Catwoman wasn’t sure what she expected to find—bare walls, new tenants—when she raised the window and slipped in behind the drapes. The mirror-ceiling bedroom had been searched, but not trashed. The wardrobe doors were shut and locked. It was clear to Catwoman, after that, why she’d come. She got out her picks. The doors swung open. The box was there. She lifted it out. It was filled with strands of pearls and semiprecious stones—none worth the trouble of fencing, so she left them in the box’s place and closed the doors.
Somebody should tell the nuns to tell Rose that it was safe to go home again.
Selina had what she’d come for. The only other thing she was interested in—the velvet painting of the prowling tiger in the living room—was far too big to think about. She should have called it a night and headed home, but curiosity, as always, got the better of her and she opened the corridor door.
The door to Tiger’s relic room lay on its side, blocking the closets. More to the point, a night-light’s worth of foot-candles was spilling out of the room itself. Holding the box tightly against her side, Catwoman took a peek.
“I knew you would come. Sooner or later.”
Selina was startled. She thought—hoped—her ears were playing tricks on her, but there he was in full regalia silhouetted against an undraped window. She put her right foot behind her left, and measured the distance to the gouged door frame with her outstretched hand.
“Don’t go. I wanted to tell you that I didn’t understand until it was too late. I knew you were involved, but I thought it was the icon, strictly business. I didn’t know about this.”