7. Into the Gray

The jail cell was cramped—five feet by eight, probably less; Dora couldn't be sure. The concrete walls were a dull gray, and so were the floor, the ceiling, and the steel door sealing her in. The fluorescent lights hummed above her, obnoxiously bright, but one bulb insisted on flickering and snapping incessantly. It was driving her mad and giving her the worst headache of her life. She would have tried to rip it out of its socket if it wasn't behind a metal grill.

So much for taking all the credit, Dora thought to herself. She massaged her temples as a bone-chilling shiver rippled throughout her body. She had never been more uncomfortable in her whole life.

She was cold, hungry, thirsty, and in pain. Her hair and clothes had dried, but she still reeked of alcohol from the thugs shooting up the liquor shelf behind the bar. The shredded hem of her stained tank top exposed her stomach and arms to the 70-degree chill circulating in the room. Her lower back ached because of the unyielding aluminum bench she was lying on. Dora knew these holding cells were purposefully constructed to ensure maximum discomfort. To coerce suspects to confess or flip.

Although the EMTs had cleaned and treated the burn on her hand, the pain seared every now and then as if it was still on fire. She wanted to regret making that Molotov cocktail, but she couldn't. Without it, Carla and Holly wouldn't have been able to escape the bar.

It had been eight hours, although she could only guess. The only way to keep track of time was the combination steel toilet/sink that automatically flushed itself about every thirty minutes. She knew because she had counted the minutes. But since then she had lost count of the flushes. She was tired and wanted to sleep, but just couldn't for longer than twenty minutes at a time. It wasn't the lights, or the hard bench, or the toilet flushing, or the pain in her hand. It was the recurring flashes of blood bursting from human heads, Red Hood's gratuitous violence that kept shaking her awake.

But mostly, it was the man she had killed.

The bullet was too fast to see, but she could easily recall a hole appearing in his cheek, his head bobbing, his body going limp, and a misty red halo in the air behind him.

She felt sick to her stomach, not for the first time since being locked in this cell. As her stomach heaved, Dora forced herself to think of something else. Anything else.

Her mind landed on Carla.

Is she alright?

Carla had escaped the bar, but Dora didn't know if she had gotten home safe. She and Holly could have run into another group of thugs on the way. That wasn't out of the question in Park Row in the middle of the night. And if she had made it home... It broke Dora's heart thinking about how shell-shocked Carla had been—nearly catatonic. She almost died. And she saw me kill a man. How long will it take for her to get over that? Hopefully she hasn't talked to the police.

Detective Bullock wouldn't give her a phone call, so the worry was killing her—along with the anxiety of how her mother was bound to react. She couldn't be bailed out even if they had the money. Montoya had tried to emphasize that she wasn't under arrest. She was being detained as a witness. Apparently in the GCPD's messed-up way of operating, that didn't entitle her to the same basic privileges as a criminal.

A clatter came from the other side of the door. Dora sat up and popped the kinks out of her back as the door slid open with a sharp buzz. Bullock walked into the cell in a cloud of cigarette smoke. "Had enough?"

Dora wasn't sure if she was happy to see him or not. "You interrupted my nap," she said through a real yawn.

Bullock grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out of the cell. He led her out of the cell block, his grip never loosening. He was hurting her, aggravating the burn on her hand, but Dora didn't complain because he might cuff her instead.

He shoved her into an interrogation room and pushed her so hard into a chair that it nearly toppled over. Montoya entered the room as Bullock sat down at the table.

"Let's try this again." Bullock put out his cigarette and tossed it aside.

Dora glared at him. "Okay." Nothing had changed since before he had "detained" her—hours ago.

Montoya picked Bullock's cigarette butt off the floor and put it in the wastebasket. "You don't have to talk to us without an attorney present."

"Shut up, Montoya," Bullock snapped.

"It's her Fifth Amendment right. We have to say it."

"No, we don't. She's not under arrest."

"It's okay," Dora said, "I don't need the Fifth. I didn't do anything wrong." Lawyering up implied she was guilty of something—which she was, but she wasn't about to let anyone know that.

Bullock wasted no time. "Who is he?"

"I already told you. Red Hood."

Bullock growled. "What's his real name?"

"I don't know." You think locking me up for however many hours would make me remember something I've never known?

"Look, kid, it isn't a coincidence that the Red Mook saved your ass twice in one month. We know you are tight with him. Just give us his fucking name already."

"I don't know who he is. Haven't you heard? The whole neighborhood around Park Row is his turf now. Isn't it the police's job to watch our backs, not vigilantes?"

Bullock grit his teeth. He didn't like that slight, but chose to ignore it. "Thirty square blocks of territory, but he still managed to know when you were in trouble."

"My bar is in the middle of Park Row. You're a cop, you of all people should know how bad it gets on that street. They call it Crime Alley for a reason, dude. Red Hood's a vigilante, so yeah, I guess he was watching closely, especially in the middle of the night. Plus, those assholes shot up my bar for, I dunno, ten whole minutes before he even showed up—maybe a half hour before you guys finally decided to." She wanted to go on, but bit her tongue. She had said plenty. It's no wonder we have half a dozen vigilantes running around the city. You guys suck at your jobs.

"Why'd they shoot up your bar for? What'd you do to piss them off?"

My little sister had some coke they wanted. "I already told you," Dora said, rolling her eyes. "They just broke in and started shooting up the place. Maybe they wanted to rob me. They certainly wanted to kill me. They were probably False Facers, looking for payback from before." In truth, Dora suspected they were from the Latino United gang or Escabedo Cartel. The LU were enforcers and dealers for the cartel.

"Those asshats your boyfriend killed were members of the Escabedo Cartel, not the False Face Society."

Knew it. "What's it matter who they work for?"

Bullock chuckled bitterly. "Yeah, you're right, it doesn't matter. Gangsters, pimps, judges, councilmen, CEOs... Your boyfriend kills whoever the fuck he wants. Everyone wants payback."

"Stop calling him that!" Dora finally snapped. "He's not my boyfriend!"

"You know what? I think he is!" Bullock stood up and slammed his fists on the table. "You're fucking the guy, aren't you? Why else is he always saving your ass?"

"Always?" Dora was exasperated. Bullock jumping to conclusions was infuriating. "He helped me out twice! Just two fucking times!" She held up two fingers, and wanted nothing more than to jab Bullock's eyes to make him understand. Red Hood had saved Holly and Rochelle both twice as well, but she couldn't mention that without implicating them.

"I'm not stupid! And neither were those men that shot up your bar! They knew you are the Red Mook's old lady, that's why they rained hell down on your head—to draw him out! Admit it! You're fucking him! Tell me his name!"

"I have no idea who he is!" she shouted. "I've never even seen his face!" For half a second, she couldn't help but wonder what was behind his mask—and that reminded her. "The dude took one step at me, so I pepper sprayed him! I don't like him any more than you do, so fuck off, man! I just want me and my bar to be left alone!"

Bullock pulled out a pair of handcuffs from his belt. "Come here, you lying little spic, you're—"

"Bullock, enough!" Montoya pulled him away and slammed him into the wall. Dora was surprised. She was stronger than she looked.

"Get off of me!" Bullock shrugged her off.

"Back off the girl, Harvey, or I'll tell Gordon you're harassing a witness." Montoya's deep brown eyes seemed to smolder. Dora had seen the same look in her mother's eyes, and her sisters'. Maybe it was a Latina thing.

"She's not a witness, she's a fucking accomplice!"

"We don't know that yet."

"It's right in front of your face, Montoya! Open your fucking eyes! We should book her now for obstructing the investigation!"

"Not without due diligence. Get out. Now."

Bullock groaned and threw his hands up. "Fine. I'm done. I'm fucking done. I don't know why I bother. Get out of my way, I'm going home. I'm getting too old for this shit." He shoved Montoya aside and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Montoya pinched her nose, releasing a tense sigh.

"How'd you get stuck with an asshole like that for a partner?" Dora asked. She was happier than ever for withholding the truth. Red Hood was probably right. If she had told Bullock that she had killed one of the thugs—even if it was in self-defense—he would have jumped to charge her with manslaughter, or worse. A trial would probably prove her innocent—probably—but she didn't have the time or energy to deal with Gotham's bullshit justice system.

Montoya straightened her jacket and took the seat across from Dora. "I agree with you. He's an asshole. But he's a good detective despite that."

Dora scoffed, incredulous. "You don't actually believe that—"

"Look, mija—"

"I'm not your fucking kid." She hated Montoya calling her that as much as she hated Bullock calling Red Hood her boyfriend.

"Sorry. Dora, look. If you don't speak up now, it could bite you in the ass later."

"I already told you what happened. I already told you I don't know his name, or what he looks like under that mask."

"Okay, this guy's real cool. I get it. He's tall, he's fit, he's got a mask and can go toe-to-toe with Batman, Nightwing, even Mr. Freeze." Montoya reached across the table and held her hand. Dora let her, but narrowed her eyes. "And he's looking out for you more than anyone else. He's got your back when no one else does. Dora, I know it seems like he cares about you..."

Dora pulled back her hand. "He doesn't. I'm not..."

"... but don't confuse his attention or your own gratitude for love—no es amor verdad…" It's not true love.

She couldn't take it. Pushing off the table, she stood and ran her hands anxiously through her hair.

Montoya was wrong. Dora had no idea who Red Hood was, what he looked like, even his age. And of course, he didn't like her that way. She didn't like him that way either. If anything, Dora was sure she annoyed Red Hood, having to be saved all the time. He probably had things he would rather be doing than saving her butt and cleaning up her messes.

But then she remembered just how much it looked like he enjoyed beating the crap out of those thugs. How he enjoyed killing them.

Dora took a deep breath and glared at Montoya. "For the last time. I don't know his name. I don't know what he looks like. And I am not sleeping with him. Okay?"

Montoya steepled her fingers and studied Dora closely. "No me gusta mentiras. If you're lying to us, Dora, when we catch him, you'll be charged as an accessory to every crime he's committed wearing that mask. He's killed people, Dora, so you'll be complicit. Do you understand what that means? You'll be in prison for the rest of your life too. Would you really risk your freedom, ruin your life, for some guy? Por este hombre?"

Dora only glared at her. She didn't want to say it again.

Montoya sighed. "Okay, mira. While you were in detention, I talked to the DA's office and they've offered a deal. If you help us catch him, we'll give you queen for a day. You'll be immune to everything he's done so far. But you have to decide now."

For a moment, Dora thought it was insulting that Montoya believed that she would let her emotions, her feelings for a man, cloud her judgment—her morality.

But with a pang, she realized that Montoya was partly right. It had happened last night when she reached for a gun rather than her pepper spray. It was happening right now, she was lying to the police, denying that she had killed a man, and letting Red Hood take the blame instead.

But it didn't matter. She didn't have the information Montoya wanted. "Pass," Dora finally said.

Montoya hung her head for a moment, disappointed, then nodded. "Fine." She stood up and opened the door. "Then you're free to go."

Dora was halfway out when Montoya whispered in Spanish, "This is your last chance. I hope he's worth it."

And at that moment, Dora wished she did know Red Hood's identity, because she hoped he was worth it too.

#

The door opened with a loud buzz and clank. A uniformed police officer ushered her through. "Keep your nose out of trouble, kid."

I try, but trouble always seems to find me, Dora thought.

She walked out into the crowded lobby of the 99th Precinct and was suddenly aware of how exposing her tank top was—sheer and torn, her midriff bare for everyone to see. Bullock and Montoya hadn't given her a chance to grab her jacket when they "detained" her, let alone her phone or bag. Going back inside the bar would "contaminate the crime scene." After hearing her story at the Alibi, Bullock had spat "Bullshit!" in her face and shoved her into a cruiser. Montoya had to convince him to wait for the EMTs to treat the burn on her hand before they drove her down to the precinct headquarters. Looking out the plate-glass doors across the lobby, Dora dreaded the nine-block walk home—then the hairs on the back of her neck rose. She could sense her coming.

Fuck.

A short, slightly plump, but very attractive older woman approached Dora, sandals slapping the floor as she stomped, her earrings and bracelets jingling. She looked frazzled, a scowl on her otherwise pretty face, her long dark hair pulled into a messy bun with several fly aways.

"Dora Adela Marianela Aurelia Manuela Silva Alvarez!" Dora's mother shouted her full name for all of Gotham to hear. The woman shuffled up to her, unleashing an almost incoherent babble of Spanish. "Dios mío, dige me todo! Voy a pegarte si no le me digas la verdad... Que pasó en mi bar? Ay, pero mira... O, mi niñita... Lo siento, perdoname. Ven aquí. Dame sus brazos. Está okay?" Oh my god, tell me everything! I'ma slap you if you don't tell me the truth. What happened to my bar? Yikes, but look at you… Oh, my baby girl… So sorry, excuse me. Come here. Give me a hug. Are you okay?

Dora cringed as her mother Anita pulled her into a tight hug. But unlike many times before, the cold awkward embrace became warm and welcome. Dora found herself gripping her mother tightly and burrowing into the crook of her neck. "I'm sorry, Mami. Era una noche insana... voy a dijir todo, no te preocupas." It was a crazy night. I'm going to tell you everything, don't worry.

But Dora knew she couldn't share everything. She would have to give her mother the same bullshit story she had given Bullock and Montoya.

Anita frowned and made a concerned noise, fretting over the look of her. "Here, take my jacket. You can tell me everything later. I need to file a report about the bar," her mother said. "For insurance y todo. Cuida sus hermanas." Take a care of your sisters. She released Dora from another vise grip of a hug and strutted off. She was an attractive woman despite her age, and several men, cop and perp alike, rubbernecked as she walked away.

The lobby of the 99th precinct was gray, dingy, sparsely decorated, and bustling with questionable people and intimidating cops. Dora saw her youngest sister, Mercedes, fidgeting as she waited at the back of the room. Her heart broke a little. The nervous eight-year-old girl took after her father, with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and fair skin, and she was clearly uncomfortable in this dingy place.

Carla sat next to Mercy, looking as vacant as she had the night before—like she was asleep with her eyes open. With earbuds in her ears, the environment didn't seem to bother Carla as much as it did Mercy. The eight-year-old sang to herself to calm her nerves, rocking back and forth. Her eyes flickered to Dora, and she was immediately out of her seat, running to her. Dora desperately wanted to talk to Carla, but she couldn't say no to her baby sister, especially when she was so anxious.

Mercy hesitated when she was close—Dora knew it was because of how haggard she looked, but she put a smile on her face and beckoned her to come forward. Mercy lunged forward and embraced her. Dora hugged her back tight and kissed her forehead. "I'm so sorry. I know I was gone, but I couldn't help it. Something bad happened in Papi's bar."

Mercy wrinkled her nose. "You smell like him."

Dora clenched her jaw, remembering her father's vices. "Yeah, there was a spill."

"What happened?"

"I was robbed. Some bad guys tried to take our money. It happens, y'know? But I was saved by—"

"Batman!" her baby sister chirped.

Dora smiled and shook her head. "No, not Batman. This guy calls himself Red Hood."

"Oh, yeah! I've heard of him! Some of my friends don't like him. They say he's a bad guy. Apparently, he kills people... and cuts off their heads..."

"He only kills bad people," Dora emphasized. "Men who deserve to die." As soon as she said it, her mouth felt dry. Damn it. Did she really mean that? It wasn't something she should have told an impressionable eight-year-old girl. "I mean, people who kill other people."

But it was too late. Mercy frowned. "But Mami yells at Carla all the time for being bad! Cuz she hangs out with those bad boys who are in a gang, right?" She grabbed Dora's sleeve. "Red Hood is not going to hurt Carla—is he, Dora?"

Carla's eyes flicked in their direction at the mention of her name. She finally noticed Dora and pulled off her earbuds.

"No, he won't hurt her," Dora said. She gave Mercy a kiss on the cheek, grabbed her hand, and guided her toward Carla. "Can you keep a secret?"

Mercy nodded eagerly.

"Red Hood... he's my friend," Dora said, only half-believing it was true. "And we're good people. He won't hurt us. He's protecting us."

"But he's scary, Dora. He kills people. You're really friends with that guy?"

Dora searched for an answer Mercy would understand, looking from her eyes to Carla's, who was waiting anxiously. She finally said, "Sometimes, a hero has to be scarier than the monsters he fights. Sometimes that's the only way to protect people: scaring off the bad guys. Batman is pretty scary, right? But he's a good guy."

Mercy frowned. "Yeah, but Batman doesn't kill people, this Red Hood guy does."

It was as if someone struck a match with Dora's heart. Maybe he should, she thought suddenly, inflamed. If he did, Gotham wouldn't be harassed by the same assholes again and again.

As quickly as the thought had sparked, it was doused by the disquiet on her baby sister's face. She probably saw the anger on her face, leaving Dora feeling ashamed and sick to her stomach again.

Carla handed Mercy her phone. "Give us a sec, please." As the little girl went back to her seat, Carla pulled Dora aside by a vending machine. "Are you alright?"

"Are you?" Dora asked. That seemed like the imperative question. But then she realized that Carla must have been as worried as she was, if not more. Dora had been the one to stay behind in the Alibi to take on four armed thugs, not Carla. Dora looked down at her bandaged hand. "Yeah, I'm fine. How's Holly—umph!"

Without warning, Carla had hugged Dora, so hard she forced the breath out of her.

"I'm so sorry for putting you in that position, Dee," Carla lamented. Dora could feel her tears on her shoulder. "I'm out of that crew, for good. I'll never talk to those dudes again. Don't... just don't tell Mami. Please! She'll kill me!"

Dora pushed Carla back and wiped the tears from her eyes. "What about what I did?"

Carla sniffled and tilted her head. "What do you mean? Almost burning down the bar with a Molotov? That was actually kinda badass."

"No, I..." Dora couldn't finish what she wanted to say—"I killed someone"—in the middle of a police station, with her eight-year-old baby sister within earshot.

"What?" Carla asked, confused.

Does she not remember what I did?

On second thought, Dora realized that maybe Carla had missed that part. She never saw Dora actually kill that one thug. She had been huddled under the bar, having a panic attack, trying her best to ignore the situation and will herself out of existence.

She pulled Carla back in and hugged her tightly. "Don't worry about it. I'll never tell anyone you were there." She wouldn't. She had to keep the lies she told the cops consistent. However, she felt guilty for considering her sister's post-traumatic memory loss a silver lining. She could take Carla to the free clinic for therapy another time, but for now she just wanted to go home, take a shower, and sleep in her own bed.

"I love you, Dora."

"I love you too, Carla."

As if granting her wish, their mother approached, holding Mercy's hand. "It's nice to see you two finally getting along. Let's go home."

Notes

Song Reference: "A Wolf Amongst Ravens" by After the Burial

Version 41.1