My apartment was too silent. The ticking clock in the living room filled my head like a chorus of voices. I grabbed it and threw it. It hit the opposite wall and the glass face shattered. It kept ticking. I snatched my pistol from the counter and shot the battery out. The clock exploded across the floor — and so did the tile beneath it.

I dropped the pistol and wrapped my fingers in my hair, squeezing my eyes shut. I focused on each breath to stop them from turning into sobs.

He'd been gone three days. The media told me nothing. They didn't even mention the ordeal. Surely the death of the Clown Prince of Crime would be breaking news?

That meant he had to be alive. But what if Bats had captured him? What if he was torturing him at that moment?

It physically pained me not knowing.

I crossed to my laptop and refreshed the page on several newsfeeds. Nothing.

The more I reflected on the Bat, the cops, the ACE weapons, and the millions of dollars in stolen items, the more I decided we'd gone too far. At the first sign of the Bat, we should have stepped back. We should have been more careful. If we'd stuck with lower-profile crimes — quick, precise, focused — Mister J wouldn't have ended up in so much danger.

I stared at my phone, the home screen void of messages. The background image grinned up at me — a selfie of Mister J and I from a particularly interesting hold-up at the aquarium a few weeks back.

Each night since I'd lost him, I'd searched for him near ACE and the bar where we'd met. I imagined finding him waiting for me with that big smile—

A knock sounded.

I scrambled for the door with such haste that I kicked several pieces of clock and tile down the hall. I pressed an eye to the peephole and saw a face covered by a hat, sunglasses, and scarf.

"Who...?" My voice was broken. I tried again. "Who is it?"

He pulled his sunglasses up, revealing piercing green eyes. My knees weakened.

"Puddin'!" I threw the door open and reached for him. "I was so—"

Mister J strode past with a newspaper in his fist. He removed his disguise and threw it on the floor, not sparing a glance at the smashed clock.

"This explains it," he said through his teeth. "They identified us."

I didn't register his words. I tried to reach for him again, just to touch him, to feel his physical form and make sure he was really there.

"Puddin', where did you—?"

He thrust the newspaper at me. "About a hundred people sent photos of us."

He wasn't going to talk about anything else. Surrendering, I closed my fingers around the newspaper.

"We were dressed up, Mister J. They can't identify us."

He snarled. "Look at this one!"

On the front page, the largest of several photos, was the selfie of me and the doe-eyed blondie.

The last photo taken of Jessica Pressfield, 18, before she was murdered by notorious criminal Harley Quinn.

My face was sharp and clear. I inwardly cursed the camera quality on these new phones.

"Makeup or not — fingerprints or not — your features haven't changed, Miss Harleen Quinzel."

I raised my eyes to him, pulse quickening. My apartment was under my parents' names, not my own, but did that mean I was safe? How long did I have before the authorities found me?

"And we know they've figured out where I live," shouted Mister J, a vein in his temple pulsing.

"But — but they don't know who you are, really."

He threw up his arms. "Not yet!"

"Now, calm down, puddin'," I said, the words escaping as a whimper. "It's not that bad."

"They're a step away from catching us. We have to get smarter next time."

I opened and closed my mouth. Next time? "We need to stop altogether, not hope another angle doesn't get us killed!"

He met my eyes, finally. "Don't be stupid, Harley. We're not letting an unfortunate run-in with the Bat ruin a good time."

He paced the apartment, kicking shards of glass and tile, fists clenched in his hair.

I dropped the newspaper and stepped closer. "Mister J, think about what could happen if we keep—"

"Shut up, Harley!"

His temper was flaring out of control, his breath coming too quickly. In an attempt at bringing him back to me, I extended a hand.

"Dance with me, Mister J."

He spun, fist raised. In a blink, I was on the ground, a pain in my collarbone.

"Now we don't even have that rifle," he shouted. "How can we do anything productive?"

The room darkened as he towered over me. Something changed in his eyes. Any softness had been replaced by something wild, desperate.

"We still have my pistol," I said — though I wasn't sure why. Maybe I hoped the remaining ACE weapon would bring me forgiveness.

Mister J whirled to where it lay on the floor. He hesitated, then picked it up, examining it.

"I'll use this next time. You can use my revolver."

Sitting on the floor below him, I averted my eyes from the dangerous look on his face.

"We'll get a new rifle tomorrow," he said.

Though his temper sent a pulse of adrenaline through me, telling me to flee, to hide, I had to protect him from himself. He wasn't thinking clearly.

"Mister J, we can't. They'll have increased security."

"The side of the building is still a big hole. We'll scale the wall and slip inside."

"If it's that easy to get in, I think they would have moved the weapons."

"We'll find them."

"No." I stood. "We're not going. We have to stop, Mister J. This is getting too dangerous. I don't want to lose y—"

He struck me across the face with the butt of the pistol. I gasped.

"We are not rolling over because of the Bat!"

"Yessir."

He stared at me for a moment, licked his lips, and dropped his gaze. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

"Meet me at ACE at ten tomorrow night."

He scooped up his disguise and dropped the silver revolver at my feet. Then he stormed out the door with my pistol clenched in his fist.

I looked down, shock setting in. Blood covered my hands and I realized I had landed on glass. Several pieces were embedded in my palms.

Outside, the sky darkened, pitching my apartment into blackness.

I lay awake until two A.M., eyes swollen from tears. My collarbone hurt. My cheek throbbed. I poked a tender spot where I'd landed on my hip.

Worst of all, my chest ached with an overwhelming sense of betrayal.

I picked up my phone. It rang several times. I almost hung up when Pam answered.

"Harleen?"

I barely heard her. Music blared in the background. People were hollering.

I tried to talk but couldn't get any words out. The only sound that came was a pathetic sob.

"Harl? Speak up, hun. I can't hear you that well."

I burst into tears. "I'm sorry, Red. You were right. He's a lunatic."

Pam breathed into the phone for a minute. Then the background noise dimmed. A door clicked shut.

"What happened?"

"He hit me, Red."

The line went silent for a long time.

"Did you report it?"

"Call the police? Ha!"

"Right." She hesitated. "Harl, you can't let him treat you like this."

But what could I do? Hit him back? Break up with him and hope he left me alone? Even if he seemed not to care, I knew beyond doubt that he would find me if I left.

"Harleen?"

"Hm?"

"I'm coming there. I just checked and there's a flight in a few hours."

"You don't have to—"

"Not an option."

Fat tears filled my eyes. "This was all for a laugh, at first. The heists were a crazy passion we shared. But it's not fun anymore. I can't believe the things I've done."

"Don't blame yourself—"

"I need to stop him before my life breaks beyond repair. If it hasn't already."

"It hasn't, babe. We can still fix this."

I poked at my ribs. "He wants me to go with him to steal another rifle tomorrow."

"That's not going to happen."

"How? What are we supposed to do?"

She paused. "What do you think we should do?"

The more I thought about it, the more my emotions gave way to venom. I should have set Mister J straight long ago. I deserved better — or at least, there had been a time when I did.

Deserving or not, I was the Queen of Gotham City. Whether I was Harley or Harleen, nobody was allowed to disrespect me like this.

My next words came easily, like I'd decided long ago. I had one choice.

"We need to get that jerk thrown in Arkham."