There were more tears-hot, angry, conflicted tears-than Hannibal's therapist had seen. Abigail Hobbs was dead; Will Graham was to blame. If he hadn't been so reckless-silently sneaking Abigail away-then Jack Crawford wouldn't have become so suspicious. Still, Hannibal couldn't help but feel partly responsible for the girl's death.
If only he had kept a closer eye on the two of them. If only he had kept Will on a tighter leash.
If only, if only...
None of it was important now. There were more pressing matters to attend to.
Hannibal did not want to give up on Will, but at the moment, he hated the man. Will was far more temperamental-more impetuous-than he had originally thought. That had the potential to bring about negative consequences.
But Will was also far more intelligent that Hannibal had originally thought. His potential had been brushed upon-not reached, but he had touched it, tasted it. He was hungry for it now.
Will had been handled prematurely. He had spent his life inside, and when he was thrust out into the world, the sun had blinded him. He had acclimated to the light, then; Hannibal would have to re-acquaint him with the darkness.
Indeed, Abigail's death was perhaps the most tragic thing Hannibal had ever witnessed. But in the scheme of things, he thought, it may well prove to have been necessary-and if the reconstruction of Will Graham's mind was the end result, her death may well have been worth it.