"Hello, Will." He sat on a bench behind the bars, hunched over, hands on his knees, staring vacantly at the wall opposite of him. She notices how his hair is greasy and his eyes are hollow, circles engraved deeply underneath, barely a flicker of a light still present in the iris' glassy surface.

He notices that her hair is nicely kept, worn wavy and swept over one shoulder. He notices that her makeup, clothes and jewelry are all well-polished, almost too well polished, as if she is wearing a costume. He notices everything about her, except for her eyes. He doesn't like eyes. Eyes lie.

"Who are you?" When he spoke he was surprised at how old his voice sounded. Old and antique and crackly, like a record player at an antique store that has been set aside to gather dust, its purpose ignored.

"I'm a novelist. I write books. Fiction. My name is Carmen Banks." She watched him carefully, and while he remained in the same posture and demeanor, she found the recognition on his face. He'd read her books before—or at least heard of them. His lack of response was expected, but she hadn't planed this conversation as well as she'd meant to.

"Of course, you're real. Sorry, you probably already knew that." He noticed that there was something uncertain about her demeanor, and while she looked polished, professional, and well-kempt, this was the first time she'd done this sort of thing. She didn't make house—prison-calls often. This uncertainty assured him that she had good intentions. He'd read her books before—what seemed like a lifetime ago—and he enjoyed them. He just wasn't sure he wanted to be the subject of one.

He stood up, and made his way over to the front of the cell. His limbs had atrophied from his time here, and although it had only been a few months, it felt like years. He couldn't imagine what years would feel like. He figured that given years here, he would lose the ability to feel altogether.

"No, no, it's nice to have some affirmation every once in a while. Sometimes, in here, I find myself doubting." When he spoke, it was even worse than the first time. It was clear that he hadn't said a word in a long while. His voice had decayed, reduced to what was almost a croak.

"I've been reading about you since The Tattler. Your story is fascinating, it almost reads like fiction." At the mention of the article, he felt a cold convulsion run through his spine. He managed to compose himself quickly, and respond.

"That may be because most of it is."

"Yes, I suppose it doesn't paint you in a very flattering light." He laughed bitterly,

"No, no it doesn't."

"Do you believe any of it? Do you think you killed those girls?"

"I—I used to be sure. I'm sorry-what exactly are you doing here?"

"I've followed your story with great interest. See, lately I've had a terrible case of writers' block. But I'm not here to tell your story. I'm here to change it. And hopefully break through this block in the process. I'm sorry, but I have to return to my previous question. Do you think you killed them?"

"I know that I didn't kill Mallory. But Abigail—I don't know. Time in this place, it sort of scrambles everything. I've been trying to hold on—not to fade, but now I'm finding that I'm not so sure about anything. Everything is hazy. The past, the future, even this, right now." He's not sure why he trusts her, but he can tell that she's sincere. No matter her intentions.

"Well, I assure you that I'm real. And I can assure you that you didn't kill any of those girls. Because I know who did." This barely fazed him. He leaned his head back, sticking his chin out.

"And who is that?"

"Doctor Hannibal Lecter." Immediately his demeanor shifted. He stood up straight and his eyes seemed to clear immediately.

"Hannibal?"

"Yes.

"And why are you so sure?"

"I did some research of my own. I requested access to this case, and the evidence. Chief Crawford approved me to have this conversation with you. I'm a rather well-known author, my presence here could have major influence if I needed it be. I said I had drawn inspiration from your story for my next novel. I told Jack I was focusing on the psychological elements. Your disease and how it may have crippled your willpower, causing the deaths of those girls. I bought a house, in an empty clearing, a couple miles across from the lake where you live. As I'm sure you can piece together, I'm quite dedicated to this story. Sometimes the lights are on. One night, when they weren't, I went in, planted some bugs and cameras in the rooms that weren't lit. The lights came on consistently, around midnight, for six days. Then I waited for another week, and another, and they never came back on again. I recovered the devices, and I found out who'd been turning the lights on. Your psychiatrist."

"What was he doing in my house?"

"Tampering—at first I figured he was planting evidence, but they'd already acquired everything they needed from the crime scene. The thing is, there was more that he needed. He was taking things—personal things, studying them, as if he was trying to get to know you better. He already knows you as a colleague, and a patient—I think for some reason he felt the need to know you personally. I believe he is composing his testimony. Your trial is in three weeks."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Well, all the evidence I've gathered so far is admissible in court. I have plans however. One of the most fascinating articles of evidence Crawford's team has gathered so far are the clock drawings that you supposedly created. The clocks that Hannibal had accumulated through your therapy are all normal. The clock you drew for Alana was skewed, showing clear evidence of the symptoms of encephalitis. But when I was examining the two side by side, I noticed a clear discrepancy. The number four was drawn in two entirely different styles. This on its own isn't enough to implicate Hannibal, there are plenty of justifications that could be made for the change. But I believe that the drawings Doctor Lecter handed over to the police are not the originals. I think they were forgeries. If I could recover the originals, it would provide compelling evidence against the good Doctor. I believe, Will, that you are innocent. I saw how this story was going to end, and I have to say, it's rather disappointing. So I think, with your blessing, I'd like to rewrite it. What do you say?"

She doesn't offer a hand to shake. Handshakes mean nothing here.

"What would this entail on my end?"

"I'll be visiting regularly, asking you whatever questions I need answers to in order to crack this case. You'll have to answer me honestly. That's why I asked you about the girls. I wanted to make sure they hadn't entirely convinced you that you were guilty yet. I needed to make sure you still had doubts. You'll need to keep those doubts, of course. It should be easier to do, knowing there is someone who knows you are innocent. Do we have an agreement?"

He considers for a moment. He doesn't have much to lose. The only worse thing than staying here would be dying, and he'd been beginning to think that maybe even that would provide some relief.

"Alright."

"Excellent. I'll also be questioning your colleagues; Alana, Jack, Beverly. I may also attempt to ascertain Ms. Lound's perspective on all of this. I think that possibly, if she's shown the evidence against another suspect, she may switch sides. She doesn't want to hurt you, she just wants the best story. And I think my story has a better ending." She smiles.

"I'll see you soon, Will. Keep fighting. Stay sharp. You're far from fading." He's not sure whether to say goodbye or good luck, so he settles on,

"Thank you." She smiled once more and turned on her heel, walking back down the hallway.

"And Carmen," She stopped.

"Yes?"

"Stay away from Hannibal Lecter." The moment he said it, he felt glad. He very well may have just saved a life.

"I know."

Her response, for some reason, made him feel safer. He had an ally now. Maybe even an ally worth fighting for.