I had not intended to go.

The Justice League took my father and sister away—away from danger, away from me—(which is generally the same thing)—and I thought there was nothing more I need do. Artemis would live. My father—

Live or die, I could do nothing for him now.

And yet … and yet here I am.

It didn't take that much effort to disguise myself. When you're an internationally wanted criminal, you become adept at making yourself look and act like someone else if you want to ever appear in public. When I was done, no one would have guessed that the meek looking pudgy girl (you'd be amazed at the sort of things you can conceal in padding) was anything but what she appeared to be.

There was a fair amount of security around my father's room, of course, but I was confident that I'd find a way in at some point. (If nothing else I'd just kidnap and replace a nurse). I wasn't sure why I wanted to see him again … (liar) but I knew I could do it.

I watch Green Arrow enter his room and shut the door and sigh in exasperation. The Archer was probably going to make some kind of threat, warn my father to stay away from Artemis. He may as well have saved his breath—Artemis herself would not stay away from our father. Not now.

(Because in the end, she is always Daddy's Little Girl. As I am not. As I have never been. As I have never wanted to be.)

(Liar.)

I decide there's no point in waiting around. As dimwitted as police assigned to guard duty tend to be, my presence would surely not go unnoticed if I lingered that long. All things considered, it's best I go get a cup of coffee and wait for another opportunity.

Patience is an assassin's greatest asset.

In retrospect, that might not have been the best decision.

There's only one person in the small break room when I enter. A woman in a wheelchair, pensively drinking a cup of coffee and staring off into space.

Mother.

I have not seen my mother since the night I ran away from home. I did not plan to see my mother now. I did not want to talk to my mother now …

I turn to leave.

"Hello, Jade."

I freeze. "Hello, Mother. How did you know it was me?"

"I'm your mother, dear. And I taught you."

"True."

Other mothers and daughters might play with dolls, even with makeup … my mother was teaching me the fine arts of camouflage and hand to hand combat. Even in a wheelchair, she was still a deadly opponent …

Not as good as me, of course, but then who is?

"Would you like some coffee, dear?"

"Please. Decaf." A jittery assassin is not a successful assassin.

Mother smiles at me. "Just like your father."

"I am nothing like him." I hiss the words. My entire life has been spent denying there was anything of my father in me. I was grace. I was skill. I was my mother's child, not his. Never his.

"I used to think that as well." She hands me my coffee. "Artemis—Artemis is more like her father than either of them admit. They both struggle to conceal their hearts from the world but it's there for all to see. But you and I …"

"We have no hearts."

That's the thing I always tell myself. My associates—not friends; I don't have friends—say much the same. They admire me for that almost as much as they do my fighting skills.

I am Jade. I am Cheshire. I need nothing. I need no one.

"I used to think that as well." Mother takes a sip of her coffee. "I was wrong."

I blink my eyes in confusion. "Mother, have you been playing the role of concerned mother for so long that you have forgotten who you are?"

Artemis thinks that mother is as softhearted, as kind, as she. Mother never has to scold her—she simply gives her a look and my sister is helpless to disobey.

It's not true, of course.

Mother does not love anyone. Every girl for herself. How many times had I heard her say that before it became my own mantra?

When I would act out, when I would tease my father, when I would make Artemis cry with frustration—that was who I am. That was why I did it. Every girl for herself.

The reason that I hurt Artemis. The reason that I left her behind. The reason I could not love, could not trust.

Every girl for herself.

Artemis had to realize that the world was not a kind place. She could depend on no one but herself. Not Mother. Not Father. Not even me. The sooner she realized that, the safer she would be ….

It was for her own good, really.

There is nothing else.

Mother looks up at me. "I was wrong, Jade. I spent most of my life believing that love was an illusion, a game. Because of that belief, I almost missed out on the most important thing in my life: my family."

"Artemis, you mean."

"Artemis. Your father. You."

"Why, Mother?" The question is soft. "Why him? How could you love him?" How can you love me? "Don't you know what he is?" Don't you know what I am?

"He is my husband. He is your father. You are my daughter. I love you."

"Love? What is love, Mother?" I growl in frustration and throw my coffee cup at her.

Mother moves with a speed I would not have guessed she still possesses and the cup smashes into the wall behind her.

"I have been paid by mothers to kill their sons. I have made fortunes from killing a husband for a wife or a wife for a husband. Politicians. Athletes. Religious icons. I have seen depravity and degradation—violence and lust. I have seen evil. But I have never seen love. What is love, Mother?"

"Love is what brought you here tonight, Jade." She looks up at me with a face as expressionless as a china doll.

"I hate him." The words are hollow, empty. Like me. Like I have always been. Does she really think I love anyone?

"Do you? Then why come here? Why risk your freedom for this visit?"

"There will never be a better time to kill him."

"Here? With many of the world's greatest heroes within shouting distance? With a small army of police officers at the ready? This is the time you pick to kill your father?"

"I hate him."

"He believes that. He prays for that. The last thing he wanted was for you or your sister to love him. He thought it would keep you safe."

I gape at her. "He made us hate him?"

"He tried."

"Then there is one thing my father was not a failure at." I open the door. "I hate him."

There are interns, nurses, doctors—rushing through the hallways. They are shouting.

And their words freeze my blood.

"Move it, people! Crock is dying!"