So, I have reached the last chapter. Thank you so much to everyone who has read this. I hope you've all enjoyed, and I've done Hannibal justice. Thank you again. Enjoy.

Chapter 10

Epilogue

'What are you doing here?'

'Dr Bloom.' Freddie Lounds stood to meet the figure of Alana Bloom, who was storming down the clinical corridor towards her, though whether in anger or haste, she couldn't quite tell. 'It's been a while…'

'I was called here when the situation changed. Why are you here? They didn't call you.' She stopped as she reached Lounds, still a couple of feet away, but close enough for the reporter to see the signs of sleep deprivation etched across her face. The red eyes. The heavy bags. The pale skin. The dead walking.

'I was already here when they phoned you.' Freddie gestured to the seats she had just risen from, and the two women sat down, both looking straight ahead at the closed door before them. 'I was surprised you weren't.'

The comment seemed to sting Alana. 'I don't need to explain myself to you, Miss Lounds. Why are you here, anyway? Waiting for your story?'

'You have a very low opinion of me, Dr Bloom.' Freddie turned to look at her as she spoke, her voice remaining light however despite the insult. 'And yes, I do expect a story out of this. But not right now. I've been here almost all week. I was the one who noticed the change.'

'I don't quite follow…'

'I feel partially responsible for recent events. I'm trying to make it right.'

'You feel responsible?'

'I may not have done anything myself, but yes, my actions have contributed to this. And, despite what you or the FBI may think, this is not what I wanted. I do have some sense of morality.'

The door in front of them opened before Alana had any chance to reply, and a nurse holding a clipboard poked her head around the door. 'Dr Alana Bloom? He's ready for you.'

Alana stood up, anxiety painted across her face as clear as if she were a blank paper, and her emotions black ink. She turned to Freddie quickly. 'Is he ok?'

'All I can say is prepare yourself for his face. He looks like a Picasso painting gone wrong.'

Will was sat up in his bed when she walked in. At the sight of his face, bandage strapped half-way across, covering one eye, she felt tears form in her eyes and begin to slide down her cheeks before she had chance to stop them. She knew he could see, and she knew he could tell why. The nurse waited until Alana had sat beside the bed in silence before she left the couple alone.

They both let the silence continue for a few moments, just taking each other in, as if it had been a year rather than a week since everything had happened. Finally, Will spoke, his voice croaky with lack of use, 'If I knew seeing me would cause you so much pain, I'd have let Freddie Lounds stay in here.'

It was meant as a joke, and Alana let a smile pass her lips, though it felt bitter. 'I was hoping never have to sit beside your hospital bed again.'

'I was hoping never to be in one again. At least, not for a while.' He shifted in his seat, wincing from the movement, his hands going to the wound on his stomach almost instinctively. 'Though, of course, I'd rather be here than on a slab.'

'I feel like I've failed you, Will. I'm so sorry. Me, Jack, the whole FBI has failed you. We keep failing you. And every time we do, you end up here…'

'I don't blame you. There was nothing more you could have done.'

'There was everything more that we could have done. Have you seen yourself?'

'No. I haven't. The hospital won't let me have a mirror. They want to build me up to it.'

'I'm so, so sorry, Will.' She reached across, taking his hand in both of hers. He wanted to enjoy the feeling. The last hand he'd touched had been Hannibal's. It caused him to shiver, which she mistook for fear. 'You're safe now. I can promise you that this time. You can live your life however you so choose now, with or without the FBI, and you'll be safe.'

'The copycat?'

'Dead.'

'Hannibal?' He knew the answer before he asked. He remembered Hannibal's body fall, the bullets pounding his chest until he collapsed on the floor. It didn't prevent Will's heart stopping, his whole body on edge, as he waited for the answer. Hoping. Praying.

'The copycat. Hannibal. Both dead. You're safe now, Will.'

She didn't notice the dimming of his eyes as she spoke. She couldn't feel the news hitting Will harder than the bullet that had put him in the bed, but this one straight to his chest, his heart bleeding inside his body. He hid the damage. He blinked once, the only response he could give that wouldn't result in his screaming. After a moment or so, he spoke again. He could feel his voice shaking, though Alana didn't seem to hear it. 'How many people were at the funeral?'

'We didn't bury him.'

'Cremation? He wanted a burial. He mentioned it once. A session we had.' He rambled slightly before he frowned, shaking his head, attempting to rid himself of the buzzing in his skull.

'We didn't cremate him, either. The FBI was worried about his grave becoming a tourist site, a pilgrimage for other copycats. They buried him at sea. It's common practice with such high profile cases.'

'How did he die?'

'Shot, by an FBI agent. A trainee agent. She's been put up for commendation.'

'She killed a man.'

'She saved your life. I suggested her. Just as you were suggested when you saved Abigail Hobbs' life. But Will, this isn't what I wanted to discuss.' She was suddenly solemn, her eyes wide, as if appealing to him for understanding. 'The FBI has been going over the case while you've been in here. They think the copycat was working with Hannibal the whole time.'

Will paused for a second. Just enough for the absurdity of such a suggestion to really hit him. 'The evidence doesn't point to that…'

'That's all the evidence does point to. How he got the killings so exact, how he managed to remove all evidence, meticulous just as Hannibal used to be. How he knew about Freddie Lounds. How he knew about you. How both the copycat and Hannibal both happened to be found at your house at the exact same time.' She had tightened her grip on his hand, as if trying to project her belief by touch. 'There's no other explanation, Will.'

'Hannibal wasn't working with the copycat. If he had been, why would the copycat need to get my address from someone? Why not kill me first?'

'It's been months since you had any contact with Dr Lecter, he could have forgotten your address.' Alana sighed, biting her lip in silence, before hesitantly speaking further, 'There's more. The FBI searched your house. We found fingerprints and DNA evidence from both Hannibal and the copycat all over. On door handles, on furniture. We even found an empty wine glass on the kitchen side, covered in Lecter's fingerprints.'

The morning wine. Will couldn't help but smile in memory, a smile that quickly became a grimace as reality began to seep into his mind. Lecter was dead. And now he was the accomplice of the man who tried to kill him. Who tried to push a knife through his skull. 'You're mistaken.'

'We found more, Will.' She took a deep breath, preparing herself for his reaction to the next piece of news. 'The FBI teams did a complete search of your house, including of your bed, just as they would in any crime scene.'

'There wasn't a crime committed in my house.'

'We found semen in your bed. Two different matches. The first, of course, matched your DNA. The second matched Dr Lecter, Will. We think Hannibal and the copycat may have been more than just accomplices. We think they may have been engaging in sexual relations.'

'You think Hannibal was having sex with the copycat killer? In my bed? So they decided to desiccate my house, my bed, before trying to kill me?'

'You said you thought the copycat might have been gay. And some killers do, it gets their blood pumping, they build up to a kill. The evidence matches up. There isn't another explanation.'

'Hannibal killed the copycat.'

'So he messed up. Maybe he was just supposed to shoot you dead. Maybe he thought if he killed the copycat, the FBI would take him alive. I don't know, Will, but this is what the evidence suggests. It's the only explanation.'

She was wrong. He knew she was wrong. Maybe even she knew she was wrong. There was another explanation. The one staring the whole FBI in the face. The one they were all electing to ignore, refusing to doubt Will Graham's innocence again. Maybe it was for the best. Complete denial. It hardly concerned him. He knew they were wrong. The idea still made him sick.

'I think I need to rest,' he managed to whisper through gritted teeth, scared if he opened his mouth, he wouldn't be able to control what came out. 'I'm sorry, Alana.'

'No, Will. I'm sorry. We're all so sorry.' She stood, still holding his hand, reluctant to let it go. Maybe aware that to let it go would mean she'd let him go also. 'I'm always here, if you need me. If you need anything.'

'Thank you.' He nodded, trying to look grateful. Happy even. The façade beginning. She had just opened the door to leave when he called out suddenly. 'Wait. Before you go, what was the FBI agent's name? The one who killed Lecter?'

'Clarice Starling.' Alana gave a half-smile, tears still perched in her eyes at the sight of him, and then she left.

The phone rang. It was on silent, but the vibrations against the bedside table were enough to shatter Alana's dreams and wake her with a soft groan. She sat up in bed, the cold Winter morning air hitting her, despite the heating of her home. Leaning across the sleeping body in bed beside her, she picked up her phone, and carried it onto the landing corridor to answer the call.

'Alana Bloom?'

'Jack?' She sighed. 'It's 4am, Jack, why are you phoning me?'

'I've something you might want...something you need to see.'

The body was on the floor of the flat living room, cut open, blood from the hacked stomach spilling onto the carpet, seeping in to create a stain that could never possibly be removed. The room was empty apart from Jack Crawford, however, when Bloom arrived, the rest of the FBI team stood outside, waiting for her in the corridor. A horrific stench hit her nose when she entered the room, causing her to frown before she even examined the body.

'I'm sorry for calling you in, Dr Bloom.' He nodded as she arrived, watching her eyes widen at the sight of the mess. 'I'm aware I haven't seen you in a long time.'

'A year, Jack, a year. And you call me in at 4am in the morning for this?' She felt sick. Her head was spinning. 'Tell me this isn't who I think it is.'

'I'm sorry, Alana.'

Clarice Starling. Starling's headless body lay at Alana's feet. Starling's stomach had been sliced open, organs removed. The drip of blood from the cadaver let Alana know they hadn't gone far. A medium height Christmas tree stood in the corner of Starling's flat, the green branches covered in ruby red from the grisly decoration. Organs hung from some of the branches. A long trail of intestines was wrapped around. Like tinsel. It was like a grotesque set piece from a horror movie. But it was real. A fact that only just hit her as she stared at it.

'I'm going to be sick.'

'This isn't the worst, I'm afraid.' She looked at him in disgust as he spoke, yet the frown across his face only confirmed the worst. Silently, he gestured to her to follow him, stepping over the body carefully, inwardly apologising to the trainee agent's memory. They passed through the corridor, and Jack nodded to the rest of the FBI team to enter. Bloom and Crawford continued down the corridor until they reached a closed door. 'Alana, I want you to prepare yourself.'

'It can't be any worse.'

'I promise you, it can be. Are you prepared?'

'Yes.'

It was the bedroom. The curtains were still shut when they entered the room, a slit of pale moonlight from where they didn't seem to quite meet. But that wasn't what had grabbed Alana's interest. The eyes had been grabbed by the eyes staring at her from the bed. The eyes set in the decapitated head of FBI trainee agent Clarice Starling, positioned on the pillows, resting against the headboard. Alana's eyes travelled down the head, to rest on the long, jagged cut in Clarice's cheek. The long jagged cut that reminded her of someone else. No. God, no. Besides the head, a bloody knife lay, alongside a white envelope, covered in equally bloody fingerprints.

Jack noticed her looking at it. 'It's addressed to you, Alana. It's why I had to phone you.'

'You know who did this.'

'Yes, I do. He phoned me this morning to confess.'

She didn't reply. She couldn't reply. She made her way slowly around the bed, picking up the envelope in shaking hands that couldn't quite grip the paper. After picking it up, she walked back to Jack's side. She couldn't be so close to the head. The stomach was churning. Her head light.

She knew what would be written on the inside of the envelope before she opened it. She didn't know how. Instinct. Fear. All her worst nightmares rolled into one heart wrenching reality. The writing was scrawled, rushed, and smeared with Starling's blood. But it was readable. The message was simple. But maybe it was such simplicity that broke her heart so profoundly, and caused the tears to spill from her eyes, falling onto the paper, mixing with the blood and ink.

Alana,

I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything.

Don't come looking for me. I won't be looking for you.

Will Graham,

The Chesapeake Ripper