"Alana. Margot. I thought you were gone."
Jack stood up. For a moment, he though Will had moved. Then he realized it was his knees, not the hospital bed, that had squeaked.
"I got your message," said Alana. "I had to come back. It's Will."
"Then why did you leave? You knew what he was doing."
She didn't meet his eyes. She was too busy helping Margot out of her long coat. "Funeral's are all the same."
"Well," Jack gestured at the bed. "It's Will. More or less. Funeral's are all the same, but so are comas, Alana."
She approached the bed slowly. "Not all the same. Why is he handcuffed to the bed? You think he's suicidal?"
"He threw himself off a cliff."
"To kill Hannibal."
"And himself. What is that, if not suicidal?"
"Reasonable."
"How do you know Will did it?" asked Margot. "How do you know it wasn't Hannibal?"
"There were cameras outside."
"Of course," said Alana. "He would want a few trophies that don't turn to crap."
Jack snorted.
"Feces, dear," said Margot. She turned to Jack. "We've started a swear jar."
"A swear vase." Alana drew out the short vowel. "It's a waste of a Wedgewood. Hannibal was eloquent. I don't need to be eloquent."
"Yet you have a swear Wedgwood vase," Jack pointed out, somewhat unhelpfully.
"We all sound like him now," said Margot. "That's the real crime."
Alana sat on the edge of the bed. It squeaked louder than Jack's knees.
"No, it isn't." She took Will's hand. "We may sound like him, but at least we don't think like him. How can one empathize with a lack of empathy?"
"It's more than empathy now, Alana." Jack scrubbed at his face. "Will isn't handcuffed to the bed because we think he's suicidal."