The officers outside really ought to be dismissed from their roles. Dr Lecter's thoughts as he climbed through a ground floor window to the rear of the Masons' family home in one fluid motion. He found himself in their kitchen overhearing a conversation in the living room.
"Maybe it would be better if they just locked her up," a woman uttered venomously.
A male voice, weary. "Honey, don't say that."
"The club members won't even speak to me, Gerald! They all think we're some no good, degenerate household. And the cops parked outside are doing little to help that."
"She's our daughter, Liz."
"Did she think of us when getting herself wrapped up in all this mess? You know what she's like- she never lets things go. It took me years to get away from all the shunning after my dad- I finally have a life here. A community. Friends. I can't go through it again."
Sobbing followed by comforting.

The psychiatrist breezed by the room unnoticed. As he moved through the hallway he eyed the pictures on the wall. Memories frozen in time; celebrations, vacations. None of which contained Grace. How illuminating.
His light footfall up the stairs drew no attention. Soon his lithe frame happened upon the room of interest. He inhaled deeply, her scent present but distant. She has not returned here today. His gaze danced around the moderate sized room. Duck egg blue walls, bland cream sheets on a queen bed. Hers or her mother's taste? He found it unlikely that Grace was ever allowed to take up much space in this home.

His gaze scanned the bookshelf across the room:
Guyton and Hall textbook of Medical Physiology.
Rang and Dale's Pharmacology.
Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 5th Edition.
A History of Psychiatry.
Frank H. Netter's Atlas of Human Anatomy.

Precocious.

He strolled along the wooden floorboards, taking in the trinkets on her dressing table. Upon plucking a bottle of perfume from where it had been neatly perched, he removed the glass lid before raising it to his nostrils. Delicate jasmine top notes with an amber base; a delightful choice. The same scent as the one she had with her at his home, however this bottle is full and unused. While most are fickle and indecisive, she knew what she liked and stocked up on it.

His next step caused more noise than he anticipated and his gaze dropped down to observe why. The floorboard was the culprit, appearing looser than the others around it. It lay beneath a stool that nestled snugly under the dressing table. The wood was chipped, with scratches on the edge where there was just enough space for fingers to pry it open; so he did just that. Crouched down, he peered under the floor to find an old shoebox. After lifting the lid, the first item he saw was her psychiatric hospital ID bracelet. He inspected it, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Beyond it was old letters seemingly stolen from her mother and grandmother, ones they had received from her grandfather. After a few moments of skimming, it was clear to Hannibal that none of the letters had anything noteworthy in them. Just sentiment, feigned or otherwise. No mention of his crimes or treatment. Still, the beginnings of her curiosity and obsession. Below them was a bottle of pills with a label indicating the contents were 'Alprazolam' prescribed to Elizabeth Mason. Then a scrap of paper with Grace's scrawl on it. A calculation of milligrams and along with her own body weight- enough to overdose and lose consciousness but not enough to kill her. Even the number of hours she would be passed out was deduced. A precise plan.

Impressive.

Dr Lecter did not idle much longer and proceeded with his plan.

The sun had made its slow descent below the horizon, taking the bright evening with it. The now black sky was still somewhat illuminated above the city by a full moon, glowing a cool silver over the buildings where all the stars had been drowned out by the urban lights.

Grace was unperturbed by the nightfall. She stood stiffly outside the abandoned veterinary clinic, her oversized black leather jacket protecting her from the icy wind sweeping the streets, her blonde hair tied up haphazardly out of her face. She had spent almost an hour plucking up the courage to go inside; several mouthfuls of vodka straight from the bottle is what pushed her over the finish line.
This was a bad idea. She knew it. It could possibly be the breaking point of her sanity. The final crack to sentence her to life within a padded cell.
Yet she knew she had to be here. She had to understand what happened and why.

The crime scene investigators had left days ago. All evidence photographed and boxed up. Fortunately the building was in a quiet part of town; no one would notice her drinking, talking to herself and shaking in fear and anticipation as she built up the fortitude to go inside.
Eventually she murmured "fuck it" before picking up a large rock and tossing it through a window. She then used the sleeve of her jacket to break the surrounding shards before climbing through. Another swig of vodka for good measure.

Now that she was inside, the memories slowly floated back. The corridor Will carried her through to the awaiting ambulance and stretcher at the front door. She could still hear the mostly muffled conversations through walkie-talkies as the officers communicated with each other. 'Perp still at large. Male body at the scene'. A shiver went down her spine.

It became harder the closer she got to the room. The room. The one she almost lost her life in. The one she took a life in. Another shot of vodka burned its way down her throat. She froze at the door.

She could just turn around. She could bury it all and never face it. She could move on to live a normal, happy life and pretend none of this happened. She could head straight to the train station and never look back.

Deep down she knew it was too late for that.

With an unsteady inhale she clutched the door handle and pushed it open.
Upon cautiously walking inside, she heard a voice. One rationally she knew could not be there but she looked around frantically for the source nonetheless.
'She will do nicely,' the disembodied words surrounded her. She attempted to shake it off and walked over to where she had been chained down. It was then she felt a hand that wasn't there stroke her cheek. 'Maybe I take her for a test run'. She lurched back away from the table and downed more vodka.

Her attention then turned to the wall behind her. The one her body was slammed into. The place where she felt her air supply get brutally cut off. She closed her eyes, willing the panic away, taking deep breaths to prove to herself that she could. He wasn't here. Neither was Gideon. It was just her and the memories intimately entwined and swaying across the room.

Then she felt it. As clear as when it happened. The sudden jolt of her hand upwards. Her knuckles white from clutching the handle tightly as the blade pierced through skin, fat, fascia, muscles and organs. She feigned ignorance to their questions. She didn't know where the first stab went. She just did it blindly, instinctively, panicked. Which was partially right- it was by instinct. Deliberate instinct. She knew what that exact placement, angle and direction would end with. She knew travelling upwards from just below his rib cage on his left side would be the path of least resistance. The one that would lead to the knife piercing his heart.
Every stab inflicted after that was a product of her rage, frenzied and inconsequential. He was never going to get up after that first one. She made sure of it.

Once you cross that first line, every other after it becomes blurrier.

She eyed the spot where the body had been. The place where he took his final breath. There was still an outline of the blood stain- the warm, thick red substance that flowed through everyone's arteries and veins. Except his- his had flowed all over this tiled floor.

She was sat cross-legged by the wall she had been thrown against, knocking back gulps of vodka when Will arrived.
He approached cautiously, uncertain of the state she was in. He watched as her eyes remained glued to that one spot, as if mesmerised.
"Grace..?"
No response. Not even a stir.
Hesitation. "It's over. They can't hurt you anymore."
A strange laugh escaped her, echoing across the mostly empty room.
He stopped a few feet away, his brow furrowed as he studied her face. "You shouldn't have come back here."
She nodded and took another swig from the bottle. "You're probably right about that." She held up the bottle as an offer.
He declined with a brief shake of his head. "It wasn't your fault."
Her lips pursed as she contemplated this. "Maybe not. But that doesn't change…" She trailed off, her head slumping down as her gaze moved to her shoes.
"Change what?" Will's voice was low now, almost a whisper.
"The fact that I enjoyed it." She placed the half empty glass bottle down on the ground beside her.

The truth finally escaped her lips and, despite knowing the shackles of justice would soon follow, she felt freed from the weight that had been burdening her shoulders. It was a shame Will had to be the one to bear witness. He seemed decent; haunted by his work but a force of good in this world. Grace felt a pang of guilt for unloading on this virtuous man. If only she had been brave enough to answer Dr. Lecter's questions earlier. He seemed more equipped to handle her depravity. Perhaps he would have compartmentalised and viewed it as a professional success. He deserved to have something positive come out of helping her.

Will froze at the confession, his mind now recreating the scenes that had unfolded in that room days before.
The fear. Gideon's manipulation. He was now the one holding the knife as the brute towered over him, his rough hands clasped around his throat. He could see the man's nostrils flare, the perspiration slowly streaming down his forehead, the fury in his eyes. His irrefutable urge to exert his power over her. The absence of humanity, or rather, the complete dismissal of it. Her desperation. The purposeful first stab. Her breaking point. The subsequent slashing fuelled by overwhelming emotion.

Then the heart-wrenching realisation. It resonated with him more than he wanted to admit to himself. This man was her Hobbs.

Will moved from his imagination to sit on the ground beside her. "The FBI ran his prints, looked into his past. They tied him to at least ten missing person cases."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" she murmured, despondent.
His eyes were fixed ahead, unseeing. "No. Nothing will. Not many people know what it is like to take a life. Fewer again know how alive it can make you feel."

Dogs of different breeds and sizes bounded towards Will's Volvo estate as it pulled up outside his home. He greeted them briefly before whistling and instructing them away from the car as Grace stepped out from the passenger side.
"No, it's fine! I love dogs." She grinned widely and kneeled down onto the grass to meet them. So many. "Oh my god you are so adorable," she cooed while attempting to hug three dogs at once.
Will noticed the slurring of her words; the vodka she had been downing certainly kicked in. He went to grab a bag from the trunk and lock up the car. When he returned to the front of the house, he saw Grace laying flat on the ground, giggling as the dogs bounced over and wrestled each other around her. "Winston! Harley! Stop that!" He took swift, long strides to reach them.
"No, no! It's-," her animated laugh was shaking her entire frame. "It's o-ok! Let them play!"
He couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of his dogs: half treating the woman like an obstacle course- leaping over her to pounce on each other, the other half delighted to find her face low enough to cover in licks. "Here." He bent over to offer her his hand, his smile exultant.
She was still convulsing with laughter as she accepted the offer. "Thanks," she eventually got out while wiping the dirt off her jacket and jeans. "Are these all yours?"
He nodded as he moved to unlock the front door. On command the dogs all ran inside to their respective beds. He held the door open for Grace, clicking away one of the dogs who had leaped from their bed to play with her again.

The young woman had never considered what Will Graham's home life might look like, but found this oddly fitting nonetheless. A remote haven from the world surrounded by peaceful woodlands. And lots of dogs. Heaven.
"I'll get you coffee," he stated before leading her into the kitchen.
"No, s'ok."
He paused at the counter and eyed her knowingly. "You need coffee."
She decided not to argue and instead wandered curiously around the room. "You've a really nice home," she murmured after a moment. "It's so… Homely. Warm. Ooh warm," she emphasised as she was handed her drink.
"I like it," he stated proudly before holding up a carton of milk and a jar of sugar.
"Just milk please." She held the cup out towards him.
He stepped closer and poured some in before attending to his own.
"May I?" Grace stalked out of the kitchen and into his living room before he could answer her.

She was perched sideways on the couch when he followed her inside, one arm leaning on the back of it holding her coffee. "Do you do this often?"
He took a seat on the other end of the couch, taking a sip from his coffee before speaking. "Drink coffee?"
She gave him a devilish smile. "Take drunk women back to your house full of dogs. I'd imagine it's very effective."
He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. "No, that's not-"
Her smile turned sweet as she leaned over to squeeze his arm playfully. "I'm messing with you, Will."
He exhaled a laugh, looking down at the drink in his hands. "You can take my bed. I'll sleep on the couch."
"No, I can't do that..."
"Trust me," he began, glancing at the dogs around him, "if their new favourite toy stayed down here with them, they wouldn't get any sleep."
Her smile was warm and genuine this time, her eyes glossy and soft. "I really appreciate… Well, everything. I don't know what I would have done tonight if you hadn't shown up."
He nodded, unsuccessfully attempting to seem unaffected by her words. His gaze swiftly broke from hers and fell to his drink once again. "Any time," he murmured, his voice gravelly.

After a moment she broke the pleasant silence. "I'll text Dr. Lecter, let him know I'm safe."
Will deliberated before answering her. "That's probably for the best."
"Do you have a problem with Dr. Lecter?" She asked, surprise evident in her tone.
He paused before answering honestly. "Sometimes." He didn't offer more.
Grace frowned, holding her cup in both hands. "He has been very… supportive of me. I don't know why. I've done nothing to deserve it." She contemplated before speaking again. "I'm glad I met him. Despite not wanting therapy, I think he's probably helped me more than I realise."
Will adjusted his glasses back into their rightful position. "Dr. Lecter is persistent. I haven't yet decided if he is helpful."
The woman pursed her lips, her eyes distant. "I think he is."

When they finished their drinks, Will stood, taking her cup from her and placing it on a side table. "I'll show you where the bathroom and bedroom is."
She followed suit with a trail of dogs behind her.
"Is there anything I can get you?" he asked as she slipped out of her jacket and placed it on the bed. His gaze immediately averted as though her removing her jacket warranted privacy.
Grace let out a small laugh at the sight. "No, I'm good. Thank you."
He nodded and directed the dogs back to their beds with a whistle and a few clicks of his fingers.
"G'night, Will," she called after him as he disappeared down the hallway.

Grace awoke the following morning hazy from the alcohol. It took her several minutes to adjust to her surroundings and remember where she was and what had happened.
Will.
He didn't run. He didn't pull out handcuffs or call Agent Crawford. He had understood. He never divulged how and she didn't dare ask. It was an unspoken and undiscussed understanding. Yet it was enough to cause Grace to feel less alone in the darkness.

Exactly how Dr. Lecter had planned it.