Just over two hours ago I had been ecstatic. I arrived home to discover a package I had been anxiously awaiting: the wedding photos. Never have I been so excited to open the mail. I even had to force myself to suppress the edge to call my new husband immediately to alert him of our delivery. Though I'm sure such information would not be appreciated if the page happened to interrupt a surgery. So I resisted reaching for the phone and letting my fingers dial his number from muscle memory.

Instead I viciously ripped open the package to begin the viewing process. I hadn't even the chance to glance at the photos when another envelope slipped from my grasp and fluttered to the floor. I plucked it up, initialing not wanting to bother with reading it (probably just another piece of junk mail trying to sell me something). That was until I noticed the return address: O'Neil Psychiatric Hospital. The envelope had all the markings that its mailer had not been informed of a—or several rather—change addresses. The letter was addresses solely to my husband. I could not stop my anxious fingers from ripping the white package to shreds, nearly tearing the letter inside in two.

Not even three hours later I can't remember exactly what that letter said—says. I still have it in my purse though I have no desire to reread the message. I only scanned it before anyways, allowing key words to catch my eye. Dear Mr. Jacobs, regret, inform, Cliff Jacobs, Father, deceased. Dated a month ago.

So I'm here now, at O'Neil Psychiatric Hospital. I'm not sure exactly why I ran out of the apartment so fast to make the nearly two hour trip outside Gotham City limits to come to this place. I just want, need, answers. The truth. He lied to me. I need to know the severity of that lie. I don't want to not trust my husband.

"Can I help you?" a young receptionist asks once I reach the desk. My lungs freeze. Quick Harley, think of a good excuse.

"Um," what an eloquent beginning, "My name is Dr. Harley Jacobs, I'm a psychiatrist," she nods, obviously she knows a lot of those, "I…um…I'm writing a paper…on the effects of…alcoholism! and…mental disorders."

"Oh!" she replies, intrigued. I had no idea I could be that convincing. Maybe she's just gullible.

"I was wondering if I could interview one of your patients?" I was? "a Mr. Cliff Jacobs, I believe his name is…" I pretend to fumble for something, anything, in my purse.

"Honey, he's dead," a voice answers behind me. I turn to face the older woman, a nurse dressed in scrubs, with a heavy frown adoring her face.

"Oh…" I fain disappointment, "is there anyone, a doctor maybe, I could talk to?"

"You can talk to me," she says matter-of-factly, throwing her hands on her hips, "I was 'is nurse."

"Great," too bad I can't think of any legitimate question at the moment.

She waves a hand at me, "let's take a walk," she says stepping into the hall, "I've got other patients to see."

I quickly fall in step behind her, my heels clicking against the linoleum. I expect a minute, or several, of silence before either of us work up the strength for conversation but the experienced nurse jumps right in: "So what do you want to know?"

What do I want to know? Why did my husband lie to me? Why? What was or is he hiding? "When did Mr. Jacobs get admitted?" is what comes out of my mouth.

"Years ago," she replies, stopping to open a door, take a speedy peek in to make sure her patient was behaving, and closing it just as quickly, "At least ten. No, more than that. Fifteen maybe? I can't remember," we commence our journey down the hall once more. I pull out a pad and pen from the depths of my purse and pretend to take notes.

"Why, exactly, was he admitted here?"

"They didn't know what to do him I guess. Bastard was a drunk, I'm sure you know, but that ain't the reason why he needed to be locked up."

"L-locked up?" I stutter.

"He killed 'is wife," she says bluntly, "Should have gotten the death penalty but instead they stuck him here cause they fingered with the brain damage he couldn't do no harm anymore. Barely remembered 'is own name half the time, let alone what he done. "

"Brain damage?"

"You repeat a lot of things don't you?" she asks me, agitated. She sighs, recognizing the discomfort in my demeanor, "He 'fell'" she creates quotation marks in the air with her fingers, "The night he killed 'is wife—did you know they're boy was watching the whole time too?" I gulp, "so they say," she shrugs. "That's why I don't buy it,"

I stop, "excuse me?"

"I said that's why I don't buy it," she repeats forcefully, "I don't care how drunk you are nobody just falls into the eraser end of a Ticonderoga that just so happened to be standing upright on the kitchen table," she chuckles faintly.

My breath leaves me, "And that didn't kill him?!"

"It was a small pencil. Had to take out that whole right eye though," the air catches in my lungs once more, "not that he didn't deserve what was coming to him, I just don't buy that it was an accident. That boy stood up for himself and 'is mother, just…a minute too late."

"So you think it was self defense," she nods, "do you know if it ever actually went to trial? Before they moved Mr. Jacobs here?"

"I have no doubt the cops had run-ins with him before. Probably hoped that injury would have just killed him, but you can't win them all now can ya?" I wince at those words, "So whether or not those police knew what they were doing when they ruled it an accident or were just plain stupid, there never was a trial. At least not that I know of."

I check my watch. I can't stay any longer, "thank you for your help." I say, hoping to end the conversation. I don't think I could take anymore.

"Boy did what was right if you ask me," I didn't. In fact, I turned to leave back down the hall we came, "Man did not deserve the life he had with everything I heard he did to the both of them."

I blink, my eyes sting. "Thanks again," I nearly choke on the words.

"Mmm hmm," she nods and keeps the same pace down the hall, leaving me alone. I race out there.

The sun is setting now. The whole ride home, back into the city, I feel as though I'm loosing the ongoing battle against my stinging eyes and tightening chest. I'm shaking. My knuckles turn white against the steering wheel. Just breathe Harley, do you remember that mantra. Your husband attempted to kill his own father. There's no actual proof of that. Don't be stupid, he's killed at least one other that you know of hasn't he? Shut up. It could have been an accident. There's no proof. You already have it. The look in his eyes, the tone of his voice, that's all the proof you need. He deserved it. I know it. Everyone does. That's why… he got away with it? You heard him say it himself didn't you? He always wins. That man was a complete bastard. You don't need to justify why you feel like that. Why I feel like what?

No answer. I sigh. I must be going crazy. I already know what that part of my subconscious mind was trying to tell me. I should, every sane part of me says I should at least be able to justify why I feel this way, but apparently. Something that crazy doesn't need any sort of justification. No matter how much it terrifies me, no matter more potentially dangerous I now know he can be; it doesn't make a single difference. I love him. I'll protect him. Always.

And right now I'm not actually sure what scares me more: knowing what he's really capable of with all my psychological insight, or being perfectly fine keeping that information to myself. I'm in love with a man any other doctor of my profession would diagnose with some sort of egotistical, blurred edges of right and wrong, paranoid psychosis. My breathing has slowed now, and I don't give a damn.

"Hey!" Will greets with an outrageous, gorgeous smile as I slip through the door. My brain hadn't even registered that my feet had parked the car and managed to carry me all the way back to the apartment.

"Hi," I say softly, my stomach feels topsy turvy. Will sits on a stool propped next to our kitchen counter flipping through glossy pieces of paper.

"Where were you?" he asks, voice still pleasant.

"We're out of…orange juice…" my voice is still a whisper. His brow furrows. My husband leans far over on his seat to better inspect my finger. I'm not carrying any baggage other than my purse. His raised eyebrow is the question he doesn't need to ask, "Apparently so was the store." I mumble.

"That's odd," he remarks but doesn't venture further. Instead he grabs the stack of paper, hops from his perch and rushes to my side, "Look what came today, though I'm sure you've already noticed," he grins and holds an eight by ten sized photograph of the two of us walking hand in hand down the steps of a church. I can't help but smile, all my previous muddled thoughts melting away in that instant. Neither of us was paying any attention as the photographer snapped this shot. My face is alive with what I remember to be ecstatic laughter. Will pulls me along, one of my hands linked with his and the other holding to a bouquet of roses. In the picture a breeze has blown my bangs from my face. The train of my dress flows behind me in a sea of white silk. I blush. I can't help but think of myself as stunning in this one photograph. How selfish.

"It's my favorite," Will says softly into my ear. His words are soon followed by a sweet kiss to my shoulder, "you look beautiful." My grin widens, and then falters as my eyes drift to my new husband's stance in the picture. His face is hardly visible, blocked by his own arm as he attempts to keep rice from falling into his eyes. The only part of him visible is his never ending smile.

"Too bad you can't see your face," I pout.

"Ah, that part doesn't matter; everybody only ever looks at the bride anyways. I know that's all I was looking at," he nuzzles my neck, planting a few feathery kisses. I giggle, flipping through more of the photos as Will's arm snakes its way around my waist to draw me closer. There are several, I suppose pretty pictures, of the two of us posed. Even more of us dancing or kissing or giggling at our own private jokes from a distance. There's one photo of the two of us with mouths full of cake, Will's fingers tugging at the corners of my mouth forcing me to grin. The photographer took the liberty of making several photos already wallet sized, Will's favorite being among them.

A second arm presses against my back, dragging me into Will's chest. I love him so much. He'd never hurt me, not ever. So I won't hurt him either. I won't betray his sacred trust. He doesn't want me to know the truth. Not yet and maybe not ever. I don't care, not anymore. To him his father has been dead for years. He doesn't need to relive that again, I've already made him do that once.

"Here," I whisper, holding the wallet sized print of his favorite picture to his eye. My hand lowers and I slip the snapshot into the back pocket of his jeans where my fingers linger, "so you'll always 

know where to find me," I say with a smile. His eyes twinkle as he crushes me against him, sweeps me off my feet and kisses me on my lips. In the far corners of my mind I can ear giggling. I'm my red lipstick is going to rub off on him.