"I recall reading about her achievements in the Gazette," said Jim Gordon, handing the young lady behind the java-house counter the full amount and walking away with Dr. Stefan before she could offer him change back. Not that she minded. He always told her to keep the change, and she would happily pocket the tip. Gordon and Stefan saw to the upstairs landing of the place, abandoned this early in the morning, and thus the wide sparse of empty tables gave a decent spot for their morning talk. Finding a nice corner booth, Gordon continued, "I recall Pamela Isley's name selected as the 'Kanigher and Moldoff Scholarship Winner for Biology'. Quite a nice award for a freshmen student."

"I remember that quite well," Stefan nodded sadly. "We paid them off."

"You what?" Gordon sipped his coffee and set it down firmly. Stefan sighed.

"That scholarship would never have been awarded to a freshmen student. They want to make sure that the student is going to stay on the course of the biology major. But some of us…well, not me, but others… You see, Pamela was very well liked at Coreman's. The board of evaluation saw quite a bit of potential in her, and she became friends with a lot of them very easily. Sure, she was introverted and acted indifferent to everyone, but that was a part of her charm: she was not an exploiter. Her charm came from how genuine she could be. And when Administrator Kane found out about the impressive work she performed in her Physical Science class, he took out a ten-thousand dollar bribe and shuffled it into the hands of Dean Nolan."

"But she…earned it? And he was willing to pay ten-thousand dollars in order to ensure she received a scholarship for fifteen?"

Stefan sipped his own coffee bitterly. "Kane's eccentric. He's mad himself. Probably gets it from the patients he hangs out with. I didn't like it, and I fought against it, but it was his own money. He could do what he wanted with it. The man's one of Gotham's wealthiest, gets about $750K a month. Aint nothing on him to do something….insane like this."

"And getting this scholarship put her in the eye of the public? So I wonder if she grew a fan-base… got some followers, that sort of thing."

Stefan laughed darkly, shaking his head. "No, Gordon. No. Not her. Not Pamela Isley. That's just not possible for her. You have to like people in order to do something like that. It's just not in the cards for the girl."

"Forever alone?"

"Pamela? Only as alone as she deems needed to her plans."

"And what plans would those be? What we know is that she is a serial murderer who has killed more than fifty people with lethal toxicity, transmitted orally in some cases. Plans like that, maybe?"

"A poison kiss is hardly the plan of Pamela Isley, Gordon. No. From the beginning, she had one goal in mind: nature. She was…is…obsessed with nature, with the preservation of the wilds and this…twisted perception of the superiority of plat-life to the inferiority of humankind. She rallied students on campus into a pro-environmental movement only last year, about six months before the first body was discovered in her on-campus apartment. Had at least one-hundred and fifty students following her cause. Now that aint never happened, Gordon. One student has never had that kind of influence at Gotham University. It's…supernatural."

"Supernatural?"

"How could she have such an influence over people? Everywhere you went, there was her name, being cried for all the peasants to hear. It bothers me, how much influence she truly had. We know she was murdering for at least three years before the first victim was found, correct?"

"According to official autopsy, many of the victims were at least three years old. It was only by chance that we found that diary of hers."

"How many bodies do you think there still are, out there buried in that marsh?"

"The Hallow is pretty big. She had thousands of places to hide them…"

"And yet that secretive marsh seemed to be the place she preferred to bury them, as if it were special to her. When the Batman asked me about secretive locations, I had naught to say. But it makes sense. She had no special places because she was always under the watch of Yvonne Killinger or someone else from Coreman's. But when released, and placed on campus alone…"

Naturally, as environmentally obsessed as Pamela Isley is, the Hallow would have provided well-needed isolation from the rest of campus. Naturally, she would have explored."

"But then is there something there that the Batman could find that the GCPD could not?"

Gordon shuffled uncomfortably. "I'm running them into the ground with how intense this investigation has to be. They're scouring every inch of the Hallow, searching for bodies. But we cannot assume that the Hallow is the only location. Fifty-nine of her victims have been accounted for, but a total of eighty-seven people have gone missing who we've linked to either having been involved with the campus or with Isley personally. I believe our first priority should be to find Woodrue. If we find him, he can give us a direction, having been her accomplice."

"You suspect he's even alive at this point?"

Gordon nodded. "He vanished quickly enough, I agree, but Woodrue was smart. Is smart. We suspect he planned all along to skip town at the last moment. We investigated his home. After we found that…machine… and we found the smashed terminal in the burning pit behind the home, we think we can salvage some much needed information from it. Consider yourself lucky that I'm telling you all of this. Strictly speaking, all of this is confidential. But you were closer to her than anyone else."

"Woodrue was a maniac. However, we know she was killing for at least two years prior to meeting the man," said Stefan. "That machine you found…tell me what it was."

"I haven't the foggiest," Gordon sighed. "Never seen anything like that. Two different terminals hooked into it. Big glass structure, like an enclosed shower. A single chair inside, and hanging from tubes were long syringes… It was like some twisted lethal injection chamber. But I doubt that was its purpose. Isley and Woodrue both had no trouble killing people. They didn't need a lethal injection chamber. Whatever the hell that machine was, Woodrue smashed it up good and left it a useless, empty carcass that we still haven't been able to decipher."

"Naturally, Pamela's genius reputation on campus could have given her the advantage to draw in Woodrue's eyes when he came to Gotham… but she didn't exactly have one in the end, did she?" Stefan noted. And now it was Gordon's time to grimace. He closed his eyes, and shivered a little.

"No, I suppose she did not…"

"Oh no she didn't!" the stupid fuck with her fucking face and her fucking eyes fucking said to her fucking friends. This, at least, was how Pamela noted her surroundings in its primitive, almost self-preserved ecological process. The party was being hosted at one Jim Lee's home, an Asian-American graphic design student with a love for vibrant purples. The entire house was saturated in purple and light blue illumination, the disco ball spinning from the living room hitting its patrons with ball after all. Beneath it, there were idiots dancing. So many idiots. One idiot, two idiot, red idiot, blue idiot.

Girls gossiped near where she stood in one corner, behind her a wooden plank that read, "The Sultan House: Home of the Kings of Gotham City." She had woven Senecio macroglossus (to the stupid, 'wax ivy') into her crimson strands and decorated her head neatly with a pink sunflower. To her, she was the definition of beauty. To others, she was a freak standing in a corner, holding a dumb book entitled, "Party tips: How to be the social norm in any situation," with ivy braided through her hair. She clung tightly to the book, needing it close to her at all times. Within the confines of the pages, the secrets to interactions with living Neanderthals awaited. Their communication techniques and mating rituals could be experimented with, and their dumb-assery could never get in the way of successful utilization.

Alissa, her ride, was cartwheeling across the living room within the mass circle of dancing drunks. She was in a black jogging suit and her hair was tied into pigtails, and needless to say, she was the eye of a gang of observing men who sat about the room-spanning scarlet couch, sipping away at Bruce Timm's Ale-o-Hell, the most popular drink that Lee had drug out for this compilation of idiocracy.

Alissa wheeled right up to Pamela, who watched wide-eyed, and grabbed her by the shoulders. "Why the fuck are you standing here in the corner!?" she practically screamed in Pamela's face. "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!?" People were snickering at Alissa's obvious intoxication. Her whole face was blood red. Pamela, calmly, pushed her away.

"I'm just tending to myself. I don't like dancing."

"Come and dance with me right this minute, young lady!" Alissa cooed, trying to squish Pamela's cheek, who defiantly pushed her away.

"Maybe some other time. I intend, fully, to learn to dance and engage in social interaction, Alissa. But not now." And she leaned against the wall, raising her eyebrows in a challenge to Alissa. Alissa, meanwhile, shook her head but kept smiling, and immediately "Wheeeeeeeeed!" as she cartwheeled back into the crowd of onlookers, most of whom were not staring at Pamela and snickering whispers to one another. She ignored them to the best of her ability, and instead eyed a nearby table, upon which sat a cooler full of Timms. She had been here for an hour now, and had neglected to partake in inebriating tasks. But now…now?

Now I shall help myself to a cold drink, she robotically thought. Roboticism was the new her. She stepped forward into the mostly empty kitchen and pushed her way past two patrons locked in passionate intimacy. She noted these two as she reached for a drink: Why in public? Have they no shame? Of course, she had never actually been with anyone. A first kiss? No. Never kissed. Never been interested in kisses, or sexual intercourse, or fellatio, or any number of the various mating exchanges between male and female humans. And why should she? Humans were…not like plants. They had no continuous, evolving structure and no elegance with every second of life. Humans lived for self-destruction; plants lived for preservation and uprising.

I'd fuck a plant before I'd fuck one of these bastards, she thought casually… and when she thought it, she immediately put it out of mind. THAT'S IN THE PAST, PAMELA! THE PAST! NO MORE, NO MORE! NOT EVER AGAIN! REMEMBER!? REMEMBER THAT'S WHY THEY PUT YOU IN STEFAN'S LOONEY BIN!?

I thought that was because you almost killed a nine-year child with an ant-hill, said another voice, deep, deep inside of her soul. It had nothing to do with the plants.

It started with the plants! They discovered me!

They discovered the kitten, said the voice. The kitten, Pamela. Not the plant… not the lily. The plants never caused you distress, Pamela…

She uncorked the bottle using the small device left behind on the table, and sipped her first alcoholic beverage carefully. Never been kissed, never been laid. And before this moment, never drank beer. This was at least one first for tonight. For the other two things, well… again, she had to remind herself that she had no interest in passionate affairs. Kisses and cuddles did not appeal to her.

A tap on the shoulder. Pamela jerked awake from her stand-still dreamulation and spun around. One of the men who had been ogling her from the couch was standing before her, hairy faced and muscular in his red-plaid shirt. He looked very much like a Grimm's lumberjack.

"Hey, Pam," he said politely enough, smiling from behind the bush. "Want a drink? I mean, a real drink, not this Timm's shit. We got a special one right here for you in the back bedroom. Come on and loosen up, have some fun with us. You've been wandering around by yourself and it's scaring me a little, you know. What if you're a serial killer and you're gonna chop us all up one by one, huh?"

"Funny," Pamela noted, snorting loudly. "Genius. You have no wrongfulness there, do you? That's just what I am, yes. Of course. Why not? Mind if I chop you up first, fecal-face?"

The man rumbled in amusement. "Alright, alright, in all seriousness, I and my friends think you ought to socialize more. Name's Otto Rock and I don't want you to be alone at this party for the rest of the night."

"Why the fuck do you care?" she asked casually and so simply. Rock smiled.

"Aint a guy allowed to be into redheads?"

"Aint a guy allowed to keep his dick attached to his pelvis in return for not touching the redhead?"

"What, are you toxic or something?" He prodded her arm lightly, and feigned choking and spluttering out of control. Pissed and annoyed, Pamela pushed past him and re-entered the living room, insulted by his poor attempt at humor. He naturally hurried after her and came around. "Hey, look, I'm sorry, okay… I just wanted to get to know you. You're really…well, fuck, you're cute, so sue me, alright."

Pamela crossed her arms and sighed. "Why does everyone obsess over my social interactions in this place?"

"Because you're a sophomore, right? You've been here for a year, now, and you never talk to anyone, except that crazy bitch Alissa Jagner, and trust me…she's a real piece of work. Insane off her block. You need to diversify your friends a little. I just want to be your friend. Maybe get drunk with you and do a little making out, huh? I'm SORRY!" He said quickly, as she tried to push forward again. "S-sorry, I just-"

"You're a moron," she hissed. "You possess a certain quality of dissociative rationality mostly found within the Homo sapiens lineup. Do I need to cut it off? Would that make you feel better and more in control?"

"Holy hell, you're a bitch," Bitch said slowly, but he was chuckling as he said it. "This is exactly what I mean. Consider the social interactions here a chance to observe and strengthen the patterns of us…Homo sapiens, then."

Pamela inhaled deeply. Just what….what… was this man's game? Persistent as Alissa, but not so easily deterred. She looked around desperately, suddenly craving Alissa's companionship (and a quick escape from the party), but the hyperactive athlete was nowhere to be found. Where the hell did she go!? Otto Rock noticed her searching eyes, and keenly smiled.

"Looking for Jagner?"

Pamela looked around at him, wide-eyed. "How did you-"

"Psychic powers?" He shrugged. "She's your ride, right? And in this kind of situation, she'd be an escape, right?"

"I don't need to escape anything," she pointedly said, prodding him very hard in the chest. Rock grinned.

"Then prove it. Come and hang out with me, Archie and Donovan. We snuck some of our own special spirits into Lee's place. He only likes a certain kind of liquor served at his parties. Asian prick. Wants the stuff weak and sugary. You don't like that, do you?" He nodded at the bottle in her hand. Pamela looked at it, briefly, and considered. No, I don't… I don't like this stuff at all…

Why not do it? the deep voice suddenly asked, letting its presence be known once more. Why not give him a try? Never been fucked, only fucked over, right, Pamela?

Pamela sighed. I'm not interested in that stuff…

"Come on." Rock sounded almost desperate now. His eyes were actually glistening. Glistening. She looked at his eyes closely, studying his face, and in shock, felt something there. Longing? Did he…like her, or something? Did he truly, genuinely like her that much? "I'm sorry," he sighed, suddenly looking downtrodden. His mouth quivered. "I…I just thought…you're so pretty and smart, and I just…I'm sorry for bothering you. I'll go." His voice had fallen so lightly. He sounded truly, genuinely upset that she would not hang out with him. Shoulders slouching, he moved began to move away…

Now destiny, you see, has a dark way about itself. Destiny, fate… is there a difference? Fate is inevitable. Destiny is determined to be inevitable and made so. Correlated, both travel the same road, but are traversed in different vehicles. Subconsciously, the fulfilment of one's destiny can joint to traversing one's fate that is, by apparent, unwanted. What matters, truly, is that life's scenes are short to duration but the acts go beyond three structures. Prod a girl in the back with a sword and she'll move forward. Prod her lightly with a stick, however, and she will have to consider whether or not to do so.

Otto Rock was a stick, underneath which was a hidden blade.

"No!" she suddenly cried out, unsure as to why she did it. Fate, it seemed, had won out… but perhaps deep down, so had destiny, depending upon the set of eyes that looked out through the ocular lenses of Pamela Isley…

Rock stopped, looking around quickly. "Huh?"

"I…" Did she want this? Did she really want this? "I…want to…hang out with you." She said this to the floor, as if it could hear her. Rock was suddenly looking brighter than noon.

"Alright!" he gasped, positively jumping up and down. "Yeah! Yeah, alright! Come on! Let me introduce you." He grabbed her hand before she could stop him (or permit him) and she felt her book slide out of her arms as she was pulled away. But some part of her disabled her annoyance to the point where she could verbally berate him, and thus she was whisked away to her destiny…or her fate…

Archie and Donovan were quite obviously football whores. Muscular and huge, one was Latino, the other Canadian. Archie, a ginger, pulled the Timms from her hand as she approached, much to her shock, and examined it closely. "Um…um uh. No, I don't don't don't don't think so so." When he spoke, he seemed to repeat certain words. "No no, lets get you you a drink, alright alright?"

"A real drink," Donovan, the dark-haired Latino, nodded. "Lee!" he called out, chucking Pamela's drink in the trash can near the couch. "Your shit is shit."

"Up yours!" Lee cried, drunk and slow dancing across the living room with a floor lamp. Well, at least the primary. The shade was over his head, and drawn across it was an angry face in his favor. "Igirisuhito, tamago o suu ikimasu!" he sang, crashing into a group of giggling girls and amassing into a pit-worthy pileup. Everyone in the room exploded with laughter. Rock, Donovan and Archie, meanwhile, beckoned Pamela to follow them, handing her a large blue bottle, already opened for her, unmarked.

"What is it?" she asked them, examining the dark liquid closely as she followed them out onto the back porch, which was abandoned, away from the loud music and idiotic partiers.

"Special brew," Rock told her, sitting at the porch table and kicking his feet up onto the tabletop. "Archie's dad made it. Has a distillery in the Hallow. We call it "Sunshine." Has more of a kick than Moonshine. Try it and tell me what you think."

Pamela's hand was shaking. They were all watching her excitedly, all nodding encouragingly. She glanced up at them, suddenly…terrified. Of what, she could not imagine. Why was she so scared all of a sudden?

"I promise it's not poison," Rock laughed. "We're not psychopaths, scout's honor!"

Pamela nodded. "Right," she laughed nervously, trying, for the first time in her life, to socialize… And so she took a sip…and loved it! The stinging sensation, burn-worthy as it was, was a fine element in his throat, corrosively lime-like in flavor. She looked around at them, surprised. Donovan let out a whimsical cheer. Archie gave her a thumbs up, and Rock beamed.

"Good stuff, aint it!?" he exclaimed. "Good stuff, right?"

"V-very," she whispered, before taking another, much larger, sip. She took another soon after… and that sip became a drink…. and then that drink became a chug. For two minutes, they all sat in silence, each of them taking swig after swig of the "Sunshine," as they called it, Donovan and Archie watching her very, very closely… and in time, she lost notice of this at all. In fact, she lost notice of a lot of things. Their facial features, for example. They had become blurry. Oh well, who needs 'em? The table and her own hands. Well, I never liked my hands much anyway. Then the whole world, reality turning black and empty. Who c-

Now for a haiku

Let us all sing of victims

Rohypnol takes all

"Want to do another pop quiz?" Pamela asked Fredericks. Fredericks lay so still, as if he himself were dead (which, by now, he desperately wished). She had moved him from the tree. Now he lay within the giant creature plant itself, still bound with the thick vines, his back still bleeding by how deeply the bark of the wood had cut into his skin. Pamela was snuggled against his side, her arms thrown over his chest, as if the two were lovers, resting together after a most passionate affair.

He remained silent, stoic to the best of his ability, his heart hammering and his tears still trickling. When he did not answer, Pamela looked up, wide-eyed, and she asked, a little more firmly, "Do you want another pop quiz, Fredericks?"

Fredericks closed his eyes tightly, tears flooding. He could not for the life of him speak to her. He had forgotten how. As she had spoken…as she had relayed part of her "tale" to him, he had struggled within (and in vain) to sink away into farther dreams. So much failure in one day, all on him.

She sighed, exasperated with him now. She crawled away from him and hung over the edge of the plant for a moment. If only his legs and arms were free, he would push her over the edge, down there into the lagoon with Kroker and the bailiff… and God knew how many other victims were swimming down there beneath all that poison… She seemed to be fumbling around with something. She pulled back, after a few seconds, and he saw that in her hand she held a-

"Like my giant thorn?" she asked him tenderly, stroking its black curve with affection….with love. "It has quite an edge to it."

Now he found his voice. "Yes, I want another pop quiz!" he gasped, his chest heaving. She stared at him for a moment, looking happy that he had finally spoken to her… and then, without warning, she dived forward and began to carve.

Now, he had not only found his voice, but also his scream. Also very much his scream…

He screamed and screamed, but no one came down from Heaven, as he desired, to smite this demon away. He blood ran wildly as she cut, very slowly at that, across his chest, carving terrible letters as he screamed his bloody head clean off. He could not move his body… he suddenly felt impossible in every physical thought. Paralyzed…

"PLEASE! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE NO! GOD, NO! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

"YES, YES, YES YES YES YES YES! GOD, YES! YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!" she sang along with him, flailing her flame-red hair about her face wildly, making sounds like that of a baby blowing bubbles. She finished her last stroke of flesh-based calligraphy with a firm, forcible slice down his side, and the agony was too much to bear. His blood was flowing rapidly now. When she had finished, she tossed the thorn down into the lagoon and came to cuddle back against him, stroking his blood soaked chest tenderly and licking her fingers…licking his blood from her fingers! God, no!

"Yum, yum, yummy," she sang lightly, staring into blank space. "'Try Carelli's Strawberry Fizzes, it'll taste like nobody's business!'" She delighted in the memoir of the gum advertisement as Fredericks sobbed bitterly, unable to move his body still. God, if only he could move… if only he could shift his body…

"Shut up, now," Pamela snapped, taking a long stand of vine and binding his mouth tight with the stuff. "I'm getting to the good part now, it's so fucking rude to interrupt, b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-bassssssss-sss-s-sss-stard." She stuttered relentlessly in her genuine, fiery fury. There was such hatred in her eyes. Her tear-stricken, green poison pulsing eyes!

The first thing she saw, when she awoke, was his eyes. He was leaning close over her… but she only saw this through a hazy lens. The world around her, though not blurry in fullness, had traces of distortion. She felt nothing. She felt empty. Otto Rock, nude, pulled out of her, stroking his erection softly as he smiled around at Donovan and Archie, both of whom were also nude. Donovan held a camcorder in hand, and was filming every second. They had already had their turns…

Although she was not aware of it, she had awoken atop a well-fluffed king-sized bed, in a room far, far away from where the party had been taking place. Much further. This was not the same house. This house was well within Gotham City limits, unlike Lee's house, which was on the western outskirts. Of course, she neither had the ability to acknowledge this nor the ability to care. Her world was foggy… her world was not hers.

"Pamela," Rock said calmly, stroking his hair calmly as he removed his condom and tossed it on the floor to the side. "Can you sit up?"

She was a dream. She was a fiction. But nonetheless, she, zombie-like and unaware, sat up… and when she did, she felt like air. She stared forward, her head tilting to its side. Blank. Blank blank blankety blankness.

"Pamela, look at me?" Donovan called out gently, adjusting the zoom lens and closing in on her face. She looked around slowly, blinking once, drooling and unaware. Again, her head fell to the side. "That's my girl." He licked his lips. "XVideos is going to love this. I think we might even get away with BravoErotica. You think we'll be paid?"

"I think you need to shut the fuck up," Rock hissed irritably. "We're recording audio, too, D. We don't need that in the video."

"Up yours," Donovan chuckled, moving the camera up and down, relishing every shot of her nude, raped form. "Think she was a virgin?"

"Don't matter now, does it?" Archie whispered. "Three's Company definitely had a good finale…"

"I swear to God I'm going to cut both of your throats if you don't shut the hell up!" Rock exclaimed madly, making them both turn stone still. "Now we're gonna have to dub some audio over the video. You realize what we just did can get us landed in Blackgate!?"

"Speak for yourself, I think Donovan's more of an Arkham bitch," Archie guffawed, punching the Latino rapist on the arm.

"HEY!" Donovan hissed irritably, "don't shake my fucking arm. I'm shooting my first Emmy!"

"Can we get started, ladies?" Rock asked them both grimly, punching the wall of the dim room. Pamela did not react at all to the violent speech and movements from the three men. The white wall was so…existential. Drool cascaded down her chin.

"Get them," Donovan told Archie, who nodded and ran over to the door. He pulled from the shadows a large, clay planter, inside of which grew a sizable Saint George's sword, otherwise known as Sansevieria trifasciata. When Pamela saw it, she focused on its hazy green features through her distorted vision, swiping at the air to touch its smooth leaves. "That's right, bitch, claw…claw," Donovan whispered, snickering loudly.

"Hey, Pamela?" Rock had a wicked smile on his face. "You like plants?"

"Ugh huuug yuuub," Pamela said dumbly, her mouth hanging open as she stroked the leaves of the plant now.

"Well, that's good, because we got this one for you," said Rock. He sighed, looking content with himself. "See, I'm a psychology major, Pamela. And I have friends all over Gotham City. Particularly in Coreman's Ridge. And you know what they told me? Why, everything about you, of course. You're quite a character, Pamela. Heard you fucked a plant and killed a kitty one time, at the same time, right? Got put in the loony bin, too." He tutted loudly. "Well, that wasn't right. A girl should have the right to her personal pleasures. It's key definition to the character. So, Pam… wanna fuck that plant? I want you to fuck that plant."

"Oobay kaaey…" Pamela felt to her knees, her head swimming all over the place. All three of her rapists snickered now. Rohypnol was hardly their weapon of choice. You wanted to take away the ability to resist, yes, but to add an extra ingredient of total dominance? That required something a little more potent. Sunshine, indeed…

"Fuck the plant," Archie cried out.

"Come on, Pamela!" Donovan encouraged.

"Do it for me, Pamela," Rock finished.

And Pamela, her mind gone and addled, crawled forward, naked as the day she had come into the world, and obeyed their commands. Her will was not her own. That belonged to the drug that had been spiked into her "Sunshine…" That drug was her only god now, more so than Mother Earth…

And Donovan recorded every…last…second. For half an hour it went, and all three of them were quite sure that this video was make them famous. Fetish taken to a whole new level. And she would have no memory of this, in the morning, when she would awaken on the side of the road, tossed into a ditch on the outskirts of Gotham… there was no way she would ever come to haunt them. Each of them had held the camera carefully as they claimed her. Their faces would never show up in their first person perspective quest. Rock would make sure of the absence of their voices.

Pamela Isley was their slave. She belonged to them.

"Dear God…" Gordon said, wiping tears from his eyes, his fist shaking furiously.

Stefan nodded, looking grimmer than ever. "Those three… if Pamela hadn't gotten to them first… I sure as hell would have murdered them myself. And you can take that back to the GCPD with you, James."

Gordon nodded darkly.