It took her more than a week and copious amounts of coffee to 1) stop resenting him for the deception and 2) conclude that Oliver was really, really good, at being a vigilante.

The second part went down easier than the first. The Green Arrow had appeared several months after his return from his forced exile, meaning he'd taken the time to gear up and hone his skills. His appearances were random. Just last week, he'd stopped a robbery near Queen Tower. She'd found an article of an attempted murderer arrested in Coast City, and a busted prostitution ring in Southern California. Chloe deduced he had set-up some kind of tip-line equivalent to the one that reporters used, which explained why his patrol starting points were rarely the same. If he followed circuits, she couldn't point it out.

A tip-line also explained why most of his targets were thieves, burglars, or drug dealers. The bigger stories, like the sex-slave ring and the arsonist who wanted to level the Glades, were few and far in between. Those, she guessed, required more preparation and maybe a partner of some sort. She was pretty sure Oliver worked without back-up, but someone was obviously covering for him from time to time, since the Green Arrow had been spotted when she knew for a fact that Oliver was elsewhere. As out of sorts as she'd been at the time, she would have noticed if he'd left the penthouse during her stay.

He used tie-wraps or other common biding, nothing that could be traced back to him, not even his weapon of choice. Chloe spent a full night of hacking through police records and surfing the dark web to come up empty-ended. Whoever manufactured Oliver's arrows and crossbow bolts was either too small a fish to be found, or buried under so many shell corporations she would need something much more powerful than her laptop to track it down.

She also didn't want to alert anyone, less of all Oliver, that she was digging into the Green Arrow. At first, Chloe only wanted to confirm her suspicions, then she'd gotten caught up. Contrary to the Blur or the Green Lantern, Oliver was one hundred percent human. He bruised. He bled. He broke bones. That was when the anger kicked back in.

He'd known it was her in that alley. He'd seen her reaction. He could have revealed himself right here and there and saved her from herself. Or he could have told her the truth when she literally begged him to rescue her. And if not then, he could have said something at any point during her stay, when he'd gotten to know her better. She had trusted him all her secrets, she'd trusted him with her life.

"Training partner didn't pull his punches. Arrogant, pathetic, lying jackass!"

"I hope you're not talking about me, I just got here, I haven't even used a needle yet."

Chloe snapped the lid of her laptop shut. "Doctor Hamilton! I wasn't expecting you… How are you?"

"That's normally my line. I thought I'd pay you a visit."

Since you canceled our appointment twice and you refuse to talk to Oliver. That part went unspoken, though she heard the light reproach loud and clear.

Chloe rose from her spot under the pergola. That was another thing she owed to Oliver, she thought. After enjoying his penthouse terrace for a week, she could no longer work inside when the November weather was so gorgeous, even midway to Thanksgiving. Not that it excused anything. She forced herself to swallow her irritation. The man in front of her wasn't her target, and it was not his fault he worked for a cheater with a green leather fetish.

"If you want, I baked an apple pie this morning…"

"Nicest welcome I've ever got for being pushy. This way?"

Chloe nodded with a tight smile on her face. "Yes. Second before last door on your right."

Emil Hamilton politely waited while she opened the door and put her laptop and phone aside before moving to the kitchen. Fully conscious he was taking in details such as the lack of color on her cheeks or the strain in her shoulders, Chloe busied herself with coffee and warming the pie. "Whatever you tell me will stay between us, Chloe. Doctor-patient confidentiality is something I take seriously."

"I…" She didn't want to talk, but something in the kind eyes studying her helped getting the words out. "I'm all right… mostly."

"Still having nightmares?"

"Some. I'm having trouble falling asleep, and I wake up at the first disturbance."

"Headaches?"

"No, not anymore. Or not as severe, I guess. I barely notice."

She served one generous slice of pie to the doctor, took a smaller one for herself. He shook his head when she offered to doctor his coffee with cream and sugar. Hamilton pointed at her plate with his fork.

"How's your appetite?"

"It's okay. It's easier eating with someone." She cut a bite of her pie and brought it to her mouth to demonstrate. Emil imitated her.

"That's a really good pie."

"Thank you."

"My wife is a good cook, but she's a terrible baker."

He worked through his slice before broaching the subject of his visit again.

"So, trouble sleeping and eating. Do you feel anxious?"

"Sometimes. It's not as bad as before."

"And how bad with it before?"

He had seen her during her seizure, Chloe knew. So it was a pretty easy guess that Oliver had shared some of her history with Hamilton like he obviously had with Hal. However, Emil seemed to prefer she confided in him firsthand. She chose to take a shortcut rather than list the symptoms he probably knew by heart.

"I have a prescription for Ativan."

Hamilton nodded at the mention of the heavy medication. "I can renew that if you want, or we can switch to something lighter."

Chloe shook her head. "I don't like drugs."

"I hear you. A little help here and there can go a long way, but I've always believed it more efficient to deal with the source of the problem itself."

She translated his remark into the not-so-subtle suggestion for therapy it was. She linked both hands around her mug of coffee and attempted to lift it for a sip. The porcelain was too hot, so she put it back down on the table without drinking. Therapy meant trusting someone else to understand the dark twist inside her every time she woke up covered in cold sweat, with the acrid smell of a fire long dead filling her lungs.

Emil Hamilton took off his glasses to wipe them with a handkerchief. "I am not saying you should talk to a therapist if you're not comfortable with that. Some people find it easier to confide in a stranger. Others prefer to rely on a friend. Others get their feet back under them doing something they love. Some go to an ashram to learn meditation. Some bake. Some take on writing or painting. And some chose a more hands-on approach, like martial arts or archery."

Chloe spluttered. Hamilton smiled. "It's up to you to chose what works best for you."

He pushed away from the table and stood, making his way to his medical bag in the living room. "I will give you a quick physical before I go, but I think you're on the right track. You just need to be patient. Listen to your body."

Chloe pouted. "If you tell me to cut back on coffee and start exercising more, I might bite."

"Duly noted."

When Emil Hamilton left some time later, Chloe drew her laptop back to her. She stared at the files opened on her desktop. One article in particular caught her eye. A small museum in Romania thanked an anonymous donator for returning several drawings from Alex Leon, a Jewish-Romanian painter who'd used his art to expose Nazism horrors. The modus operandi matched the Green Arrow's most complicated heist to a T.

Chloe opened a fresh document, and started typing. Dorothy Gale, freelance reporter, had the means to expose the Green Arrow. Let Queen Oliver deal with the consequences of his actions.