Clarice Starling, for all her FBI training and confidence, was feeling uneasy.  She was reminded of another conversation.

Do you spook easily, Starling?

Not yet, sir.

She smiled.  Still waiting to be spooked, Jack.  The dark corners of the service corridor left a million places for Lecter to be lurking.  Clarice felt like one of those dumb people in horror movies that you always scream at not to go into the basement, but who never seem to follow good advice and just get out of Dodge.  Well, I guess that decides which way I'm going, Clarice thought, heading up the service staircase, as slowly as possible, trying to muffle the sounds of her high heels clicking on the metal stairs.  Curse him and his taste in shoes, she grimaced, finally deciding to unstrap the annoying shoes, and leave them on the next landing.  She began fiddling with the clasp, struggling with it.  This is how you know that men design women's shoes.  A woman would never put the clasp on the outside…

"Clarice…"

Clarice stopped dead.  Did I hear…?  No… couldn't be.  She began to climb the stairs again, leaving her noisy shoes behind her.

I saw that little spark of excitement.  You wanted it to be him.

Clarice glared at nothing as she trundled up the stairs.

Oh, c'mon… say it.  You wouldn't go up even one flight of stairs in high heels and a ball gown for anyone else.  Not for Jack.  Not even for your new friend, Will.

Clarice gave an unladylike snort.  "You're damn right about that," she said to no one in particular.  She felt a surge of anger, and instead of wheeling it towards herself like she knew was right, she aimed it at the three people forcing her into this situation: Jack Crawford, Will Graham, and, yes, even Hannibal Lecter Ph.D.  Jack Crawford for sacrificing Will Graham to Lecter, and then pushing Will to go after him again.  Jack Crawford for sending her, impressionable and vulnerable, into the asylum to "interview" Lecter.  Jack Crawford for giving her that fake offer of a transfer from the senator and ultimately allowing Lecter a real transfer that let him escape.  And then Will Graham, who willingly let Crawford pull him into it.  Who had the audacity to think he could actually help her.  Who ventured to think that she, a woman of discriminating taste and class, would want to invite him into her hotel room.  And finally, Hannibal Lecter, who won't … Get the hell out of my head!

"Arg!"  Clarice growled.  She could have sworn the second she began to think about why she hated Hannibal Lecter, that she heard his voice say her name.  Clarice…

Wishful thinking?

Clarice glowered.  I should have made that a 4-person list… but who thinks of the evil little voice in their head as a person?  Clarice decided she hated the voice more than any of the other three.  Clarice's inner monologue was disturbed by a voice she was certain was real this time.

"Clarice?"

Oh no… Clarice felt herself sink into a deep, thick puddle of dread.   She felt as though she could just sit down on the stairs and die right there.  Seven flights of steps below her, she could see the little line of light cast on the floor from the door that Will Graham had just entered through.