In the three months that followed, "I don't remember" became a mantra Clarice could recite in her sleep. "I don't know" ran a close second, with "I wouldn't care to speculate on that" subbing in as needed. If the non-answers made her sound like an ignorant idiot, it was no matter, because she was never getting back in the field anyway. That much had been made clear at the informal, internal conduct hearing she'd attended a week after Lecter's escape.

The investigation had revealed some … financial irregularities … between a certain recently deceased Justice official and a certain also recently deceased wealthy private citizen with an ax to grind against Hannibal Lecter. The scandal would have painted Justice – and, by extension, the FBI – in a very bad light.

For her silence, Clarice avoided criminal charges for waving a gun around at Union Station and the fiasco at the Verger estate. She'd be on suspension until a psych eval cleared her, and she'd be chained to a desk for the foreseeable future. There was nothing for it, though; either she accepted the terms or she marched herself into a jail cell.

"Accept the deal, Starling," Pearsall had urged her during a break in the proceedings. "I know you think you're taking one in the back again, but it's a fair trade. You'll salvage something of a career out of this if you just keep your head down from now on."

"Right. A fair trade," she had echoed. Then she bit down on the resentment and contempt boiling up in her and took the deal. The doctor's voice had rung in her ears. How does that word taste to you, Clarice? Cheap and metallic, like sucking on a greasy coin?

"It still does, Doctor," she muttered to the dashboard as she pulled the Mustang into an open parking space in front of her house. "How many weeks now, and I still can't let it go?"

She turned off the engine and stared with unfocused eyes at the neighbor's taupe Corolla parked in front of her. Its bland, unthreatening appearance and reliable, plodding performance seemed the perfect metaphor for what was left of her life these days.

Nearly two months of twice-weekly Bureau-mandated counseling sessions had finally gotten the in-house psychologist to sign off on her fitness for duty. She had been tempted to walk out the first day after the man had given her a welcome speech about trust and honesty while oozing false sympathy for her "bad experiences" with psychiatry in the past. If he thought she was going to share anything real with him, he was delusional. It was probably hope for a book deal that had faded and died in his eyes over the weeks.

But his signature had opened up a world of possibilities for her … in the exciting field of wiretaps. The last five weeks had been a miserable, droning tedium with nothing but the promise of more of the same to come. Clarice slammed her palms against the steering wheel. The jarring impact didn't even set off a twinge in her shoulder; rehab and strength training had done their work well.

She didn't know what she wanted, but she sure as hell didn't want this. There was nothing here for her anymore. She was trapped, held in stasis by a paralyzing realization. The justice she believed in couldn't be found within the halls of the FBI. It wasn't even apathetic indifference; it was self-interest and cowardice and corruption behind a veneer of fidelity, bravery, and integrity.

Lecter had known long before she had. Long before she'd been willing to admit it, she amended. He had even reminded her at the lake house. She didn't need the FBI to uphold her moral code; she needed nothing but herself. And maybe … maybe him.

She shied away from the thought, unwilling to examine it too closely, and thrust the door open impatiently. The sun had just finished its slide beyond the horizon; the remaining light cast a dusky glow across the autumn leaves on the trees lining the street. The lamps would click on soon and chase away the darkness a bit. A run would help her clear her head, keep her from sitting in an empty house on another Friday night.

She'd have to scrounge up a granola bar or something first if the rumbling in her stomach was anything to go by. Right, then; she had a plan for the evening. First, though, she needed to stand up, shut the car door, jog up the steps, grab the mail, fumble with the key, slip inside, and close and lock the door behind her. Done. Simple as that … right up until she dropped the mail on the floor, reached for a gun that hadn't been holstered on her hip in months, and pressed her back to the door in utter bewilderment.

Footsteps in the kitchen and then he was there in the doorway, staring at her across the length of the hall.

"Welcome home, Clarice. May I take your coat?"