Hannibal Lecter resides in his study later that evening, staring at the glowing visage of himself on the computer screen. Bi-weekly checks are made of the FBI's website, to insure that if he is still on the Ten Most Wanted list, which he is, and to insure that the photo is not updated, which is not. As usual, they are running a comfortable two faces behind. There is a notice on his stats page that he is suspected of kidnapping and possibly murdering the psychiatrist Dr. Emily Christophersen. No, he had not kidnapped her and he would never dream of murdering his wife. Not in a thousand years. Those words triggered a memory in him and he briefly closes his eyes, remembering the kitchen on Chesapeake. Clarice.

It struck him as he looked back on those fateful nights, how he had saved Clarice, had tended to her wounds. Had rid her of the annoyingly crude Krendler. He had also rescued Emily, had tended to her wounds. They had the same mark on them, from a gunshot wound to the shoulder. Both bore the same scars from his skillful hand. Both women shot while someone was trying to exact their revenge on him. The same, yet so different. Clarice had let Mischa come to reside in her memory palace, had offered him so much. Emily, she would have none of that, but she knew the monster that dwelled inside him, had acknowledged its presence in herself as well.

But to think that Emily would truly let something as dark as that control her actions? He was still incredulous but he knew it to be true. She had changed, and he was at a loss to understand why. He closed out the window that had his face in it and let the computer close out the Internet connection. He remembered back to when he had killed the first of his victims. Emily had that same look about her, and he would not doubt that she would kill again. But why? The question was still confounding him. She had no reason that he could readily seize upon to start killing people. Whimsy? Something to amuse herself? No, that was as implausible to him as her going mad. There had to be a plausible reason, a method to the madness, so to speak.

Rain begins to patter softly against the old glass of the windowpane. It is crazed from the years, and he can see his rippled reflection in it. It is the only sound in the house, considering Emily is out for the evening, attending someone's wedding shower. It occurs to him as he rises from the chair to look in on Mischa that he is desperately hoping that she truly is at a wedding shower. How strange it was, to feel a twinge of fear at what his wife might do. An idle thought as he looks down on the sleeping child in the crib, that Emily might turn on him. He shoves the possibility of such aside after considering it for a moment. No, she might try to hurt him, but she would never attempt to take his life. He had offered her the chance once, and she had not taken it. He was almost certain that she would not attempt such again. Almost.

*****

A lone figure strolls down the quiet streets that make up the Nob Hill neighborhood in San Francisco. She carries an umbrella with her, but does not use it in the light rain. Rivulets snake down the back of her neck and past the upturned collar of the trench coat she wears. It is difficult to make her out as she passes out of the light cast by the lampposts. IN her opposite hand she carries a plastic grocery bag, which swings gently in time with her steps. If you listen carefully you can hear her humming 'Masquerade' form Phantom of the Opera. She switches the umbrella to the hand with the bag and digs into her pocket for the keyfob. The headlights on the Lincoln flash once as she dearms the alarm and unlocks it. She must hurry home and get the bag's contents into the freeze. Wouldn't want tomorrow's dinner to spoil, now would she?

*****