The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

25

I pour coffee.

Sit at the counter.

Stare at the television while Harleen reads the newspaper.

I do it all in a blank haze, a reverie.

That is, until Harleen spits out her coffee, spraying it all across the kitchen counter.

"What is it?" I ask, standing to get the cloth.

"Nothing," Harleen says quickly. Too quickly. She folds up the newspaper and tucks it into her lap beneath the counter. Smiles non-convincingly.

"Harleen, I'm not an idiot."

I wipe up the coffee then, before she can react, snatch the newspaper from her lap. I rifle through the pages, scanning headlines, while Harleen bites nervously on her lip.

And then I see it. A blown up picture of me from yesterday, fist pulled back and the paparazzi man sent reeling. Headlined, Violent girlfriend of murder/suicide Bank Manager - did the police get this one wrong?

I take a breath, all too aware of Harleen watching me anxiously, awaiting my reaction. I scan quickly through the article, shame and embarrassment pooling in my abdomen with every word.

"Well," I say lightly. "Now co-habiting with female lover. I don't know why people keep thinking that about us — unless Brooks shared his notes."

"They're just idiots," Harleen says darkly. "They want to print a story. They'll say anything."

"They didn't mention my job, though," I point out, murmuring as I scan back through the article once more. "Or any of the details that actually incriminate me. This isn't Dawes trying to ruin me. She's making a threat. This could get a lot worse."

"What does she want from you?" Harleen asks.

"Same as the cops. To keep digging. Look into all the Arkham patients. Look into everything."

Harleen hesitates. "Don't you think you should let them?"

I can't explain to her why I won't do that. The way I get the strange feeling this is all someone looking out for me. The fact the Joker confirmed as much. There's every chance this is a crime boss waiting to cash in the debt I now owe him, and if I do anything to piss him off, it won't end well for me.

But there's also a part of me, again, that feels somewhat tethered to this force of nature that continues to protect me. A part of me that won't let anything happen to him.

"At least have some toast," Harleen nudges, when my silence has dragged on too long. "You barely touched your Chinese food last night. You haven't eaten in days."

"I'm fine," I protest, not wanting to get into a discussion about the stress and adrenaline and constant stomach full of coffee I've been enduring.

"You need your strength."

Before I can protest any further, a sound rings out through the apartment. The click of the front door.

I wait. Unafraid, but caught in suspense.

Harleen lets out a low growl. She stomps through the kitchen, pulling the cast iron from the drawer once more. "If that's one of the bastards from the press, we're calling in sick and you can help me bury the body."

I follow her through the apartment. Around every corner, past every door, I expect someone to jump out at us. The click of a camera, at least.

But nothing happens.

"You check the rooms," Harleen tells me, opening the front door and peering around. "I'll take the stairwell."

As soon as she's left, a heavy silence settles through the apartment. It's not a fear, exactly. More a feeling.