Harleen waited for Jack's phone call as the days passed. She waited as weeks passed, and turned into months. When several agonizing months had passed with no word from him, or from the police informing her that he had been arrested, Harleen could come to only one conclusion: that Jack had been using her after all.

The more she reflected on that possibility, the more it all made sense, and she felt like a fool for being taken in by such a man, convincing as he had been. She had been warned by Buzz that Jack was an excellent actor whose MO was to hoodwink women by sweet talking them, and that was exactly what he had done with Harleen. He had been smart, very smart, by revealing his plan to charm a shrink to her, which was exactly what he had done in the end - the best way to hide the truth was in plain sight, after all. But he had pretended to be so infatuated with her, and she had wanted to believe that he was. She saw now that he must have counted on that, and everything he had done had been part of his plan. He had murdered Buzz so she would have to help him escape, or risk condemning him to death, and he knew he had charmed her just enough that the thought would be appalling to her. But it had all been an act, a joke, a game, as he had freely admitted from the start. She didn't know why she had fallen for it. She must have been as stupid as everyone thought she was.

After Jack's escape, Harleen's patients dried up. Dr. Leland said this was because she didn't want to pressure her after her traumatic experience, but Harleen thought she was also trying to play it safe after her less than perfect record at reforming patients. She reflected that this was probably what she deserved by being taken in by two criminals. She had been utterly naïve, despite being so confident and sure of herself. And she had paid the price by having her heart completely shattered.

The one bright spark in the whole horrible affair was Chuckie, the one patient she had been allowed to keep, and who she had managed, after several months of therapy, to reform. He was granted parole, and released from the asylum a changed man. He also became quite a hit in the art scene, mostly because of his notoriety as a former gangster. His drawings were less sought after for his skill, and more for his name, but nevertheless, he managed to make a career out of it.

About a month after his release, Harleen visited Chuckie in his modest apartment which was covered from floor to ceiling in drawings. "Excuse the mess, but I got about a million commissions," Chuckie said, clearing off a chair for her. "I dunno how I'm gonna get 'em all done, but I'm grateful for the work, of course."

"I'm glad you're doing so well," said Harleen, smiling at him. "I knew you could be successful if you just believed in yourself."

"Well, you believed in me first," said Chuckie, beaming at her. "I can never thank you enough for that."

Harleen nodded, looking down at her hands. "I don't suppose…you've kept in touch with any of your old colleagues at all?" she asked casually.

"No way," said Chuckie, shaking his head. "The last thing I wanna do is go back to that life, or anyone in it."

"Very wise," said Harleen, nodding. "I was just wondering if…maybe you've heard from Jack."

"If I had, I'd turn him over to the cops for what he did to you," retorted Chuckie. "Imagine trying to kidnap you. And I always thought he was so fond of you, but then I ain't the brightest, clearly."

"Well, I'm not either," agreed Harleen, quietly. "I thought…he cared about me too."

"It just doesn't make a lotta sense," said Chuckie. "You know he killed Buzz for you, right?"

Harleen looked up at him. "No, I…didn't," she stammered.

"That's what he told me – Buzz threatened to hurt you, and Jack killed him so he wouldn't," said Chuckie. "But that was probably a lie too. Jack was always good at manipulating people. I guess he did that to both of us."

"Buzz was right after all," murmured Harleen. "He said Jack was just a joker. And he was. I was…a dumb clown to have thought any differently. Stupid Harley," she muttered.

"Hey," said Chuckie, kneeling down and taking her hands. "You ain't stupid," he said. "Don't you ever think that about yourself. Maybe you made a mistake in trying to think the best of a guy, but that ain't stupid. That's brave. In this crazy, messed up world, that's maybe the bravest thing you can do. To believe that people can change, people like me, who the world cast aside. To try and make 'em believe in themselves, to make 'em believe there's something worth saving in 'em. Nobody ever saw that in me before, except you, Doc. You're crazy smart, and don't let anyone tell you different. Especially not yourself."

Harleen smiled at him, feeling tears trickling down her face. "Thanks, Chuckie," she whispered, hugging him tightly.

"C'mon, dry those eyes and let me make you a cup of coffee," said Chuckie. "Make yourself at home, turn on the TV, or draw something if you want," he said, heading into the kitchen. "We could have a dual exhibition – the artist and the shrink who made him one."

Harleen laughed. "Well, I wouldn't dream of putting my so-called artistic attempts next to yours," she said, looking around for the remote, and flicking on the TV.

The news was reporting a story: "…series of bizarre and strange ransom notes sent to the families of the kidnap victims, each one identical, and identically baffling. Police Commissioner Gordon had this to say."

The image flicked over to Commissioner Gordon at a press conference, holding up a note written in red ink. "We've had ten notes in the exact same handwriting, written in blood obtained from the kidnap victims, all with the exact same message."

"Is there anything that connects the kidnap victims, Commissioner?" asked a reporter.

"Nothing at all, as far as we can tell," replied Gordon. "They appear to have been taken from completely random locations, and they're all from different walks of life. Whoever this is isn't after money, as the notes clearly indicate. The demand on all of them is always the same."

"What does it mean, Commissioner?" asked another reporter. "Is that some kinda code? Or maybe a valuable object?"

"We don't think so – we think it's a person," replied Gordon. "Although we haven't found the name in any of the police databases yet. Maybe it's some rival criminal this person has a grudge match with – I don't know, but we're doing our best to figure it out. If anyone knows anything that could help us, we do ask that they contact the GCPD immediately. Thank you," he said, standing up with cameras flashing after him.

Harleen stared at the screen in utter horror, as it focused on the note the Commissioner had been holding up. It had only one sentence on it, in clear, firm handwriting:

Bring me Harley Quinn.