“Grandpa, I think I saw him again tonight, by the movie theater.”

Her grandfather sat at his workbench in the garage, working on a small carving of a butterfly for his wife.  He set his knife down and brushed off his gnarled hands, holding one out to her.  She took it and came to stand next to him, her purple shirt brushing against the bench and picking up small shavings of wood she flicked away with pink-tinted nails.

“Mariposa,” he squeezed her hand, “my butterfly girl, I see him too.  I still see him sitting at the kitchen table in the mornings, or tinkering with me in the garage.  The memories, they’re natural, mija.  It’s normal to remember him that way.”

She frowned and shook her head, unable or unwilling to share her growing fears with her down-to-earth grandfather.  The dreams were getting worse, and it was becoming more difficult to spend time with her friends who only seemed to want to talk about boys, clothes, or the latest music.  She looked up into her grandfather’s loving and concerned face.

Hector de Nova had handled the loss of his son as well as could be expected, flying to Italy to return with a coffin he had been warned not to open.  His deep sorrow had been subsumed by the need to care for his grief-stricken wife and granddaughter.

“But he—he doesn’t look the same when I see him.  He’s too thin, and his skin ... it’s not the way I remember.”  She felt her heart begin to race.  “Am I going crazy?”

He pulled her into a fierce hug.  “No, you’re not crazy.  Do you hear me?  You’re one of the most levelheaded people I know, but you need to stop thinking about him so much.  It’s not healthy, mija.  Get out with your friends more.  Have some fun.”

She whispered into his collar, “Okay, Grandpa.”

“And you don’t tell Grandma, okay?  She’ll just get upset.”

“I know.”

“When things start to bother you, just come talk to me.”

He pulled away to look into dark eyes that matched his own, the same eyes her father had.  “We’ll be okay, B.  We’ll get past this.”

Her hands clenched.  “Sometimes, I wish I could just forget him, Grandpa.  I know that’s horrible.”

He kissed her forehead.  “It’s okay, Beatrice.  It’s going to be okay…”

“Beatrice?”  Giovanni stood before her, wearing a grey tweed jacket and holding two cups of steaming coffee.  “May I join you?”

Shaking her head slightly to clear her mind, she motioned to the red-cushioned seat across from her.  “Of course.  What are you doing here?”

Working out your glorious backside by walking the ten-storied staircase of the architecture building?

Stealing secret documents for the Russians?  Plotting to assassinate my U.S. Foreign Policy professor?  Please let it be that.  Stalking me for some completely mind-boggling and inexplicable reason?

“Just meeting a friend for coffee.”

“Oh really?  What time are you supposed to meet him?”  She looked at her watch as he frowned and cocked his head at her.

“Oh,” she said in sudden realization.  “Oh, me?”

He chuckled and sat across from her.  “I was doing some research in the stacks and I saw you leave.  I thought I might take a break.”

“What are you working on?”

He looked at her for a moment, as if judging whether she was worth confiding in.  She raised her eyebrow when he remained silent, shrugged, and returned to typing on her laptop.

“Researching some documents for a client.”

She looked up, surprised he had spoken.  “That sounds interesting.  What kind of documents?”

His slightly pained expression had her waving a hand.

“Never mind,” she added.  “None of my business.”

“It’s not that I don’t think you’re trustworthy,” he said quickly.  “This collector is very private.  I haven’t even shared the specifics with Caspar.”

“Caspar?”

“Oh,” he paused.  “Caspar is my ...”

“Is he the guy that picks you up from the library sometimes?”

“Yes, he’s my butler, I guess you could say.  He works for me, but runs my house, as well.  He also helps me in my work.”

She raised her eyebrows and nodded.  “I have never met anyone with a butler before.”

“Well,” he shrugged.  “I suppose you have now.”

“Tell the truth, Giovanni Vecchio.”  A mischievous look came to her eye.  “You have a butler, a cool car, and I’ve only ever seen you at night...”

He froze, tension suddenly evident in the set of his shoulders.  Beatrice leaned closer and whispered, “You’re Batman, aren’t you?”

His mouth dropped open in surprise before the grin overtook his face.

She smiled back at him, chuckling until he joined in.  Soon, they were both laughing.

“You looked so serious for a second!  What did you think I was going to say?  A spy?  Vampire?  Hired killer?”

He shook his head in amusement.  “You’re confounding.  No, I was just surprised you guessed.  I am, in fact, Batman.  I would appreciate your discretion.”