You sent him to the emergency room one night… broken nose, I think?" His gaze lowered to where her hands gripped the edge of the counter, white-knuckled. "You must have quite the set on you."

Taylor gaped at him, horrified that he could know such intimate details. "How—"

"Oh, and don't get me started on the money. All the expenses you've racked up over the years, the pills, the therapy." Here he tsked, and then there was a sharp edge to his voice. "All for what, hm? What has therapy done for you?"

Goose bumps prickled over Taylor's skin. She swallowed. "I—"

"And all those overnight trips out of town, hunting down the next big story… you didn't really think that's what he was doing, did you?"

Taylor's eyebrows pulled together in confusion, and she felt her heart clench in spite of herself. Suddenly it was as if the strings tethering her heart to her chest wall were coming loose, starting to fray.

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh, honey, tell me you're not that naïve." Not just loosening anymore, but suddenly she could imagine the Joker opening her up, ripping into her sternum with both hands, her chest wall spread evenly on either side of her, like a set of deformed wings. And bloodied scissors clutched in his hand, the Joker grinning as he cut through those tenuous heartstrings himself. She could hear the easy snap of them.

"You? You're blonde number four. You keep the bed warm while he's away fucking some other little bunny." Taylor started to protest, some involuntary sound catching in her windpipe, choked off, and the Joker feigned pity. "Oh shush, shush, shush, you didn't really think you were the only one, didja? A guy like Austin? Honey, men have needs, and you're not exactly meeting them, are you?"

Hot tears of shame burned her eyes. It was ridiculous to feel slighted by the Joker—of all people—but the insult was like a gut-punch, like having the wind knocked out of you.

"I know you think about it," he went on, before she could catch her breath. "How could he love you, after all? What do you have to offer? Your past has defined you… your fear shackles you, like a biiiig ball and chain. You carry it everywhere."

"You're lying!" The accusation was choked out of her, but it sounded defeated even to her own ears. Her heart in his palm, now, this desperate, pulsing thing, hot and engorged with blood, already starting to clot.

The Joker tilted his head. "Maybe. But now you don't know for sure," he said, sounding thoughtful. His eyes narrowed dangerously. "Now there's a lingering shadow of doubt. Now you wonder."

"You don't know anything," she spit out through gritted teeth, but the bite of her insult was lessened by the warble in her voice, the tears blurring her vision.

"Like I said… I'm full of surprises."

She was crying. She hated herself for fucking crying. "You don't even have proof."

"No," he said. His weight shifted, his forearms coming down on either side of her, bracketing her, and he was smiling, his head tilted just slight. "But you don't need it."

Her heart, then: thrumming madly in his open palm, until suddenly it wasn't. She watched him lift it to his mouth, the look in his eyes fascinated—feral—and then his teeth sinking way down into that tender flesh, ripping it open.

She threw her head back and screamed.