Will's appeal cleared him of his jail sentence and nothing else. People still believed he was the killer of more people than Abigail Hobbs, but at least he had his house and his dogs back.
He spent ten months in virtual solitude, visited only by a nurse to make sure he was taking his medicine and looking after himself sufficiently once a week, and occasionally by some good friends who would politely spend an awkward hour with him every few weeks or so. Alana Bloom had moved too far away to return, but she wrote to him, sometimes called. Her letters almost cleared the stains of hate mail or the even worse fan mail he received.
Strangers were usually reporters Will quickly slammed the door back into, but Will was watching the world through his window and he saw her approaching. He wondered if at first she was a hallucination. She was a nightmare walking towards his door, her hair a tangled mess, her movements wearied and her skin and clothes bathed in blood. When Will decided she wasn't a hallucination, he moved from the window to go to her. They both stopped upon her eyes lifting and noticing him.
"Are you Will Graham?" she asked, her throat dry but her words clear. Will considered if her words were a warped message from his subconscious. Nothing jumped out at him.
"Yes." He stated. She sagged a little, as though weight was lifted from her shoulders.
"I think I might be the only person alive who believes you about Dr. Hannibal Lecter."