A series of little privileges pad out the hard surface of his life. The orderlies now trust him with a safety razor every other morning. The Washington Post arrives daily with his breakfast, and he can request whatever additional reading material he likes. In his cell currently: Flannery O'Connor, John Ashbery, Boating World Magazine, plus several books on horse racing. This last is for the new case he's working: a jockey and his horse both found stuffed and mounted, one astride the other, inside a Kentucky stable. The taxidermy manuals he's ordered are still in transit.

He is given one hour every week in a concrete room, where he is chained in front of a flickery terminal on which he can use the Internet—heavily monitored, of course. He imagines Dr. Chilton reviewing his history with a fine-toothed comb, and refrains from Googling anything revealing. Freedom may look like freedom, but in here it's still a trap.

As promised, Jack browbeats Chilton into cutting down on Will's meds. Slowly the world sharpens and brightens, for better and worse. Better, because Will becomes aware of how the drugs fogged him up, discombobulating him to the point where he was inventing whole histories in the gap between two legs. Now, with his eyes opened, he can stop himself (most of the time) from getting swept up in unfounded fantasies of Alana and Hannibal. But with sobriety comes a keener awareness of time: days and hours and minutes no longer pass him by. Instead he feels every second as it grinds along, each eroding some tiny fraction of his patience.

With a roll of newly acquired Scotch tape, he sticks the photographs from his own case file on the wall above his bed: Cassie Boyle on the stag, Marissa Schuur splayed and dripping, Dr. Sutcliffe's bloody rictus, the charred and shrunken thing that was once Georgia Madchen, Abigail in hunting gear with an arm slung around her father, the fishing lures in extreme close-up so that the human hair, tissue, and teeth they're made from can be seen to best effect. A mosaic of his nightmares to hang above his pillow. It looks rather like a shrine.

This may not be the most effective way of convincing the world that he's sane.

Dr. Chilton, for obvious reasons, chooses to hold their next session in Will's cell instead of in the Coffee Room. He spends a full minute inspecting the wall of photographs, his hands clasped behind his back and his pointed tongue between his teeth.

"Well," he concludes, "this is alarming."

Will doesn't respond. He is skimming a paragraph about horse breeders, his glasses tipped halfway down his nose. The glasses are another freshly granted privilege, and Will is grateful for the extra shielding they provide between himself and Chilton. The bars just aren't enough, not when the hospital director is almost humming with glee.

"Tell me, Mr. Graham, why have you hung these pictures on your wall?"

"There wasn't room on the desk."

It's a lie, but a well-founded one. Will's desk is looking mighty overrun.

Chilton casts a sidelong look at it. "Yes, you have been busy. Agent Crawford cannot manage without you, it seems."

"However much you'd like him to."

Chilton raises both eyebrows. "I cannot say I know what you're talking about."

Will throws down his book. "Victor Hodge could have killed again while your phone was off the hook, Doctor. You really want another woman's death on your conscience?"

"I beg your pardon?" Chilton splutters. "I have done nothing but cooperate with Agent Crawford's demands. However, my first priority as director of this hospital is to attend to its maintenance and to the welfare of my patients. There's only so much I can do to facilitate your little side job, Mr. Graham. I'm not your receptionist; I am your psychiatrist, and it falls on me to ensure that… unscrupulous third parties aren't exploiting you."

"Jack isn't exploiting me."

"You are imprisoned for murder, recovering from encephalitis, suffering from probable mental illness, and Agent Crawford has manipulated you into continuing to solve his cases for him. If that's not exploitation, I don't know what is."

Will recognizes the words, even if they're emitting from a mouthpiece. He leans back in his chair and asks:

"Been having a lot of dinners with Dr. Lecter lately?"

Chilton looks taken aback. "I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"Right," says Will, rubbing at his eyebrow.

Chilton doesn't like this line of questioning, so he readies his own. "Let's return to this collage you've so lovingly constructed. These particular pictures are important to you. Do you wish to discuss them?"

"No," says Will. "But you do."

"You've put your handiwork on display, Mr. Graham. Either you're very proud of it—"

Will gives an angry snort.

"—or maybe you're feeling guilty."

"It isn't my handiwork," Will mutters. "It's my investigation."

A poisonous little smile from Chilton. "Yes… your 'investigation' of Dr. Lecter, how could I forget. I'm curious as to how that is progressing."

Will grinds his teeth, says nothing.

"What's the matter, Mr. Graham? I thought you'd be eager to share your findings. Unless… there aren't any?"

Will says nothing.

"You can at least discuss your methods with me. You are constructing a profile, is that right? These photographs, you're studying them in the hopes of understanding the mind of the man who committed these crimes."

Will says nothing.

"What do these photographs tell you about him? What do the five murders have in common? Besides, ah, you."

Will says nothing. He can feel the muscles in his jaw twitching.

"Why don't I do your work for you, then." Chilton taps his pen against his notes. "Four of the five victims were young women—pretty young women—so in all probability sexual hostility had a role in their deaths. I'd hazard that the killer is uncomfortable with members of the opposite sex, starting with his own mother, with whom he had a strained-to-nonexistent relationship. He is sexually repressed, painfully shy, possibly impotent. His only male victim was a doctor. Our murderer has trouble trusting medical professionals"—he smirks—"and it's fair to say he harbors resentment towards authority in general."

He is watching Will closely, waiting for him to explode.

And Will does, in fact, explode—into laughter, wild wheezing laughter that eventually makes his eyes water.

"I take it you disagree," Chilton says, acidly.

"Yes," Will says between gulping breaths of air, "I disagree."

"Why don't you tell me why?"

Chilton may be incompetent, but he's very effective when it comes to getting Will so riled up he can't keep himself from talking.

"This isn't the return of the repressed, Doctor. This killer is in complete control of himself and everything else. He stage-manages his murders. They are elaborate. Precise. There's a high degree of premeditation, but at the same time, he can improvise when necessary. That flexibility comes from only the most profound confidence. He doesn't have a problem with authority. He is authority."

Chilton's beady eyes slip and slide over Will's face. He's trying to catch up. "So what you're saying is, these were not crimes of passion."

"But they were." A tremble in Will's voice. He can't resist the urge to turn, to look at the photographs himself. "A surfeit of passion, it's just not a passion you or I would understand."

"You seem like you do understand it, though," Chilton says. There is a sly note of insinuation in his voice, but Will doesn't notice. He is too absorbed in the photographs.

"Mmm," he says. The pendulum inside him wants to swing. He says: "Not well enough."

"Then how do you understand him better? You think his thoughts? Relive his crimes, until you reach the point where his passions become your passions?"

"Yes."

"You reintegrate your personality with his."

And Will suddenly remembers who he's talking to. He twists back around and sees the gleam in Chilton's eye: caught you.

"Dr. Chilton," Will says, as firmly as he can. "I am not profiling myself."

"Not the person you think of as yourself, no. But this,"—Chilton indicates the wall of photos—"represents a part of you, Will Graham. A part of you so twisted, so repellant to your own values and, ah, better nature, that you've made yourself forget him. But you want to remember him, I think. Deep down, you want to. These pictures, they might play a small part in stimulating your memory. However, I could do so much more."

Will smiles slowly, despite the warning bells, because of the warning bells.

"You're going to remind me of who I am, same way you reminded Dr. Gideon?"

Chilton smiles back. "Not precisely the same way, no."

"I think I'll pass," Will says. He returns to his reading and ignores Chilton's questions for the rest of the session.

Of course Dr. Chilton would work himself into a lather over the photos, but the fact of the matter is, they aren't meant for him. The photos aren't up for Will's benefit, either. He doesn't need the reminder. No matter what, he'll see these images projected ceaselessly against the dark backing of his eyelids.

He has hung these photos up in order for them to be viewed by one person, and one person only.

When Hannibal next visits, there is a fractional hesitation in his step as he first glimpses the wall above Will's bed. He recovers instantly, of course, but Will still wants to punch the air over this little victory.

"Hello, Will," Hannibal says, conversational as always.

"Hello, Dr. Lecter. You've seen my evidence wall?"

Hannibal's eyes have yet to leave it. "Rather hard to miss."

"What's the matter? Does it bother you?"

"I think the more salient question would be why it does not bother you." Hannibal is still staring at the photos, his expression concealed by iron shutters. "It's not like you to treat these images lightly, to live so comfortably beside the terrible memories they evoke."

Will turns around, looks at the wall of photos. "I assure you, I am treating them with the respect and dedication they deserve. Would you like to talk about my investigation?"

"I'd rather talk about your hands, Will."

He whips around. Hannibal is no longer looking at the evidence wall. He's staring pointedly at Will's bitten fingernails. Without thinking, Will hides them underneath the desk, and Hannibal's lips contort in an unmistakable smirk.

"Look what you've done to yourself," he says. "You never told me you suffered from onychophagia. Or is this bad habit brand new?"

"I've got it under control," Will mutters.

"You've bitten past the quick. You should be more careful, you could give yourself an infection."

"I'm touched by your concern."

Hannibal's eyebrows draw up ever so slightly. "I still consider myself your friend, Will, even if you don't return the sentiment. Of course I'm concerned about you." He settles himself in his chair and peers at Will with a keen, clinical expression. "Sudden difficulties with impulse control are often associated with stress. Would you say you're feeling stressed?"

Will laughs morbidly to himself. "That a trick question?"

Hannibal makes a note in his little black book. "Perhaps your return to investigative work is causing you some strain. You have to be honest with Jack about your limits. You saw what happened when you deceived him."

"I'm not the one deceiving him," Will says. "I've got a handle on my work. Actually, I'm handling it well."

"Then perhaps the stress that has driven you to indulge in compulsive behavior hails from a different quarter. Tell me, how are things between you and Alana Bloom?"

Will's blood pressure spikes. "Fine."

Hannibal waits for him to say more. Will bites his tongue.

"You do not wish to discuss Alana?"

"There's nothing to discuss."

"She's very worried about you. Your behavior during her last visit was dist—"

"I said there's nothing to discuss."

"As you wish," says Hannibal. And he smiles. "Then what shall we discuss?"

Will grabs a very large binder off his desk. "Let's discuss Garret Jacob Hobbs."

"By all means." Hannibal folds his hands in his lap.

Will pages through the binder, his eyes roaming over call logs, interview transcripts, a Russian novel's worth of names and incident. "You told Jack that I called Hobbs to tip him off that we were coming for him."

Hannibal blinks unrepentantly. "I told Jack only what I remembered. You doubled back to the office while the administrative assistant and I were loading the car."

"Funny," says Will. "I don't remember doing that. Does she remember me doing that?"

"The day in question was more than six months ago. Her recollection has faded, as all recollections inevitably do. Memory is a capricious instrument, Will. You know that better than most."

"Ok," says Will. "Tell me this. Why would I bother warning Garret Jacob Hobbs, if I was just going to shoot him dead twenty minutes later?"

Hannibal's answer is immediate. "You weren't interested in a scenario in which Garret Jacob Hobbs came quietly and cooperated with your investigation. You wanted mayhem and bloodshed. Your phone call caused Hobbs to panic and attack his family. The perfect excuse to shoot him."

Will weighs this in his mind from Hannibal's perspective and declares it truth. "You wanted me to shoot him," he says. "You were hoping I would have the chance. That was part of your plan for me. Better Living Through Murder."

This earns him a ghost of a smile from Hannibal. "You think I made you shoot Hobbs?"

Will shakes his head. " 'Made' is a strong word. You don't make people do things, not if you can help it. There's no fun in it if you have to force them. What you like to do is make suggestions. You clear the floor, you choose the music, and then you wait for someone to dance."

Hannibal's eyes flash. "Are you dancing now, Will?"

Will's lips curl. "You sabotaged me. You sabotaged my investigation. And I bet you've done it since. Fed me misinformation. Steered me in the wrong direction. You were subtle, you made it as unnoticeable as you could. And any time I did catch you at it, you tried to make me think I was crazy."

"When have I ever led you astray?"

Will flips to the middle of his binder. "Tobias Budge," he says.

"Tobias Budge?" Hannibal repeats, skeptically. "He attacked me."

"Yes, and your patient, Franklyn Froidevaux. I'm adding them both to the list."

"The list?"

"Of your known victims."

Hannibal—very minutely and somehow politely—rolls his eyes. "So now according to you, I killed Franklyn?"

Will, too, rolls his eyes—not so politely, though. "I think it's likely you had a hand in it, yeah."

"You know I killed Tobias in self-defense."

Will snorts.

Hannibal tilts his head. "Why would I murder either of them?"

"Budge knew what you were. He was…courting you. I walked in on your dinner date, remember? I guess you didn't like what he was offering. He wasn't up to your high standards, so he had to go. Franklyn Froidevaux—either he was in on it with Budge, or he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Hannibal shakes his head, his lips tilting downward. Does he think Will is too close, or not close enough? He says:

"Will, this is more than just a jump you can't explain. This is a flight of fancy. There is nothing in that evidence binder to justify your claims. Nary a scrap of proof."

Will just shrugs. "If I find enough people who've conveniently dropped dead while in your company, that'll constitute enough for a warrant."

"So that is your plan." Hannibal sounds almost disappointed. "Compile a list of evidence, no matter how circumstantial, and turn it over to Jack?"

"In a nutshell." Will slams the binder shut.

"How do you think Jack will react when presented with such a thing?"

"Jack'll look at the evidence. He'll take me seriously."

"You are grabbing at straws, Will. Jack will know."

Hannibal says this gently, with a kind of rueful compassion that raises the hair on Will's arms. He is momentarily unnerved. This isn't Hannibal mocking him, or gloating. This is Hannibal in the guise of Hannibal-of-old, Will's friend the good doctor, who always knew what was best for Will and told him so. Will is so obsessed with the real Hannibal Lecter that he has forgotten his previous incarnation, the Hannibal whom Will actually liked, the Hannibal he trusted. He realizes with a dizzy feeling akin to vertigo that he has missed this Hannibal, that he is still mourning the loss of this man, even though he never existed in the first place.

But there he is, resurrected, his sad eyes gleaming at Will through the bars. The gall of it. He's trying to discourage Will from investigating him—for Will's own good. It is infuriating.

Will leans forward, his eyes burning with hatred. "You've killed others, God knows how many. I'm going to find them, Dr. Lecter. You're not as great a chameleon as you think you are. You have style, a certain whimsy. You can't help yourself. It's distinct, identifiable. If I go back far enough, I'll find the one time you weren't quite as careful as you should have been. I'll spot your mistake—even you must have made at least one. No matter how negligible, no matter how well disguised, I'll find it and I will catch you. It's only a matter of time, and time is the one thing I've got plenty of in here."

Hannibal leans forward, matching Will. He actually wraps his large hands around the bars. "This is desperate thinking, Will. Desperate coping. You think you've found your footholds, but in reality you are slipping, you are letting yourself fall further down the rabbit hole."

Will crosses his arms in front of him, even though he knows he's giving Hannibal a prime view of his fingernails.

"Dr. Lecter, I am not the one here who's desperate."

His excitement is such that he gets a little breathless as he goes through his case point by point. Alana has drawn up a timeline of the encephalitis's progression: November—headaches; December—sleepwalking, mild hallucinations; January—auditory hallucinations; etc. Next to each entry, Will deals out crime scene photographs like playing cards. A royal flush of illness and a full house of death.

Nigella Karim, his lawyer—a powerhouse in the field of mental health law, according to Alana—listens carefully as Will takes her through each murder. Karim is impeccably professional, her hair shining and curled like a newscaster's, her face betraying not a whit of emotion.

Will tells her how the wounds on Cassie Boyle and Marissa Schuur would have required great physical strength and coordination, not to mention an encyclopedic knowledge of anatomy. He spends a full minute describing the immaculate precision of the cuts that removed Cassie Boyle's lungs and severed Donald Sutcliffe's jaw. As he flips through his binder, his handcuffs clink on the table, a metronome to keep the pace. He describes each murder with a level of detail that is bordering on loving, paying particular attention to preparation and cleanup. He explains how the murderer stored and planted forensic evidence while being careful not to leave behind any of his own. He must have travelled with a comprehensive toolkit, but even then, he enjoyed incorporating whatever was on hand as long as he could get away with it clean. He cut Sutcliffe's throat with the neurologist's own scissors. The stag head he found in a bar a mile away from the field where they discovered Cassie Boyle; he stole it at an hour when he was certain he wouldn't be spotted, which meant he had to have canvassed the area beforehand. Will surmises that he always conducted reconnaissance for his murders in the open; it explains the way he avoided security cameras at every turn. There were no less than four of them in the corridor outside Georgia Madchen's hospital room, and almost miraculously they captured nothing suspicious the day of her death. Abigail's murderer's preparation was so exact and all encompassing that he managed to completely dispose of her body, everything except her ear. He made her vanish off the face of the earth. Will turned himself over to the FBI less than twenty-four hours after her death—when would he have found the time to so thoroughly erase her entire existence?

As he speaks, his control slips away until both his voice and his hands are shaking. He can't help it. Hannibal's work fills him with a kind of dark awe.

He finishes his presentation and comes back to himself. The first thing he notices is Alana, staring down into her lap as if she can't bear to look at him. But Karim is calm and steady, and has maintained eye contact with him throughout his argument.

"Ok," she says, tapping her manicured fingers on the table. "I believe I follow you. But tell me in your own words, Will, what exactly I'm meant to glean from all of this?"

Will senses trouble. He looks down at the metal table, at his stacks of notes and photos. Suddenly it all looks like nothing but a frantic mess. Nevertheless he keeps his voice even as he says:

"I'm proving to you that the person who committed these murders was awake and aware of everything: his surroundings, his victims, his own strength. He premeditates. He does his research. He cleans up after himself. There's no panic here, no confusion, no hesitation. None of this was the work of someone in a dissociative state, Mrs. Karim. It's just not possible. The evidence proves it's not possible."

Karim says nothing. Alana looks up, catches her eye, and the two of them share a long, significant look. Then Karim turns back to Will.

"And what are you suggesting I do with this evidence?"

Will can't prevent a hint of causticness from creeping into his voice. "Um," he says, "use it to prove I didn't do this?"

Karim leans forward, all sharpened consonants and professional concern. "Listen to me, Will. All you've proven is that you were in your right mind when you committed these murders. Which is very bad for you. As bad as it gets. If we,"—she has to hold up a hand to stop Will from interrupting—"if we submit a not guilty plea and I use this"—she indicates the binder—"as your defense, you're risking a worst case scenario of lethal injection. Best case scenario is you receive a life sentence in a maximum-security prison with no chance of parole."

"If you submit a not guilty plea," Will says, his voice rising, "best case scenario is you prove I'm innocent."

The only response he receives is silence. Alana pinches the bridge of her nose.

Karim's voice is velvety, but not soothing. "No one likes an insanity plea. I understand why you want to find a way around it. But Will, believe me, an insanity plea is your best, your only option here. You have a forensic psychiatrist at the top of her field who firmly believes that you meet the requirements for an insanity defense. That's a big deal, Will. Insanity defenses get laughed out of court all the time these days."

She gives an encouraging nod to Alana, clearly eager for the other woman to chip in with her support.

Alana finally looks up from her lap. "Will," she says, "I know how hard this is for you to hear. But you have to let your counsel decide what's best. You can't argue this as if it's a case you're trying to solve. You don't have the perspective here to do that."

"That's not what I'm doing," Will says. "I just want my case tried based solely on the available evidence, that's all. Why is that so unreasonable?"

"Because no jury will see the evidence the way you do," Karim says. "They'll convict you, Will. You'll go to prison."

"So better I claim to be crazy so they'll keep me here instead?" Will shakes his head. "The Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane is prison. Alana, you know I don't want to be here any more."

"I know," Alana says. "But if a jury finds you not guilty by reason of insanity, you won't be here forever. If you cooperate with treatment and make good progress, then in a few years we can get you transferred to a minimum-security hospital."

"That's the best outcome we can hope for," Karim says, nodding.

"The best outcome," Will repeats. He rubs his face. "Wow."

Karim clears her throat. "This hospital is better for you than any prison. After all, you're receiving treatment here. That's something."

"I don't need treatment," Will says, into the palms spread over his face. "I'm not sick."

Karim nods. She expected him to make this argument. "But you were sick, you can't deny that. You had an extremely unusual illness, an illness that the medical community is still in the process of understanding, and underlying that, you have a personality disorder that is even more unusual. These two rare conditions interacted in a truly unprecedented way, and five people died because of it. It's a fluke of bad luck and brain chemistry. This isn't your fault, Will; you shouldn't be punished as if it were. But if I'd done what you've done, I'd want treatment. I'd need treatment. I wouldn't be able to live with myself otherwise."

Will stares at her through the splayed fingers he still has over his face. He knows this is exactly what she plans to say when she defends him in court. He can't bear it.

"I can't do this," he whispers.

Karim frowns, not understanding what he means. But Alana gets it. She says:

"Will, no."

He takes down his hands. "I'm not going to tell everyone I'm insane when I'm not. Mrs. Karim, you can go now."

Up go Karim's heavily plucked eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

"I don't want you as my lawyer."

"Will," Alana says again. And then to Karim: "He doesn't mean that."

But Karim is on her feet, one finger stabbing at the table. "Mr. Graham, any defense attorney worth her salt is going to tell you the same thing I have. Do you want to be executed?"

"I want the truth," Will says, to his handcuffs. "I'm sorry for wasting your time."

Karim is in a huff. She grabs her briefcase, motions to the guards, and strides from the Coffee Room, her stilettos clacking on the marble floor of the corridor.

Will looks up at Alana. In slow motion, he watches her tamping down on her frustration, summoning her considerable willpower, cloaking all of it under the guise of apologetic professionalism, and readying herself for battle. This display renders Will speechless; he has just seen Alana at her absolute best. She splays her hands on the table and pushes herself upright. She doesn't look at Will as she hurries out of the room, pursuing Karim down the hallway. Will can hear the burr of urgent voices filtering through the gap beneath the door, but he can't discern the words.

He stares a black hole into his binder and waits.

Alana re-enters the room slowly, wearily, all that fighter's energy expended. Karim isn't with her. "Can you shut the door, please?" she asks the guards, and they comply.

She drops into the chair across from Will.

"Nigella has agreed to come back next week. You're lucky. You didn't faze her. She's had a lot of experience with uncooperative clients."

"I don't want her," Will says.

"But you need her. I've worked with Nigella before. She has a great record; she will go to bat for you. Please, just trust me, Will."

Will looks into her large eyes, the intensity of her expression. He sees firelight ripple across her face—he shudders. "How can I trust you?" he whispers. "When you don't trust me?"

Alana's chin trembles. "Will."

"You think I'm crazy." He feels salt burning at his eyes.

"I think you've been ill, really ill, and that you're still recovering."

He shakes his head. "You think I belong in this place."

Now her eyes are wet, too. "I don't."

"You really think I killed them? You think I killed Abigail? Do you think that I'm—I'm capable of murdering five people? Five people."

She is struggling not to cry in earnest. "The evidence—"

"I don't care about the evidence!" Will slams the heavy handcuffs on the table and the room rings with it. The guards both take a step forward. "I want to know what you feel—what you really feel—about me."

"But you know how I feel," she says, as a tear falls. "I want to believe you. God, I want to."

"Then believe me," he says. A crack in his voice. "Just believe me. Please, Alana."

She swipes her eyes. She stands up. "I don't understand," she says. She turns around, walks to the corner of the room, and when she next speaks, she sounds hoarse with fury. "I don't understand why you have to make it so hard for me to save you."

His mouth drops open. "That's not what I'm doing."

She is laughing with rage. "It is. You're doing everything you can to drive me away. And not just me; you keep alienating anyone who tries to help you. Do you know how many people I've had to apologize to on your behalf?"

He shrinks away from the intensity of her anger. "Alana, you don't have to do that."

"But I want to!" Alana says, her hands gathering into fists. "I want to! Because you deserve that much! You deserve more. But you keep sabotaging me. Every time I try to do something for you, you throw it in my face. I got you that file. You asked me for it, and against my better judgment I got it for you, and now look what you're doing with it. You are destroying your own defense."

He wants to stand up, to follow her into that corner and put his hand on her trembling shoulder. But he is chained to the table. "Alana—" he says.

"I can't talk to you right now." She spins around to face him and wipes her nose, like a child. "I'm angry and I'm frustrated and I'm saying a lot of things I don't mean. I'm sorry. It's your illness I'm angry with. It's this situation, and this place. It's not you, do you understand? None of this is meant for you. So don't take it personally, please. Just… don't take me personally."

And before he can stop her, before he can say anything, she has stormed from the room, taking with her the Class 3 hurricane that is her emotional state. Will knows how she's feeling. The rage, the heartache, the frustration so acute she can barely breathe. But these emotions aren't what will haunt him tonight—what concerns him now is that beneath the rage, beneath the pain and all the rest, Alana feels guilty. And what—oh God what—does she have to feel guilty for?