White roses do not stand up well to rain. They quickly develop rusty spots and creases and eventually hang on their stems like limp gym socks. However, white roses were what Bruce had ordered to be placed fresh on Rachel's grave every three days, and the roses were there when they visited that grey and weeping morning.

"I'll have the gravestone taken away first thing Monday morning." he promised his friend, holding the umbrella over the two of them.

"Thanks." Rachel shivered.

"Are you cold? You can borrow my coat—." He was about to hand her the umbrella and shrug himself out of the garment, but she stopped him with a hand.

"No. I'm not cold. I just had that 'someone walked over my grave feeling'—if it isn't too gruesome to say that here."

"Yeah, it's ironic. The sad thing is, we may never know who she was. I—. Cremation seemed the best thing to do, under the circumstances." Bruce winced.

"Finishing up the job the Joker started, huh? Gordon must have been unhappy to hear that." Rachel knelt down and fussed with the roses.

"He was. They're going to comb the missing persons list, but if she was an out-of-towner, she may not even have been reported missing in Gotham. All we know is that she was more or less your height and build." Bruce held the umbrella over her, ignoring the rivulet of icy rain that trickled down his spine as a result.

"That's not a lot to go on. I'm average everything." She straightened up.

"You're not average anything."

The warmth in his eyes made her step back a pace. "Bruce—didn't Alfred give you my note?"

"What note?" The honest puzzlement in his voice told her he spoke the truth.

"I—it was a note telling you I was going to marry Harvey, Bruce. I love you. I have always loved you. I think I will always love you, but not the way you want. Maybe there was a time that it might have worked between us, but that moment passed. I can't put my life on hold waiting for a time that will never come—the time when you get over—putting on a bat costume and going out to wage war in the city streets."

"Rachel—you're stressed out. I appreciate that, but you don't—."

"Are you going to tell me I don't know what I'm saying? Are you going to pat me on the head and tell me I don't know what I feel? How could I prefer anybody to billionaire Bruce Wayne, especially when he's also the heroic Batman?"

"That wasn't what I was going to say!" They stood for a moment looking at one another. Rachel was breathing hard. Bruce continued. "I didn't know how to tell you this, but Harvey—The night Harvey disappeared, he killed three people. Detective Wuertz, Maroni, and Maroni's driver, a man named Schiavoni.

"Then he forced Detective Ramirez to call the guards off Gordon's family so he could take them hostage. He threatened to kill them, Rachel. He nearly killed Gordon's son. He had a gun to that little boy's head. He got away from me that night, because it was either save the boy's life or catch Harvey. He isn't the man we knew, Rachel. He's insane and a killer."

"No. Why—why would he do such a thing? Harvey wouldn't kill anyone. He believed in the law. He believed in justice!" Rachel's hands flew to her mouth and her eyes creased, welling up with tears.

"He was mad with pain—half his face was burned off. And mad with grief as well. Losing you broke something inside him, something more than his heart."

"No." She shook her head, trying to deny it. "No. Oh, God. He—he told me about his father, but, but, he wasn't unstable. He wasn't mentally ill. Where is he? You have billions of dollars, can't you find one man?"

"I've tried! I hired detectives, I searched myself—and Gordon and I, we tried to keep this under the rug. For Harvey's sake, for yours, and for Gotham's sake as well. I—Batman, that is—took the blame for as long as I could, but I couldn't make the witnesses say Batman was there when he wasn't. The lie fell apart."

"Lies always do." Rachel whispered. "Oh, this isn't real. This isn't happening."

"Miss Dawes!" The shout made their heads jerk around. Commissioner Gordon, followed by an aide who was trying to keep an umbrella over his boss's head, was marching double time through the cemetery toward them.

"What's wrong, Commissioner?" she asked.

"Miss Dawes, can you tell me where you were last night at around midnight?"

"I was at Bruce's penthouse. In the guest suite," she hastily explained, "talking to my mother on the phone. Why?"

"That's a secure building, isn't it? It has cameras and doormen 24-7? In other words, you can prove you were there then and didn't leave?"

"Yes, she can—if my word isn't good enough." Bruce put in. "What is this about, Commissioner?"

Gordon took a damp print-out from his inner pocket. "This was pulled off a surveillance camera at the Sleep-eze Motel out on Highway 83 by the airport."

He held it out for the two of them to see. They saw a motel parking lot. The Joker was crossing it carrying a twelve pack of beer, accompanied by a young woman in slim turquoise pants and a white blouse. Her dark hair covered her face and her shoes were decidedly pink.

"So this clears Rachel!" Bruce looked up at Gordon's brooding face.

"With any luck. There's more, though. At quarter past one this morning, Harvey Dent walked into the emergency room of Gotham Adventist Hospital and gave himself up. He's asking to see you, Miss Dawes. He's in…pretty bad shape, I have to warn you."

"What are we waiting for? Come on!" Rachel turned and sprinted for the parking lot through the drizzle.

"Is it safe?" Bruce asked Gordon in an undertone.

Gordon sighed. "He's restrained, and I have two officers there. But mentally—I don't know. He's going on about ghosts and angels and redemption. Try and prepare her for the worst."

"I will." Wayne vowed.