By the time the plane touched down at Heathrow, Ophelia's stomach was crippled with pain. The stitches felt as if they were about to burst, and the muscles of her abdomen felt completely obliterated. She sat in the small, worn out plane seat next to Will nearly hunched over and frozen as nearly every inch of her skin throbbed. The back of her neck was stiff and littered with small, circular bruises, and her legs felt like limp noodles. Not to mention her head was throbbing from the rough landing.
She took her new ID card from her wallet and turned it over a few times, memorizing everything she could about her new life as the pilot waited to pull the plane up to the gate.
"Nora Spencer," it read, next to a picture of Ophelia and a run-down of fictional information. Alana had set it up so that Ophelia and Will were a brother and sister pair from Florida, whose lives had changed on a radical whim when they decided to pick up and move. Ophelia pursed her lips. She would have at least picked a better name.
Will was now known in most record books as "Jack Spencer", a criminal psychiatrist whose endeavors in Florida had become too monotonous. All of his colleagues at Cambridge had been briefed of the situation before their arrival by Alana Bloom, who had virtually orchestrated every aspect of their lives right down to their living quarters.
"Welcome to Heathrow, and thank you for flying American Airlines," the pilot's gravelly voice blared through the speakers, making Ophelia cringe.
Will stood, reaching up into the compartments above the seats to retrieve their rather minimal baggage. They both had only packed a single, small case stuffed tight with only essentials; Ophelia had left behind all of her Chi Omega shirts and fancy dresses. She missed them already.
"Nora," Will cleared his throat, holding his bag out to Ophelia, who was still staring out the window at the dreary sky. She pushed herself out of her seat, grimacing at the sharp pain that shot through her torso.
"Thanks," she said through gritted teeth.
"Are you okay?" Will held his hand out to her, helping her out of the row of seats and into the aisle, "You've looked terrible the whole flight."
She forced a laugh, "Thanks, but yeah I'm fine. Just tired, I guess."
"How's the..." he motioned to her stomach as they started shuffling toward the exit, bags clutched tight, "injury?"
"Fine," Ophelia waved him away, "Just wish I had brought some painkillers, that's all."
"We can go to the doctor-"
"No, it's fine. Really. I just want to get home."
She hated snapping at Will. He was, after all, the reason she was escaping an undeniably grim fate. But she hadn't slept since her time in the hospital, and the weight of the past days' events had begun to grow enormously overwhelming.
Will put his hand on Ophelia's back, guiding her up the ramp from the plane and out into the airport. It was nearly empty, though it was just past midnight. Ophelia was taken by surprise for a moment; she had never been confronted with such a time change before. It was no wonder her internal clock was thrown off.
"There's a car parked and waiting for us outside the west terminal," Will muttered, taking Ophelia by the arm and leading her down the linoleum walkway through the terminals, his bag swinging by his side.
"Who put it there?" Ophelia looked up at him, surprised that their escape had been so elaborately planned.
"Alana has a lot of friends," his mouth pursed into a small smile and he sighed, adjusting his glasses. Ophelia had not let his affection for her go unnoticed. She made a mental note to ask him about it later. They would make an adorable couple, she thought.
Will and Ophelia carried on in silence. They drove through London, surprisingly quiet for that time of night. Once their small, compact car passed the city limits, nearly all activity came to a screeching halt. The countryside was dark, only dotted occasionally with the distant lights of small towns and hamlets. Ophelia spent the majority of the drive staring out of the window, her forehead resting against the cool glass. In the silence, she could think.
Alana had assured her that her name was cleared in the states, and the FBI was steering the Chi Omega case away from her entirely and in the direction of her father. Beverly Katz and a small team of forensic scientists had begun to run autopsies and tests on Thomas's body, a process that Ophelia wished to have no part of. Thanks to Freddie Lounds, she was in no way associated with the murders in the public eye as well. In fact, most media outlets were painting her as a victim because of her sudden disappearance.
In short, Ophelia Ford had died while Nora Spencer had been born. She wondered whether she would like this new "self" that had been given to her. Surprisingly, she couldn't think of many things about being Ophelia Ford that she would miss. She could make this new Nora Spencer character exciting, fun, and free. Nora Spencer could be an artist. She could be an adventurer, or a connoisseur of fine wines and foods. Ophelia Ford had been a nothing. Ophelia Ford stood for nothing. No one would notice that Ophelia Ford had died and Nora Spencer had been born.
But she was wrong. Across the ocean, Ophelia Ford refused to perish.
The sound of the man's voice was grating, pounding against Hannibal's ears. Whereas usually he sat at attention, taking in everything that his patients said, he sat hunched in his chair, his eyes focused past the man's head and at the small, faded shirt that was draped over his desk chair. His hair fell over his eyes, which were ringed with a dark reflection of many sleepless nights.
Hannibal and his patient were only barely illuminated in the misty, grey light of the rainy August day. The windows that stood tall on the wall beside them were pulled only halfway closed, casting a bar of grey across each of their faces. The rest of the room was dark and devoid of life.
"And I mean, what am I supposed to do about it, right? It's not like I can just snap my fingers and fix it for her," the man, Ronald Beasley, scoffed and wiped his snotty nose on a tissue and tossed it onto the glass table by his chair. Hannibal noted it, but did not feel the desire to act on it.
"Women, right, Doctor Lecter?" Ronald sighed, sniffing loudly, "They're all just life-sucking leeches. All of 'em. They just come into your life, bat their eyelashes, do a little dance and suddenly poof! Your wallet's empty and so is your bed. Because they skimp out! Yeah, who cares. What- what are you looking at?" Ronald turned in his chair, the buttons on his tweed jacket straining against his massive gut. His beady eyes scanned the dark recesses of the room for what Hannibal had been so intently focused on.
"Nothing," Hannibal sat up, trying to draw Ronald's attention back to the matter at hand, "Tell me, Ronald, how long have you and your wife been at such odds?"
But Ronald was locked onto the yellow swatch of fabric, like a hound tracking a kill, which stood out in stark contrast to the dark, muted colors of the office. He left his thinning bar of grey light and lumbered into the darkness.
"What is this?" he flipped on the lamp on Hannibal's desk and held the shirt aloft, "Chi Omega? Doctor Lecter, what on Earth have you been doing? You sly bastard. I never pegged you as one to go after college girls, but-"
"I think you should come sit down," Hannibal stood, clenching his fists in his pockets, "I'm sure you want to get your money's worth of your time."
Ronald stuffed the shirt to his face and inhaled, "Flowers. Good catch, Doctor Lecter." He began to ball up the shirt to toss it aside, but Hannibal rushed to him and snatched it from his clutches. He stared down at the grimy little man for a moment, eyes wide, teeth clenched, and hair falling in his face.
"Sit down," Hannibal barked "Mister Beasley." Ronald seemed stunned for a moment, but he shook it off and returned to his seat with an air of haughtiness about him. Hannibal stayed by his desk for a moment, clutching the shirt in his hands. He lifted it to his nose and inhaled deeply. The intoxicating smell of flowers had been muddled by the harsh smell of cheap drugstore cologne. Hannibal could feel monstrous wrath clawing at his ribcage. The only bit of her that was left: soiled.
Hannibal cleared his throat, "Who knows you're here, Mister Beasley? Your wife?"
"Nah," he coughed into another napkin that seemed to have magically appeared in his pocket, "I told a bunch of people I was moving to Mexico to get them off my back. Why?"
"No reason," Hannibal sighed, smoothing the shirt out on the table again. He let his hand linger on the fabric for a moment, then slipped the golden letter opener by his schedule book into his hand. While Ronald continued to plow through tissues with his seemingly never-ending allergies, Hannibal approached him from behind, swiftly and silently.
And in one swift movement, Hannibal plunged the letter opener into Ronald's neck, precisely puncturing his carotid artery. Blood spurted from the deep puncture, splattering across Hannibal's face and down the front of his suit. Ronald spluttered and gasped, his hands flailing wildly in every direction.
"You soiled all I had left," Hannibal hissed in Ronald's ear, embracing the steady spurts of blood that were washing over his face, "You dirty, small, insignificant little man. I pity you." And with that, Ronald slowly began to go limp, the last bits of his life draining from his body.
Hannibal straightened his back in defiance; still at his desk, still clutching the shirt, he let the letter opener fall back onto the schedule book as Ronald went on to complain about his family. It would slide for today, as much as he would like his momentary flurry of imagination to play out.
He took a deep breath and slowly turned back to his patient, "Unless you are willing to endure another breakdown, Mister Beasley," Hannibal stuffed the shirt in his jacket pocket as he returned to his seat, "You should speak to your wife in the presence of a professional. A psychiatrist, lawyer, or otherwise."
"You, maybe?" Ronald suggested, "You're smart. You seem like the type that could understand women. I'll bring my wife next time."
"Fine," Hannibal fought the urge to roll his eyes, "Next Thursday, then, I will be glad to see your wife as well."
Ronald beamed, standing and holding his hand out to Hannibal, "Thanks a bunch, Doc. You're a huge help." Hannibal shook his hand reluctantly, then subtly wiped his palm on the side of his pants as the squat man made for the door.
"Have a good day," Hannibal faked a smile, following him to the door.
"You too," Ronald waved over his shoulder, "And good luck with the sorority girl!" He chortled all the way out of the office building and down the street to where his Honda was crookedly parked. Hannibal watched him go, the image of the letter opener floating before his eyes.
Hannibal endured the rest of his day with the same restrained anger; he thought of killing two more of his patients and brutally beating another. The only thing getting him through the endless droning of his patients was the yellow swatch of faded fabric that now rested securely in his pocket.
By the end of the day, the trials of his patients and the worry that he felt for Ophelia's safety had nearly worn him down entirely, but he still pushed himself to run a final errand before the sun had gone down. In silence, Hannibal drove through the busy streets of Baltimore, past the interstate and the run-down car repair shops that skirted the town limits, and out into the growing darkness. He had laid the Chi Omega shirt out on the seat beside him so that if he glanced at it out of the corner of his eye, it almost looked as if she was there in the car with him.
The Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane was an enormous concrete building that was surrounded on all sides by barbed wire, and by woods on three. They were the same woods in which Ophelia had seen her father. The guards at the doors knew Hannibal well; he had come to visit Will Graham many a time here. So he was allowed easy passage through the many levels of security in the dreary building, devoid of any hope.
Hannibal had always felt a sort of connection to Will Graham. Will had been the only person who he felt a real similarity to. He, Bedelia, and Ophelia were the only human beings who he felt any real emotion for. And with one of the three inexplicably missing, Hannibal felt he had to cling to what he had left.
"Can I help you?" the guard at the door to the hall where Will was kept stepped in Hannibal's path. He had never seen this enormous, heavily tattooed man here before.
"I'm here to see Will Graham," Hannibal explained, "My name is Hannibal Lecter. Perhaps he has spoken of me? I am his psychiatrist."
The guard scoffed, "Well unless your name is Alana Bloom and you're a five-foot-five brunette chick, I think you're not."
"I'm sorry?" Hannibal furrowed his brows. Alana was not presiding over Will; Hannibal had been.
"Yeah, they switched him over to Miss Bloom a few weeks ago. He bailed out just after she took him in. Guess she did the trick."
"He's not here?" Hannibal's stomach dropped, "Do you understand what crimes this man is responsible for?"
The guard shrugged, "Not my problem. If the FBI is allowing it, they're allowing it. Haven't heard from either of them since."
Hannibal turned and stormed out of the holding cell, down the hall, and out of the penitentiary, into the growing rain. The only thing keeping him innocent was out in the world, though under the watchful eye of Alana Bloom.
With a huff, he threw himself down into his car. He slammed his hand down on the steering wheel and turned to grab Ophelia's shirt for a bit of comfort.
And then, pieces began to fall into place. Alana, Will, Ophelia. He had seen Alana in the hospital with his Ophelia. He had also seen a man, through the distant crowd of scrubs and medical paraphernalia, who had looked strangely like Will. Freddie Lounds had also come to visit Ophelia, but had conveniently vacated the premises when Hannibal arrived. All the time Ophelia had spent with Alana... had it also been spent with Will Graham?
Hannibal jerked his car into gear, spinning away from the curb outside the penitentiary and speeding down the road back into town. Streetlights turned to blurs of white light as he whipped around corners and through stop lights. Before the sun touched the horizon, Hannibal had arrived at the home of Alana Bloom, a cozy but substantial abode in the woods outside the opposite end of town. Her car was in the driveway, and the warm light of a fire burned in the living room window. The sound of barking dogs greeted him as he parked his car.
"Hannibal?" she opened the front door before he even had a chance to step onto the porch. A flood of dogs accompanied her. He knew them all too well; they had been Will's dogs.
"I must speak with you," Hannibal gritted his teeth, forgetting his manners entirely and barging past her.
"Do you want some... tea or coffee, or..." Alana shut the door tentatively behind her, clearly thrown off by his sudden appearance. She was caught entirely off guard; she stood before him in a fluffy bathrobe and a pair of pink socks. Her hair was pulled sloppily atop her head, and her eyes were magnified by thick glasses.
"Will Graham was released?" Hannibal spun to face her, his eyes beginning to burn with a familiar intensity, "Why was I not informed of this?"
"Because it wasn't your decision," Alana stood her ground, reaching down to scratch one of the dogs behind the ear without ever taking her eyes off of Hannibal, "And it wasn't entirely mine either."
"Whose was it then?"
"I don't need to justify the choices I make regarding my patients, Hannibal. Especially not to you. I know what's best for them more often than not, which is why I was entrusted with Will."
"So it was your decision?" Hannibal turned away from her and began to stalk angrily from room to room, his eyes burning and his hands clenching into fists, "He's here then, is he? Are you hiding him out here until he's 'better', Alana? You know what he's done."
"Hannibal!" Alana jumped after him, "You have no right to come into my home like this. What do you think you're doing? What do you think you're going to find?"
He turned to her as he began to climb the stairs and pulled the Ophelia's shirt from his jacket pocket. It had been stuffed there in haste upon arriving.
"She's gone," Hannibal hissed, "And Will Graham knows something about her disappearance. I'm sure of it." Hannibal's steely professionalism was lost entirely. It was almost as if he was no longer Hannibal Lecter, but some great beast with fire in its soul and darkness in its heart.
"Hannibal," Alana'a voice was small, "Ophelia isn't gone because of Will. He's been locked up for months; he doesn't know that she exists."
"WHY IS SHE GONE, THEN?" Hannibal roared, balling up the shirt and throwing it onto the hardwood floor, "I wake up she's disappeared. Gone. All of her things, except that shirt. All gone. No explanation, no goodbye. She would not do that. Not to me. Not my Ophelia."
Alana took a deep breath, "Let her go. Let her go, Hannibal. There's nothing to be done."
"What?" Hannibal took a few steps toward her, fists clenched and nostrils flared, "Let her go? She could be hurt, Alana. She could have been taken. Forced away against her will."
"Hannibal," Alana gingerly placed a hand on his arm.
He slapped it away before she could continue, "You know something about this." And before she could deny it, Hannibal stormed toward the front door, dogs scattering like ants as he barged through.
"No, I don't," Alana gritted her teeth, "Just let her go, Hannibal. You were no good for her, anyway. And she was no good for you."
Hannibal froze with his hand on the doorknob, "She was the only good I had."
Without another word, he stormed out into the night, leaving Alana standing dumbfounded in the doorway. She watched his car disappear into the darkness, feeling a sense of dread wash over her.
"I should have been more careful," Alana whispered into the night, "We all should have been more careful. Will, Ophelia, wherever you are, stay hidden. Stay safe. He's coming for you."