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"Hickory dickory dock," Duela whispered to herself. Even alone, she adapted a singsong tone. "The bird looked at the clock." In time with the words, she looked at her watch. "The clock struck two," she continued, even though it was a quarter past the hour, "away she flew." She rose from the folding chair at her desk in the warehouse. "Hickory dickory dock."

She looked at the walls of the building, all of the information that she had gathered over the last months. Information containing almost every piece of the stories of Harvey Dent, Nadine Lewis, and Jonathan Crane, not to mention any family members or associates whose names had come up in files again and again. Rachel Dawes, Margaret James. Family trees. Everything.

In the end, it was no comfort. This was the last time, she promised herself, she would ever be in this place. It was time to go somewhere, anywhere, else.

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