Though it felt like a whole other lifetime ago, the Academy had taught Barbara some very important things about being a police officer. Like how to fire a gun, how to drive defensively, and above all, how to conduct an investigation.

Seeing as how the first two weren't of much use anymore, it was this last lesson she carried with her. Specifically, the concept of police discretion.

Often alone on the job, police officers were given discretion—or the freedom to decide—what to do when a situation arose. This could be anything from deciding to make an arrest to shooting a gun.

In Barbara's case, she had used it to decide whether to search into Bruce Wayne. Normally, this would mean actually performing a search, but she wasn't stupid enough to go break into Wayne Manor and expect to come out alive. If the million-dollar security system didn't shoot, electrocute, or vaporize her first, then Bruce would surely take care of her. He and her dad might be the best of friends, but something told her their friendship didn't run deep enough to spare a would-be intruder, even if it was the police commissioner's daughter.

"You're shivering," Harleen said from beside her. "Are ya' cold?"

Barbara shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest with a sigh. "No, I just want to get off this stupid train already."

"Don't worry. We're almost there," Harleen said, snapping her gum.

"All right." Barbara shut her eyes and leaned back. As much as she might have wanted to, the jerky bumps of the train cart reminded her sleep would be impossible. Maybe at the library, she could get some much-needed shuteye after she found what she needed.

Her eyes flickered open at the thought. What would she find exactly?

That all too familiar sinking feeling in her stomach returned. She hoped it was last night's prawns, finally about to spew out of her. At least then she'd know she had been food poisoned after all. At least then she could call off this investigation and go home.

But nothing ever came up. Not for her, and not for her dad either. They had both been fine the entire night and even up until this morning. And that's how she knew whatever had made Bruce and Pamela throw up wasn't from food poisoning.

That's how she knew she had to look into Bruce Wayne's tragic past.

"Wayne Tower," a muffled voice rasped through the speaker as the subway slowed to a rough stop.

"Oh! This is us!" Harleen jumped to her feet and started unlacing the strap that held Barbara in place. After tossing it aside, she grabbed the wheelchair from behind and pushed Barbara off the cart and onto the platform. Humming to herself, Harleen skipped out of the dimly lit station and into the not-so-bright daylight. But it seemed not even the city's dreary atmosphere could wipe that annoying smile off her face. She was on cloud nine, and it would probably take a lightning strike to bring her down.

Unfortunately, Barbara couldn't share in Harleen's sentiments. Her sleep-deprived brain wouldn't allow it.

"Hey, Harleen." Barbara glanced over her shoulder. "Don't you still need to buy a dress for the wedding?"

"Nah, I'm good. I still got plenty of time." She continued humming as she made her way down the cracked sidewalk.

"Uh, the wedding's this weekend."

Harleen came to an abrupt halt, slapping her hand against her forehead. "Oh, shoot! You're right!"

Barbara turned her head back around and grinned to herself. "Well, why don't you go out and buy one? I'm just going to be working at the library, doing boring book stuff. Shopping sounds like a lot more fun."

Harleen hesitated, shifting her weight onto the other foot. "Hmm, I dunno. Red specifically said I can't leave you alone."

"I won't technically be alone though. Mrs. Kringle, the head librarian, will be there." Despite the chilly October morning, beads of sweat formed along Barbara's brow. No offense to Harleen, but she needed to be alone for this. The last thing she wanted—or needed—was Harleen breathing down her neck as she scoured through several news articles.

"Ya' sure you'll be okay?" Harleen frowned.

"Absolutely!" Barbara exclaimed a little too loudly. "I won't tell Pamela about this. It'll be our little secret."

"Oh! I love secrets!" Harleen squealed. "Thank you, Babs! I'm going to pick out the prettiest dress! It's going to be red and black with sequins." She continued blabbering to herself as she walked across the street, nearly getting hit by a car on the way.

Barbara shook her head, forever puzzled how someone like that could be friends with someone like Pamela. Guess opposites did attract after all.

Rolling into the library, Barbara was greeted by the familiar vanilla scent that seemed to be a permanent staple of the building—probably from all the old books.

"Hello, Barbara!" Mrs. Kringle waved to her from the circulation desk. "How was the shower?"

"It was..." Barbara searched for the correct, but polite word. Gaudy? No. Extravagant? Better. "Opulent."

"That's nice." Mrs. Kringle smiled before going back to her knitting. "Did you have fun?"

"Yes, it was quite something. Mr. Wayne sure knows how to throw a party." Barbara chuckled. "Which is quite funny because I was just assigned a paper on famous entrepreneurs. And I thought, why not do it on Gotham's own tycoon?"

Mrs. Kringle glanced up from her needles and nodded her head. "Oh, yes. That is a good idea."

"Do you know where I can find the microfilm on him?" She hoped he was important enough to earn his own archive.

"Of course! Let me show you." Rising out of her chair, Mrs. Kringle shuffled to the back of the library where the rest of the microfilm was. With the flick of the light, she entered the musty room and guided Barbara towards a shelf at the far end of the corner.

Not only was there a section dedicated to Bruce, but an entire damn shelf. Either he was more important than Barbara thought, or he really was just that full of himself. No matter the reason, this was ridiculous. She'd have to spend the whole night here to comb through everything.

"Thank you, Mrs. Kringle," Barbara said with a strained smile.

"Let me know if you need anything else, dear." Mrs. Kringle walked out of the cramped room, leaving Barbara alone with nothing but her thoughts. Well, she might as well get started. It's not like she had any time to waste.

Pulling the top drawer open, which thankfully she could reach, she decided to start with the first reel.

Right at the beginning.

**

"If I have to read about Bruce making the Forbes 400 one more time, I will kill myself!" Barbara yanked at the ends of her hair, ready to pull out a handful. Thank God this was not actually an assignment because if it was, she was pretty sure she would've failed.

How could someone so rich and powerful lead such a boring life, filled with nothing but business deals and stock trades?

No, there had to be something she was missing. But what? That sudden gap year from 1961 to 1962? Yeah, she had already tried that. Several times. But she had a better chance of finding D. B. Cooper than finding what happened in between that year. No huge charity dinners. No high-profile magazine interviews. Nothing.

It was like Bruce fell off the face of the earth for an entire year.

"Ugh," she groaned, rubbing her aching forehead. "What am I missing? What happened that year?"

What would cause a thirty-year-old man at the height of his career to disappear in the middle of it? Were those rumors about getting involved with the mob true, then? It was the only thing that made sense—

Wait. Thirty-year-old? That couldn't be right.

Adjusting her glasses, Barbara inserted the reel marked 1932, the year Bruce was born. As she scanned each newspaper for the article about his birth, her heart began to race. She had to be wrong about this. She just had to be. She had looked at so many dates she must've gotten them mixed up somewhere. Because if this date was correct like she thought, then that would mean...

"He's nearly fifty years old," she whispered as her eyes landed on the headline. She could deny it all she wanted to, but there it was in inky black letters, unmistakable as day: "Thomas and Martha Wayne welcome their first child."

The date? February 19th, 1932.

"No, no. That has to be wrong." She fumbled for the reel labeled 1942 before jamming it in the reader. Unlike before when researching Pamela, Barbara didn't have to skip furiously through various articles to find the headline she was looking for; the headline that forever changed Gotham City.

"Thomas and Martha Wayne shot dead; 10-year-old son survives."

It was as if Barbara's lungs collapsed the second her eyes read that sentence. Clutching the ends of the table, Barbara started gulping in huge, uncontrollable gasps of air as her throat constricted inside her.

Bruce Wayne could not be nearly fifty years old. He didn't look a day past thirty! Hell, even her dad, who was only a few years younger, had more wrinkles than him. And yes, he might have billions of dollars to do so, but there wasn't a plastic surgeon in the world good enough to make a middle-aged man look decades younger.

Yet, somehow, she had always suspected something was off with the man. Somewhere, in the deep recesses of her mind, she knew all along. Starting with his nonchalance about the truth behind Pamela and her crimes. Not to mention how he seemed to know everything, including like how to kill her.

All this time, she knew something was wrong, and she had still been played the fool. Maybe the apple really didn't fall that far from the tree.

So then what did it cost to attain eternal youth? Human sacrifice? The youth from others?

Richard and Jason.

"Oh my God," she wheezed at the thought. Is that why Bruce had adopted them? Was he stealing orphans for their youth? Just like Pamela had stolen it from men?

It was a big jump to conclusions and, possibly, logic. But nothing about this situation was logical. Because no human—no mortal could live so long without showing any signs of aging.

Richard.

His name echoed in her mind. Had she not noticed the same thing about him? Back when they first met on the subway?

Barbara shook her head at the thought. No. No way.

Teenagers could look the same for years, right? Hell, she still looked like one and she was twenty-two. It wasn't unusual for someone to have the same haircut from years back. Barbara was pretty sure her dad hadn't changed his since they first moved here. And that was back in '72.

Although Richard was in his growing years, nothing said he had to grow. Maybe he was a late bloomer. Or better yet, he probably had his growth spurt already. Yeah, that was it. He had reached his peak early on, making him look nineteen when he had been sixteen. And now that he had finally caught up to the age he looked, that was why he hadn't changed.

There, problem solved. It just required a little common sense and science to explain.

So then why was she rushing over to the archives, refusing to give Richard the benefit of the doubt?

Going as far back as 1971 and as recently as 1978, Barbara grabbed as many reels as she could fit into her lap from The Gotham Gazette before gliding back over to the reader. Sure, she didn't know the exact date when The Flying Graysons took their last flight, but Richard had to be at least nine or ten if he considered it to be a long time ago. He couldn't be that old... Right?

"No," she told herself as she popped in the first of many reels. "Not him. It's not possible."

But as she raked through dozens of articles, straining her bleary eyes with each article she read, she was beginning to wonder if the story had even been true at all. There was no headline—not even a sentence—about the accident.

Had she misheard him? It had happened here, right?

Aw, shit. Now that she thought about it, Richard never specified the accident had happened here in Gotham. He was part of a world-famous circus tour. It could've happened anywhere!

Barbara slapped her hands over her face and screamed at the realization. Without a starting point, she would really be here all night. And probably the next week.

Scooping the discarded reels into her arms, Barbara started back for the archives, deciding to call it a day. If she stared at a screen for one more second, she'd surely go blind. Or, at least, more blind than she already was.

But as she was wheeling herself over, Mrs. Kringle suddenly appeared from behind a bookshelf, startling her.

"Oh, I'm sorry, dear. I didn't mean to frighten you." She chuckled as she started picking up the fallen reels.

"No, it's all right. I've just been a bit jumpy today." Barbara gave a tired smile. "Thank you."

"Oh, of course." Mrs. Kringle handed Barbara the reels. "I've been watching you go back and forth for hours. I didn't realize this paper was so long!"

Paper? Oh, right. That paper. "Yeah, it's more of a biography. Since Bruce adopted a boy, I've been trying to find some information on him. Apparently, he was in the circus? Part of the Flying Graysons before their accident. But I can't find anything on them."

Mrs. Kringle's eyes went wide as she slowly shook her head. "The Flying Graysons weren't killed in an accident."

Barbara blinked, unsure if she had understood her correctly. "Hold on, you know of the Flying Graysons?"

"Why, of course! I was there that day," she said. "Such a tragedy. How someone could do such a thing to that poor family... And to a child of all people!"

Barbara's head was spinning and for a second, she thought she was back on whatever Dr. Crane had given her. "Excuse me? A child?"

Did that mean Richard had siblings? Just what the hell was going on?

"Yes." Mrs. Kringle dabbed her eyes with a wadded tissue. "Oh, how embarrassing. I didn't mean to get so emotional. But if you would've seen what I did that day, you would never forget it."

Barbara chewed on her lip, knowing full well this was her chance to go home. Leave and never again bring this up. Now was not the time to go sticking her nose in places it didn't belong. Because if she did, there would be no turning back.

But Barbara would never forgive herself if she left without getting some answers. Not after coming this far.

"What did you see?" she finally asked.

"Oh, it was just horrible! There was blood everywhere! Two bodies torn to pieces in their tent! The police had to carry what was left of them on a single stretcher." Mrs. Kringle sniffled. "I'm just thankful I didn't see the child."

"There... was only one child?" Barbara gulped.

Mrs. Kringle nodded, shutting her watery eyes from behind her glasses. "Yes. It was a family of three. A mom, a dad, and their son."

"I don't understand." Barbara ran a hand through her hair. "This sounds like a huge deal. So why couldn't I find anything on it?"

"Hm, that's strange. It was a big deal." Mrs. Kringle tapped her wrinkled chin. "But it was not too soon after did Bruce Wayne open up the Amusement Mile and that was all anyone could talk about."

"Yeah, I remember." Barbara rolled her eyes as she recalled reading headline after headline about the "Spectacular Amusement Mile: Where All Your Dreams Come True." Just exactly what Gotham City needed, an overpriced theme park. "But wait. Wasn't that opened in '67?"

"Yes, that sounds about right. But let me go check. Just one second." Mrs. Kringle smiled, turning around and heading towards her office.

Meanwhile, as she waited for the librarian to return, Barbara took off her glasses and closed her eyes. Why did she feel so tired all of a sudden? Yeah, research was hard and tiresome work, but even her body ached. She hadn't felt like this since her days at the Academy, and that was because she ran a mile on top of doing coursework.

Putting her glasses back on, Barbara glanced around at the empty library and frowned. Was it just her or had the room gotten smaller?

"You're right, Barbara," Mrs. Kringle called out, returning with a faded yellow newspaper. "The Flying Graysons were killed in '67."

"You saved this?" Barbara gaped as she took the crinkled paper in her hand.

"I had to. I had just seen something I would never forget," she sighed. "I wish I could though. I should've never snooped around and went into that tent."

"It's a good thing you did though. There are like no other copies—" Barbara froze as her eyes landed on the black-and-white photograph under the morbid headline. It was exactly like Mrs. Kringle had said. They were a family of acrobats, a family of three. There was a mom. A dad. And a son.

Though he was much younger, about twelve if Barbara had to guess, she could still tell it was him. It was not the color of his eyes she recognized him by—as it would be impossible with the lack of colored ink in the picture—but by the spark of life in them that seemed to light up his entire face. No one else had eyes like that. Just as no one else had the same, beaming grin that could warm the coldest heart and turn it to mush.

No one else but Richard.

Stomach churning, Barbara tore her gaze from the photo and up towards the date at the top corner. She had been right. The year had been 1967.

Meaning Richard was almost a decade older than he claimed. Or looked.

She had been right all along. But there was no sense of triumph, no sweet taste of victory that came along with it. Only the burning taste of acid as it made its way up her throat. Yes, she had been right all along, but oh, how she wished she'd never had been more wrong than at this moment.

Fighting back bitter tears, Barbara handed the newspaper back to the concerned librarian. With nothing left to say, she rolled towards the archives, trembling as the reels threatened to spill from her lap once again.

Pain was nothing new to Barbara. She had experienced it many times in her life before. But nothing could compare to how she felt now. Not the heart-wrenching pain of finding out her parents were splitting up because of her dad's affair. Not the sheering pain of feeling tons of crushed steel and glass on top of her. Not even the earth-shattering pain of hearing she might never walk again and her career as a police officer was over.

This was a different sort of pain. It was somehow none of those. And yet, all three at once.

This was the pain that could only stem from a broken heart.