Professional Curiosity

Chapter One: Return Flight

"No secretary?"

"Was pre-disposed to romantic whims. Followed her heart to United Kingdom. Sad to see her go."

The flight from United Kingdom back to the States was incredibly painful, all the way trying to disguise the winces and flinches as a sore body from being seated too long; and meanwhile the blood known only to me was seeping through my clothes. As an after thought, I was grateful that I had chosen black as my winter wear, though I had underestimated my husband's tenacity and will to survive—He had put up a fight, but fortunately, I had been much faster. A few shots of alcohol that I had asked of the flight attendants covered by half-truths about a messy divorce numbed my pain enough, and a few visits to the lavatory had quelled the messiness of bandage changes; and any blood left over on the toilet or sink could be excused for irresponsible handling of a nasty menstrual cycle.

However, after a seven and half-hour flight, I found the pain to be excruciatingly unbearable and hauled myself into the airport restroom, shoving my luggage into the stall with me. Blurry vision, a gasping breath to calm my nerves but knowing that with each passing hour I was losing blood, I pulled out my cell phone and held it against my shoulder to speak to him—He would help me, I know that he would. He would help me—

"Hello?"

The sound of his voice, calm and even, brought a tearful smile to my face and broke my voice.

"Hanni…bal." I gasped his name.

A rustling sound in the background appeared an image of him rising from his office chair.

"Evangeline."

He said my name with that familiar rhythm of reason and calm, and my heart answered it with the familiar drum—He could say it again. The elation that I felt when he said my name could heal any wound, it felt, for the pain seemingly disappeared at the sound of subtle urgency. Surely, even after all those years of working with him, as a seasoned psychiatrist, he could notice the way my cheeks blushed or my skin was hot or that when he looked in my direction, I couldn't help but smile. He never acknowledged them out loud—Always professional and courteous.

My husband didn't understand, and I really thought he would once he fell in love with me, once he understood who I was. He didn't. When I had told him my dark secret, he was disgusted, appalled; and he was going to go to the law. That was not how two people who were in love treated each other. In sickness and in health, the vows had said. 'Til death do us part.

And this was the only way—no messy divorce because God knows what he would have signed on the dotted line for the reason; and if he survived, he'd have pursued me until I was taken to prison; and I couldn't have looked over my shoulder, induced paranoia. A bullet to the head that followed the confessions of both murder and love, I had left the crime scene as is and no doubt law enforcement would find out about what I done; I had been reckless, impulsive, and I paid for that with a laceration across my gut, and no doubt leaving a sleuth of evidence in my wake. I had invested so much belief in my husband, I hadn't taken the necessary precautions: no latex gloves, no bleach. I had just fled the crime scene…

"Help me, please…" I gasped into the phone, weakly unraveling the roll of toilet paper from the bathroom stall to wrap it around my waist.

"Where are you?"

I choked a response, "Baltimore, Maryland."

"How badly are you hurt?"

I couldn't answer him like he wanted me to. I didn't know the extent of my injuries—a few bruises, a few cuts, the husband had put up quite the fight; the worst of it was clutched under my hand as I kept painful pressure against the bled-through toilet paper. Such inexperienced hands and low-grade bandages had left my stomach wound raw, and I pinched my eyes shut—Focus on him, focus on his voice.

"Bad."

"Where have you been hurt, Evangeline?" said Hannibal on the other line, and his quick sentence structure gave me the impression that he was leaving his office, though admittedly annoyed that I couldn't give him the proper specifications for clerical instructions. I didn't hear any of annoyance if he was, though, so I wondered if his patience attributed to the fact that perhaps I was worse for wear than what I thought.

"The son of a bitch stabbed me," I managed as I pressed against my wound, shuddering hard under the intense pressure.

"No honeymoon, then," Hannibal responded.

"Suppose not, sir."

"You survived an entire flight without bleeding out; he didn't nick anything too important. Flesh wound," he responded when I uttered a painful groan. "Non-fatal."

"Feels fatal," I said through clenched teeth.

"How was your flight?"

"What?" I said, staring at the speaker of phone, taken aback.

"How was it? How was your flight, Evangeline?" Hannibal said conversationally.

"Are you serious?" I replied back, though despite the exasperation that I attempted to express, I let out an amused, weak chuckle.

"As a heart attack." Hannibal responded, and I heard the smile in his voice.

"You're trying to distract me, aren't you?"

"Of course. Was it working? For the first few seconds?"

"Yes," I said.

"Are you somewhere private, Evangeline?"

My name on his tongue sent a familiar chill down my spine, an acute awareness that the sexual and romantic attachment that I had for him had not disappeared over the last six months. How he kept saying my name kept me in the present moment, which was probably his intention all along.

I nodded in response, but realized he wouldn't hear that.

"Yes." I said. "In a bathroom. At the airport."

"Don't move."

"You got it, boss," I breathed.

He hung up first. I closed my eyes, pressing my forehead against the back of the stall door, realized how cooling it was, realizing how hot I was…

Curious. Hannibal didn't ask why my husband had stabbed me, how it all came to be, or if I had a part in it, or if I had managed to kill him only that I had got away. Though considering what I knew of Hannibal and what he knew of me, perhaps he could surmise what had passed.

I'm so tired…I'm so tired. Just a few minutes of sleep will be all right. Just a few…Just a few minutes…