Chapter 20

She adjusts the camera’s lens, fingers numb despite the heater running full blast. A quick breath fogs the glass before she wipes it away, and there she is: Sara Lance, mixed martial arts teacher, with her student framed in the dirty motel window across the lot. The light hits just right, casting half her face in shadow, the other half caught in that sick, cheap motel glow.

Click. She freezes on a frame where their hands tangle, skin brushing skin, too intimate, too raw to look at for long. Through the telephoto lens, she watches as Sara pulls Ava closer, their mouths meeting in a kiss that’s desperate and hungry. Her finger hovers over the shutter button, steady despite the bile rising in her throat.

She learned this work from her mentor, Bruce Wayne. His no-nonsense, stoic demeanor made her who she is today. When she was just starting out as a private eye, he took her under his wing and taught her that sometimes the truth hurts, but it’s still the truth. Bruce showed her how to do this job without losing herself completely, though some days she wonders if she’s managing that part.

Click. Click. The camera captures everything: Ava’s hands threading through Sara’s hair, the way they fall back onto the unmade bed, limbs intertwining. Sara’s shirt hits the floor, followed by Ava’s panties. She hates this. Hates every damn second of it. But bills don’t pay themselves, and this is what Nyssa al Ghul is paying for: proof of her wife’s betrayal.

Click. Through the viewfinder, she watches them move, bodies pressing together in the pale motel light. The camera clicks softly as she documents their intimacy, each frame another nail in the coffin of her marriage. No knight in shining armor here, just her, a shitty car, and a lens that sees everything but can’t change a thing.