“Selina Kyle,” Bruce said. “No convictions yet, but the databases are full close calls, tips from fences.”

A montage of newspaper headlines flashed across the screen:

THE CAT STRIKES AGAIN

POLICE SUSPECT ‘CAT’ BURGLAR IN JEWELRY HEIST

PENTHOUSE ROBBER LEAVES FEW CLUES BEHIND

ART MUSEUM LATEST VICTIM OF ‘THE CAT’?

Alfred nodded. He recognized some of the headlines from the morning papers. The string of high-profile heists had been notable for their daring and execution. He had thought Wayne Manor was burglar-proof, but this Miss Kyle had proven otherwise.

“She’s good,” Bruce repeated, “but the ground is sinking beneath her feet.”

Our crimes always catch up with us, Alfred thought. The smell of a burning letter wafted across his memory, reminding him that he had a few guilty secrets of his own. “We should send the police before she fences the pearls.”

“She won’t,” Bruce said. “She likes them too much. And they weren’t what she was after.”

Alfred didn’t understand.

“What was she after?” he inquired.

“My fingerprints,” Bruce stated. “There was printer toner mixed with graphite on the safe. Gives you a good pull, and it’s untraceable.”

“Fascinating,” Alfred said dryly. “Perhaps you could trade notes over coffee.”

Bruce finally looked away from the screen.

“Now you’re trying to set me up with a jewel thief?”

“At this point, sir, I would set you up with a chimpanzee if I thought it would bring you back to the world.”

Bruce’s expression darkened. Any trace of levity vanished from his voice.

“There’s nothing out there for me.”

“And that’s the problem,” Alfred said, hoping he could get through for once. “You hung up the cape and the cowl, but you never moved on. You won’t get out there and find a life. Find someone—”

“I did find someone, Alfred.” The memory of Rachel Dawes hung over him like a shroud. She had been the only woman Bruce had ever truly cared for— until the Joker cruelly ended her life. Her death in that explosion had haunted him ever since.

“I know,” Alfred said gently. “And then you lost her. That’s part of living, sir. But you’re not living, you’re waiting. Hoping for things to go bad again.”

For a chance to let the Dark Knight loose once more.

Bruce didn’t deny it. He just sat silently at the computer. Bats rustled overhead.

“Remember when you left Gotham?” Alfred persisted. “Before all this. Before Batman. Seven years you were gone. Seven years I waited, hoping that you wouldn’t come back.”

Bruce looked up in surprise. Confusion showed upon his face.

“Every year I took my holiday,” Alfred said, trying to explain. “I’d go to Florence. There’s a cafe by the Arno. Any fine evening I would sit there and order a Fernet-Branca. I had a fantasy I indulged in often. I liked to imagine that one day I’d look across the tables and see you. Sitting there with your wife, perhaps some children. You wouldn’t say anything to me, but we’d both know—that you’d made it. That you were happy.”