"My father..." Talking was difficult with how dry his mouth and throat were. It didn't help his head spun, his heart twisted painfully in his chest, and tremors rattled his hands from fingers to shoulders. "My father..." he tried again as his body quaked against hers. "He was supposed to kill you and your mother."

"Yes, he was."

"Why?" Moisture gathered in the corner of his eyes. Spilled down his cheeks. "Why was he going to kill you?"

Raya looked exhausted all the sudden. Bone-weary. A feeling Malcolm understood all too well.

"Consequences."

"Consequences?" That made no sense whatsoever to Malcolm. Dick, when he glanced at his face, appeared familiar with her use of the word. "For what?"

"Telling."

"Telling?" His head spun from the overload of information. "What did you tell?"

"I told my uncle he routinely beat his wife." Her eyes closed, more a long blink than anything else. "That he was crooked and cheated his clients. Was involved in organized crime. Had a partnership with Roman Sionis to bring in guns and people destined for factories and prostitution. Was building an underground city by enslaving homeless men, women, and children to move his illicit trade without Batman or my uncle being wise to it."

"But..."

"My father appeared much like yours," she continued, staring into his eyes. "He was charming, handsome, successful. A loving husband and father." Bitter rage hardened her face. "Satan in disguise."

Malcolm recalled Fenix's words about not "fearing a clown when you've met Satan." He didn't realize he murmured the words aloud until Raya chuckled darkly.

"The Joker employs cheap theatrics to create chaos and fear." Her forehead tipped against his. "Men like our fathers prefer manipulation and intimidation to misdirects and deception."

"My father's a psychopath."

"No." Her sigh sifted through his hair like invisible fingers. Subtly soothing, slightly stirring. "He's a predatory sociopath and malignant narcissist."

"Who your father hired to kill you."

"Yes," she agreed softly. "He did."

Guilt crashed over Malcolm in crushing waves. He thought he'd be sucked down into the dark abyss where the shadow things dwelled. He figured he deserved an eternity of torment for not calling the police sooner on his father.

"Why?" The word came out hardly a whisper. "Why did he hire my father?"

"Because he needed to silence my mother and I. Only..." Raya's hand slid down his arm to cover his. "He couldn't do it. He couldn't kill her or me."

"Why?" His hand trembled beneath her own. Hard enough he feared he'd bounce hers off. "Why couldn't he kill you? It doesn't make sense."

"Because it'd be like killing you."

"Killing me?" Malcolm shook his head to try and clear it. "Why would killing you be like killing me?"

"I'm my mother's mirror image." Raya's fingers slipped between his own. Offering what he couldn't bring himself to ask for. "Same as you are his."

Flashing red and blue lights tossed Malcolm back in time. The upper landing of Wayne Manor became the foyer of his home with his mother and Ainsley. Dark figures moved around Malcolm as his father crouched before him.

"Malcolm, listen to me." The urgency in his tone, his harried expression shot a sliver of panic through Malcolm. "I want you to remember something, okay?"

Shadows blocked out the flashing lights coming through the open door. Malcolm couldn't make out what they said. Not with his father's voice mixing with the cacophony of noise filling his head. Not that it mattered what the shadows said. They were here to take his father away for what he'd almost done to the nice officer.

For what he'd done to the girl.

The one in the box.

"You're... you're my son, and I love you." Hands curved around his father's upper arms. "I will always love you."

"Because we're the same," Malcolm murmured as his father was pulled away from him. "I'm just like him."

"You're not." Raya's fingers trembling on his drew him back to the present. "You're not him, Malcolm. No more than I am my mother."

"He says..."

"My father hates me because I look like her. I'm not my mother, though."

Her eyes, Malcolm saw, flickered for a brief second with something other than either bitter rage or glacier calm. That crack in her mask allowed him a glimpse of the place where her demons dwelled. Shadow creatures chased her with the same feral glee his did. Raya had been through the same hell as him, but unlike him, she managed to survive. Because she became Fenix, he realized, breath wheezing as the truth finally sunk home.

"You're Fenix." His gaze shifted to Dick. "And you're Robin."

"N-" Dick started but Raya stopped him.

"Yes, we are." Malcolm shifted to look at her as Dick sighed. ""We are Robin and Fenix."

"Rae…"

"You can never tell anybody that you know our identities," she said in a gentle, but firm tone. "The difference between knowing and not knowing our identities is wrapped up in the importance of the fact. We're a necessity that Gotham needs in order for it to survive what men like the Joker, Penguin and your own father try to do to it. Do you understand?"

" I will never tell anybody who you are," Malcolm vowed. "I promise."

It was a promise Malcolm aimed to keep.

…

Bruce hadn't meant to stay so late at Jessica's but found himself enjoying himself too much to leave. He and Jessica were two people who shared history and interests. They were also single parents raising children as different from each other as an assorted box of chocolates. It had been nice to talk with someone who understood what raising a child with special health needs was like. Jessica had invited him to stay and eat with her, citing how lonely she was with Malcolm in Gotham, and her daughter, Ainsley at friends for a sleepover.

Bruce hadn't had it in him to say no.

He dated more than Jessica. Largely because people expected a bachelor like him to squire a different lady around town each night. He cultivated that image of a wastrel and overall degenerate to keep his private life secret. Nobody would believe Bruce Wayne was Batman. Jessica didn't have that as an option. Her social life dried up after her husband's arrest. Doors once opened to her, closed.

Something that infuriated Bruce.

He swore to change that as he waited for Jessica to rejoin him. She did a few seconds later, a frown creasing her brow.

"Something wrong?" he asked as she made her way back to her seat.

"No." Her frown deepened. "At least, I don't think there is."

"You're not sure, though?"

"Honestly?" She shook her head. "No."

"Why don't you tell me about the call?" he suggested. "Maybe I can help figure out if you should be concerned."

"Given how that man is involved?" Jessica huffed a breath. "I have reason to be concerned."

Bruce didn't disagree with her. Martin Whitly was a dangerous man. Especially to his son.

"Was Martin what your phone call was about?"

"Yes... and it was the strangest phone call I have ever received from Claremont Psychiatric Hospital."

"Oh?" Bruce set his wine glass down before he turned to look at her. "Why's that?"

"It seems my rotten excuse of an ex-husband received a letter today from an anonymous person."

Men like Martin Whitly receiving letters wasn't an unusual occurrence. However, a shiver of apprehension slid down Bruce's spine. "Does Martin receive an unusual amount of letters?"

"You wouldn't believe the amount of fan-mail that man receives each month." Bruce could but decided not to spoil the evening with a discussion about the eccentric host of villains sitting in Arkham Asylum. "He revels in it, of course. Why wouldn't he?" Her smile was thin as a blade. "It's all about him."

"Why's this letter different from the rest of the letters he receives?"

"It contained a date."

"What date?"

"December 16, 1998."

Bruce's pulse pounded wildly as pieces thought lost surfaced.

December 16, 1998 was the anniversary of Ellen Rae Berkeley's death.

A date that forever lived in the mind of the daughter she left behind.

Same as the 26th of June would live in his.

He reached for his glass to keep Jessica from seeing his reaction to her words.

"Was the note signed?" He took a small sip of wine. "Or was the date all that was written?"

"It was just the date." Jessica poured more wine into her glass. She tipped the bottle towards his but Bruce placed his hand over it. "Why do you ask?

"Because that is the date of Ellen Rae Berkeley's murder."

Jessica's face blanched. "What?" she breathed out, mouth trembling, eyes wide. "Are you sure?"

Bruce nodded. "Positive."

"Why would someone send that date to that despicable man?"

Bruce couldn't answer that with one hundred percent certainty.

Not yet.

He would soon as he returned to the Manor and talked to the only person who could provide him with an answer.

He had an idea, though.

"Where was Martin that night? Was he home or did he go out that night?"

"As much as I hate defending that man..." Jessica let out a small, disgusted sigh. "He was here that evening."

"He never left?"

"The only time we left was when we attended a performance that evening of The Nutcracker." Her brow creased. "Ellen and her daughter attended that performance with us. Matty provided the tickets, in fact."

Bruce's heart pounded harder as pieces of a fragmented puzzle started to fall into place. Things that never made sense now did with startling clarity. Raya never told him her and her mother attended the ballet that evening with Jessica and Martin Whitly. Something told him the reason was because that part of her memories had been blacked out from the trauma of seeing her mother murdered in front of her hours after the performance.

"What happened after the ballet?"

"Martin drove them to the train station."

"Martin took Raya and her mother to the train station? Not Berkeley?"

"Matty didn't attend the performance with us."

Bruce glanced sharply at her. "He didn't?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"He said he had a last minute meeting with a client and couldn't attend."

The rest of the pieces missing these past seven years fell into place and the picture that emerged shook Bruce to the core.

A man desperate to rid himself of his wife and daughter before they revealed his connection to Gotham's underbelly.

A respected and renowned doctor hiding his proclivity for murder by presenting the image of a loving husband and father to the world.

A killer hired to kill but somehow failed to do so.

Revenge, he realized as he reached into his inside pocket for his cellphone. It's all about revenge.

On Raya for convincing her mother to finally reveal what a monster her father was to Gotham's high society.

On Ellen Rae Berkeley for telling Gordon about his partnership with Roman Sionis and Oswald Cobblepot.

And finally on Martin Whitly for not fulfilling his end of their bargain by ridding Berkeley of his wife and daughter.

That's why he wants to kill Malcolm. To punish Martin Whitly.

Bruce dialed Jim's number as he stood. He didn't need to explain to Jessica where he was going. A look at her face revealed she already figured out what was going on. Her eyes silently beseeched him to protect her son.

"Jim," he said as he headed for the door. "I've figured out the connection between Matthew Berkeley and Martin Whitly."

...

The second Gordon hung up with Wayne, he dialed Gil. Exactly as he promised the billionaire he'd do before they ended their conversation. The phone rang twice before there was a click and Gordon heard, "Arroyo."

Gordon didn't waste time on a greeting. Not when every second counted.

"Are you on duty tonight?" He snatched his rumpled coat from the back of his seat and shrugged it on. "Do I need to put an official call to your lieutenant?"

"I'm off-duty tonight," came Gil's reply. "Why?"

"How long would it take for you to get to Gotham?"

"Forty-five minutes if the turnpike isn't backed up because of the storm. Thirty if I use the Lincoln tunnel." Suspicion sharpened Gil's tone. "Is something wrong, Jim? Is Malcolm..."

"He's fine," Gordon quickly assured him. "He was watching movies with my girl when I phoned her a little while ago."

He prayed they were still watching movies.

"Then why do you need me to come to Gotham at this time of night?"

Gordon ran a hand through his hair as he debated how best to answer. Honest and to the point worked best, he decided, releasing a heavy breath. Get it out into the open so we can figure out how best to proceed.

"Bruce Wayne's figured out what the connection between Martin Whitly and Matthew Berkeley is."

"He did?" Surprise tinged the detectives tone. "What is it?"

Gordon explained as he reached for the overcoat he tossed atop a file cabinet when he entered his office earlier.

"Seems Berkeley hired Whitly to kill his wife and daughter seven years ago."

Tonight, he added silently. He hired Whitly to kill them seven years ago, tonight.

Something not lost on Gil.

"Dr. Whitly didn't kill them, though. Raya is clearly alive and her mother was killed by her father."

"That's why Berkeley's doing this." Gordon grabbed his keys off his desk and headed for the door. "He's getting revenge on Martin Whitly for not getting rid of his wife and daughter by killing the person that matters most to him."

"Malcolm."

"Right." Gordon signaled to Bullock and the two young detectives standing with him. The three followed him from the bullpen without a word. "I'm heading to Wayne Manor now to make sure Berkeley doesn't try and send another team of mercenaries to kidnap the kids."

"Where's Bruce?" Gordon heard the groan of a car door being opened and smiled. "Isn't he home with them?"

"No." A blast of cold air hit him in the face as he exited the precinct and made for the parking garage next to the GCPD. "He was just leaving Jessica Whitly's when he called me."

"Bruce was at Jessica's?" The roar of a car engine partially covered the surprise in Gil's voice.

"That's what he said."

"He's got an additional twenty to twenty-five minutes before he'll even reach the Gotham-Jersey turnpike."

"I've seen how the man drives." Gordon unlocked his car and slid in behind the wheel. Bullock slid into the passenger seat while the other detectives, Tate and Renaldo, walked over to their own car. "He'll reach Wayne Manor before you do, trust me."

And heaven help anyone who gets in his way, he thought as he started his car.