A few days later Clarice awoke to a rather obnoxious "thunk" on her door. She got up and went to her door, not caring about her current appearance in a worn t-shirt and shorts. Scratching her head, she opened the door and looked outside. When she couldn't see anyone outside, she looked down to see today's newspaper on her doorstep. The front page was covered with a headline about her being fired, followed by a detailed report on the subject. She scowled and discovered, upon closer inspections, that it was not today's newspaper but one from about three days ago. She slammed the door and left it out on the step.

This was getting old. Someone was always taunting her about her failures. Krendler, the Bureau, Dr. Lecter…

A little while later she found herself dressed and sitting at her kitchen table, coffee in her hands. She rubbed her temple and thought on her current situation. She had not as of yet found another job after being left out in the cold by the bureau.

That day she took her car out to her favorite park, sheltered by trees and jogged. Being outside and breathing in the fresh air had a strangely calming effect on her. It made her feel much better. While she ran she seemed to feel her troubles wash away. When she ran she could feel her own power the best and it made her feel like she could do anything. Yet true achievement sat out of reach. It taunted her, just out of reach.

She made it back to her house later that day and spent the better half of the afternoon cleaning her house and her mind. Her mind was by far the most cluttered.

When she felt truly accomplished, she made herself a dinner of leftover Chinese and an orange. An orange like her father used to feed her. She slowly had developed immunity to the pain of her failure and betrayal over these past few days.

She was getting ready to start on her dinner when an actual knock came to the door. She furrowed her brow and went to the door, wondering.

She opened the door to a young man in a UPS uniform. He smiled when she opened the door and looked down at his clipboard.

"Ms. Clarice Starling?" He asked, looking back up at her, his eyes quietly running a quick sweep over her body.

"Yes." She replied, the smallest hint of annoyance in her voice.

He handed the clipboard for her to sign and then handed her a small manila envelope with her name and a re-mailing address at the top. She gazed down at it absentmindedly, handing the man's clipboard back to him and stepped back inside with the envelope.

She walked into her living room and turned on a lamp before slitting the envelope with a letter opener that had been given to her by the late John Brigham. Normally, she would take a bit more caution in opening mail she was curious about, but now she seemed not to care anymore. She could see a new reckless streak developing in her.

She shook out the smaller envelope enclosed in the manila, and then stared as the crimson envelope fluttered to the ground. It landed face up, her name written across the envelope seemingly with great care in a familiar copperplate hand.

Her heart beat faster and her breath came quicker, almost in rasps. She felt a sudden chill, though she had all of the doors and windows shut. She knew this handwriting. She knew it almost too well. It had a horrific effect. It seemed dangerous, even as it lay there on the floor, its red color standing out against the white carpet.

She took a deep breath, shook her head, and picked it up. It felt hot in her hand, yet she knew it wasn't really hot. She picked the letter opener up and slowly cut open the envelope, dreading what could possibly be held in its small crimson packaging. Although, she couldn't deny that she felt a sort of thrill foreign to her.

With trembling hands, she removed the expensive looking paper from the envelope, discarding the envelope on the floor. Before she unfolded it, she thought about it. She thought about the odds of it being a fake. She thought that someone could just be messing with her. Paul Krendler would be a suspect if he were still alive. But as she looked down at the expensive paper, the familiar writing, the smell of familiar hand creams, she knew. She knew that no one else could duplicate this.

She looked back down at the manila envelope, half-heartedly searching for a return address. Of course there wasn't. He was far too clever for that. So, unfolding the paper in her hands, she began to read.

Dear Clarice,

I couldn't help noticing as I looked at the recent news papers how far you have fallen in these past couple of years. What for, Clarice, what for? Is it because of me? Did I cause you to lose that job you held so highly in your heart? Or was it you, former special agent Clarice Starling, that caused your demise? After all, when they told you to stay away you pursued. You didn't want to follow the orders of those you once respected. This is like the shooting incident, isn't it, Clarice? Only this time you have fallen further.

So what will you do now, Clarice? Will you resign yourself to the will of others? Will you submit, or fight? I can imagine what you are like at this time. You doubt yourself, don't you? You feel as though you have failed. But you also feel betrayed. You want revenge. Will you go after that revenge, relish in it, taste it? Or shall we take up our little game of Cat-and –Mouse again? Should I come to your rescue, or watch you fight? Tell me please Clarice. I'm curious to know your plan of action.

Sincerely,

Hannibal Lecter M.D.

P.S. Do you still remember Mr. Krendler, Clarice? Do you wake up, terrified of what happened at our little dinner party? Or do you perhaps relish in it. Do you secretly feel glad about Mr. Krendler's demise? Did you enjoy watching you enemy fall? Tell me, tell me Clarice. Instead of the lambs, do you hear Mr. Krendler? Or perhaps you have yet to accept the fact that you enjoyed it. I'm very curious to know, Clarice.

Clarice put the letter aside for a moment and closed her eyes. She wondered how he could be so accurate. How he knew so much about her from nothing. She thought about his questions, his taunting. How did she feel now?

She picked up the envelope from the floor and was about to put the letter back inside when she noticed two more slips of paper inside of the envelope. She turned the envelope upside down and gently shook out the papers. One of them was a ticket to a theater one city away from her. The other was another small note. She read this note, also in the same writing.

Clarice, would you care to see a performance this Friday? It may calm your nerves. Your ticket is enclosed. I'm sure it will prove to be quite entertaining.

And Clarice, be sure to dress for the occasion.

H. Lecter

She stared at the paper for a few moments. It didn't make much sense to her. Why would he invite her to see some play? Would he dare to come out of hiding and into the public eye? What was he up to? She wondered if perhaps this was something planned, or just his whimsy acting up again. She couldn't be sure.

She looked at the ticket. "The Phantom of The Opera". That caused her to raise her eyebrows. She knew Dr. Lecter's tastes, and this wasn't it. He usually preferred foreign operas, not a book-made-musical. If she didn't know it was him, she would definitely have thought this a ruse. This led her to wonder even more about what he was up to. What shit was he trying now? Once again, she couldn't understand what he was trying. Red flags and alarm bells ringing in her head.

There was also the matter of whether she should avoid the theater and turn in the letter and ticket to the Bureau, or go to the theater and say "Fuck The Bureau". After what they had done to her, it was not surprising that she could entertain thoughts like this she wouldn't dared have in the past. But thinking something and doing something are two very different things. So now, what to do? What to do?

Looking back down at the letter lying on her lap, she decided.

"Fuck the Bureau."