I remember the way we used to make maps out of the splintered wood of the ceiling. Maps and faraway adventures. Mitzy, Adrian, and I, all three kids with our backs on the rug, imaginations churning while we connected the crags and dead veins of the wood planks into streets, tunnels, mazes, and ocean waves. We would stare up at the ceiling of the family cabin while our parents got us settled in for a weekend. They never asked us to help. My siblings and I were left to create our own world for a while. It was nice.
It's not as fun as an adult. I got more out of remembering what certain chipped sections used to represent rather than make something new out of them. My eyes studied the ceiling closely while my hand continued to blindly deliver mini, powdered donuts to my waiting mouth. Without turning my attention away from the cracks, I reached out until my fingers found the crinkled side of a paper bag. I dug into the bag and pulled out another small, white snack and in my mouth it went, the flavor sweet and powder thickening into a paste on my tongue. An endless cycle of gluttony, nostalgia, and self-loathing.
That's all I had been doing, really, for ten whole days. Laid around and consumed large amounts of sugar and coffee. That's it. I mean, Bro and me half-assed a hike one afternoon then called it quits after treading up a steep, rocky hill, where I fell twice and cried beneath a cliff. That was enough extracurricular activity for the week, we decided.
I mean, when I said that I cried, it wasn't that lone-tear-down-the-cheek sorta thing. Oh no. Borderline hysterics, that's the description that I would use for my mini episode on the cliff face.
How did I get here?
The question was on repeat in my mind.
How?
How?
How?
When did I ever become a runner who fled from her fears?
I mean, take a sec and help me figure this one out: What the fuck do you do when you meet a serial killer, an actual person who is actively hunted by the government? Who, by the way, apparently eats his victims, like, actually eats the people that he murders? The fuck do you do?
After my talk with Will Graham, I had gone home numb and afraid. Which I mean, was a natural, albeit, presumptuous feeling. Was I being stalked by said killer? Probs not. I mean, Dr. Lecter had told me earlier in the day that he wasn't even in the city. The knowledge alone was enough though. The fact that the charming European man that I had met and occasionally had sexual dreams about was in reality "Hannibal the Cannibal" took a toll on my sense of personal safety. Which, is an understandable reaction. But that wasn't the only issue. My confidence in my ability to handle the individuals that I sought to counsel, it was also shaken. As previously mentioned, I was "successful" in my field. My clients so far have not given in to their desires. To meet someone who has, well, that's unexplored territory for me.
The fuck do I do?
I had walked into the door of my house, dropped my keys on the floor, and wandered into my living room. I dropped on to the couch, the same couch I thought as I laid there, where Hannibal Lecter had casually sipped wine on. A couch where I sat with a confirmed cannibal talking about hypothetical sexual situations and turn-ons.
Jesus.
What followed consisted of a mixture of tedious thought and sheer impulse. I roused myself from the couch, walked to my purse that was also dumped at the front door, and pulled out my cell phone. I then proceeded to toss it into my kitchen sink. A plug was placed in the drain, and after turning on the faucet and watching the water level rise as it drowned my phone, a sigh of relief left me. The first step was complete. Next, I turned off the faucet and left to move on to step two.
The drive to the cabin took about an hour. It was a long, painful hour where I thought on what to do after I got there, if I would bother contacting anyone other than my sister about my whereabouts. I didn't give a reason as to why I was going to the cabin, just that I "needed to get away for a while." That seemed to be enough, as Mitzy didn't press for answers. Plus, I could hear that my nephew was having a theatrical tantrum in the background. Perfect timing.
Steps four, five, and so on would have to wait. Laying on my back with eyes on the ceiling, I eventually gathered enough courage to initiate step three. It rested on my stomach, its weight light but heavy on my heart. The envelope still had smudges of earth on it, a small crumb of rock within its creases, but even after having it for as long as I had, it remained unopened. I didn't dare touch the thing. It was the evidence that I knowingly withheld from the FBI, the closest thing to holy that I had. Almost told Mr. Graham on the bench, almost showed him, but I waited because I needed to know what was in it first. The last thing I needed to do was potentially ruin Adrian's chances for release forever.
My body slowly sat up, the paper falling into my lap. I stared at it for a moment, the small portion of courage that I mustered ready to be tested. Then with careful fingers, I opened the envelope.
Peeling the letter out of the envelope, I saw that it was written by hand. In black ink, the top of it read Adrian's full name in a fine, blocky script.
"To Adrian Ives," I read softly to myself. "You and I have never met, but I hope to one day make your acquaintance since your case is so popular in the area, as well as in the field of psychology. Please don't take my words as an insult, but I've been researching you and your family for a very long time…"
I huffed. Nothing new there. The writer can join our fan club, I thought bitterly.
"…I've been researching attachment theory at Washington University. You see, I'm a student there, and my main interest lately has been determining the factors of secure attachment in siblings. Twin studies are always lucrative, and your family history definitely makes for one interesting research point. However, this is not entirely why I am contacting you…"
"…I know that this may sound weird, but I've been keeping up with your sister, Ada. She's scheduled to speak at my school soon and I'm very excited to hear her thoughts on a few questions I have. Anyway, I know of one of her clients, a guy by the name of Blaine Darling. I don't know if you've heard about the Darlings. They own one of the biggest fisheries here in the Pacific Northwest, and I think that Blaine Darling is a client of your sister's. Mr. Ives, not that it's any of my business, but I'm concerned about your sister's safety. I've asked around. Blaine Darling, in my observations and inquiries, has the makings of a psychopath. He's smart, popular, and knows how to work a crowd. He knows how to be liked. Don't ask me how I know. I've been studying psychopathology for a long time, and I know one when I see one. It's in my gut. You should warn your sister about him, Mr. Ives. I think she's in danger."
I reread the section again, confused on a multitude of levels. When I looked over the final paragraph, my eyes widened.
"For what it's worth, thank you for reading. I hope that you respond in any way you can because I have a lot of questions and your input can further my research. Best, Thomas Himes."
Thomas Himes. The letter was read three more times, my mind working itself over every sentence and word. I couldn't believe it. I now knew another reason as to why this letter was kept from the FBI, why Adrian was wise to bury it. Thomas Himes, the murdered college student, was its author.
Questions piled up. How did Thomas Himes know about Blaine, and that he was a client of mine? What was it about Blaine that Himes saw? From what I knew, Himes was an undergraduate student, hardly skilled in the art of psychoanalysis. The mannerisms and behavior of Blaine Darling, I knew them intimately. The hours upon hours of Blaine sitting with me, the sessions and exercises, all the work I put into helping him pass through his years of adolescence, could someone in the early stages of studying psychology see through the façade? The one that I toiled over? Certainly not, I told myself. How could he? Also, Blaine was still in high school. There was no way that they could have crossed paths unless by chance, or, if Himes stalked Blaine. Himes would have to talk to a lot of Blaine's peers to get a decent picture of who he was, and as far as I knew, Blaine was well-liked among his classmates.
Also, why would Thomas Himes contact Adrian about it? Adrian could do absolutely nothing. His hands are tied. Even if Adrian had brought the letter forward, there was hardly any evidence that would suggest Himes's theory to be plausible. And why not start with the authorities? The police? The FBI even? Why tell Adrian at all?
I put the letter down and crawled over to a nearby coffee table. On it was a cell phone, a new one that I had bought and stored a long time ago. I dialed a number and waited.
"Vashon Mental Recovery and Rehabilitation Center," greeted a voice on the other end of the line.
"Yes, this is Dr. Ives. I'm making a call to one of your residents, Adrian Ives?"
"One moment."
My teeth nibbled on my bottom lip until a familiar voice spoke greeted me.
"Well, hello there," he said, Adrian's voice relaxed and easy-going. "The perks of having you as a sister have once again revealed themselves. They gave me the phone and even left the room!"
"Hi, I opened the letter."
A small pause entered in after my direct statement, and very quietly I heard the rustling of fabric.
"Adrian?" I prompted.
"Yeah, I'm here. Just getting comfy. I'm in my room. What do you think? About what it said?"
"I, I don't know. I mean, definitely sketchy. Has he tried to contact you before? Thomas Himes?"
"Mm, nope. Didn't even know that he was the kid killed at Wash. U. until yesterday. The plot thickens."
I frowned at how jovial he sounded, how I clearly was more alarmed than he was.
"You know," I began. "You're not as anxious about the whole situation as say, a normal human being would be."
He breathed a soft laugh that blew static into the phone. I rolled my eyes in anticipation of whatever my brother was going to say in an effort to wave off the direness of our situation. Typical Adrian.
"Look," he started. "This Darling kid, is he your client?"
"Off the record, yes. I mean, he was."
"Okay, do you think he's a danger to you?"
"No."
"Boom. Problem solved."
My eyes rolled.
"Wow," I sighed. "You're a real Nancy Drew."
He laughed again, louder the second time.
"What?" he asked. "If you, the person whose goal is to know him best, doesn't think that Blake, or whatever his name is, is a threat, then I don't understand what's to fear here. Is it strange that I was contacted about it? Yeah. Is it crazy that the kid was offed later after he wrote to me? Yeah. But does it matter? No. Thomas is dead. Who cares?"
"I don't know," I murmured. "Wait, do you know when he wrote it?"
"Check the corner. There's a date."
Sure enough, a small numbered date was scribbled at the top right edge of the page. Doing the math, I figured that it was written about two or three days before Himes's death.
"Are you going to give it to the FBI?" asked Adrian in a low voice.
"I suppose I have to. I just don't want it to work against you in some way, you know?"
"Ads," he sighed. Despite myself, I couldn't help but smile at his tone. "I love you, but you're overthinking stuff. I had no idea that the Himes kid was even dead, so it's not like I'm an accomplice or even had a hand in his death. I was only concerned 'cause you were mentioned in it and wanted to hear your thoughts. Don't worry about me. I'll get out of here eventually. Sooner hopefully than later."
My head nodded as if he was in the room with me. I wished that he truly was.
"Hey," I said. "I have an idea."
"Yeah?"
"What are your thoughts on helping the FBI solve the murder?"
"Has it been declared a homicide?" he asked.
"I've been talking to one of the FBI guys. He showed me pictures of the crime scene. Def' a murder."
"Huh."
"Well?"
"Let me think about it."
I scoffed.
"Come on," I told him. "They might let you out if you do."
"The fact that you're even suggesting the idea astounds me more than the idea itself. Did they make an offer?"
"No, I did. It was just a thought."
"Clearly not," he muttered sardonically.
"Just trying to be a loyal twin. Sue me."
"I would if I had the money."
"Adrian, for real-"
"Yeah, yeah. I'll think about it. For real. Just don't want them looking too hard at us, Ads. At you, especially."
Deep in the pit of my stomach, a heaviness returned. To be honest, it never really left, but sometimes when talking to Adrian, when he says a certain thing or recalls up our childhood, that dense sense of old dread likes to make itself known again, as if I had somehow forgotten that it lived down deep in the threads and sinew of my past. When my brother spoke again, it hid itself once more. It'll be back though.
It always comes back.
"Who at the FBI are you talkin' to, Ads?" his voice chimed. "Better not be that black guy."
"Um," I mumbled as I joined the real world. "Um, no. It's not him. It's someone by the name of Will Graham. He was there in the interrogation room with us that one time."
"Oh. Alright. He seemed okay. Kind of creepy, but if you trust him-"
"I think he can help us," I answered.
There. That small silence, the pause, that grain of opportunity. A piece of me wanted to share my latest discovery with my brother, about Dr. Lecter. About who he was. But I decided against telling Adrian about Hannibal Lecter. I did. I kept quiet. Maybe it was the wrong choice, but I feared for giving him something to actually worry about. I don't know, part of me felt that it was a useless cause to tell him about Dr. Lecter at all. Like I already said, his hands were tied. What could he do to protect me?
"'Kay," Adrian said. "You know what's best. I gotta go now though. They want the phone back."
I swallowed and nodded. Once again, all alone.
"Okay. See you."
"See you. Love you."
And he was gone. With his leaving, I felt desolate, like the string that tied me to feeling safe and secure in this life was severed indefinitely. I quickly shook it off, the anxiety. Can't lose my head, not this far along. I can't risk it.
Ten days was enough. I decided that I needed to return to the life I had made for myself, that I was no runner. I was on the attack, always, and nothing was going to prevent me from holding on to the identity that I had created despite my childhood. I sound like I'm dramatizing my past, that surely, tons of kids go through foster care and make it out alive and don't feel the need to talk about it.
But do you know? Do you know what it's like to feel completely unforgiven? You don't. Not like I do. Not at all. So shut up.
After gathering my things and hiding the letter upstairs in the floorboards of a bedroom, Bro and I hit the road. Half way through the drive, I dug out my phone and made a call.
"Hello, Dr. Ives," said a gentle, unassuming voice.
"What are you doing right now?" I asked.
"Why?"
So dulled and honest, I appreciated Will Graham's directness. In my mind, I pictured those rainy eyes of his narrowing, and a furrowed brow knitting at his forehead.
"Because," I said. "I haven't had a decent meal in a few days, and I was wondering if you would like to meet me for lunch."
"It's three in the afternoon."
"Okay, linner then. Or dunch. Either or."
"Is there something that you need to talk to me about?"
It was faint, but I could detect a flavor of annoyance in Will Graham's voice.
"Yes," I said. "I mean, I'm the one who called you."
"Can you please tell me over the phone-"
"Look, if you're too busy, that's fine. I'm not a beggar, Mr. Graham. If you don't want to meet, that's okay. Just say so. But the reality is that I need someone, someone like you to talk to right now. I just do, and that's the only explanation that I'm willing to share over the phone. Take it or leave it."
His hesitation following my statement was, for a lack of a better word, painfully awkward and practically palpable through the line. Part of me regretted how familiar I sounded. That and desperate. I mean, it wasn't like I truly knew the man or anything. We weren't friends. Maybe professionalism was always the right way to go for someone like Will Graham, I thought. Not that it mattered anymore.
Despite my words, he didn't hang up on me.
"What place did you have in mind?" he finally said after a moment of silence.
"Nothing fancy," I replied, holding back my exhale. "Just a sports bar. Do you like beer?"
And, about twenty five or so minutes later, I found myself once again waiting on Will Graham. Outside the window, I watched other busy-bodies walk up and down the street, mostly young people out and enjoying the cloudy afternoon. It wasn't as cold as it had been, but still chilly enough to wear warmer clothing, like a light scarf and jeans. I was so focused on watching passerbys that I didn't even notice Will Graham until he slid across from me on the other side of our booth.
"Oh, hey," I said with a weak smile.
"Hi."
My amusement grew at seeing how visibly uncomfortable he was. The sports bar was boisterous and full of costumers enjoying the games being played on the several big screens throughout the building. Loud cheers and curses bellowed all around us, and the smell of people and bar food sizzled in the air with the calamity. It wasn't one of those dimly dark dives. Sunshine shined through thanks to a whole wall made of wide windows. To me, it was an open and calming atmosphere. To Will Graham, it appeared that he felt the opposite.
When a waitress came and asked if he wanted something to drink, Mr. Graham declined.
"Oh, come on," I told him. "Live a little."
"You're not drinking anything," he retorted.
"That's because I can't decide on what to get," I countered.
"Not a beer drinker?"
I shook my head.
"Nah, to me it's just liquid bread," I said.
Turning to the waitress, I handed her my credit card.
"Keep it open, please. I'll have a rum and Coke."
In response to my expectant glance, Mr. Graham frowned and ordered a beer instead.
"Knew you'd come around," I teased.
"You didn't really give me much choice. Why did you choose this place anyway if beer isn't your thing?"
My eyes quickly scoured the room and I shrugged.
"I don't know," I said. "Places like these, I consider them relaxing."
"Well, they're loud and make it difficult to have a decent conversation," he said.
"What?"
The look he shot in my direction made me grin again, but I chose to ease up on the man a little. I mean, he was kind enough to meet up on such a short notice. Can't push him too hard before we really begin a conversation.
"Thanks for coming," I said when our drinks arrived. "I really appreciate it."
He quietly thanked me for the beer and added, "You said on the phone that you needed someone like me to talk to."
"I did."
"What is someone "like me" like?" he asked before taking a long swig off his bottle.
"Well, I'm not going to pretend to know you-"
"Because you don't."
The sudden, sharp seriousness in his tone caused me to hesitate before speaking again. I needed to be empathic, sensitive. I made a point to sound as lighthearted as possible.
"Right," I said. "I don't know the real Will Graham, but, what I do know is that you have experience in the field. That's a fair observation, right?"
His eyes settled somewhere on my face, somewhere between my eyes. He wasn't making direct eye contact, but allotted enough attention to let me know that he was focused on what I was saying.
"Continue," he said. "Please."
"Alright," I began. "I want to know more about the investigation."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you care so much?" he clarified.
"Some of my clients have been asking about Thomas Himes," I said. "It would be nice to have something decently informative to say for once. Also, I'm curious. You're a part of one of the largest manhunts in this nation's history. Can you blame me for wanting to be in on it?"
Mr. Graham granted me a long, hard look before saying, "Most people when they hear about a serial killer, Dr. Ives, especially when one of his victims was someone that the person knew, they don't grow in their curiosity. They flee from it."
"True, but I don't claim to "know" Thomas Himes. Plus, most people don't work with clients who fantasize about lighting their parents' bedroom on fire while they're sleeping. Yet, I'm two for two. I'm not "most people"."
His eyes diverted from me and settled somewhere on the surface of the table.
"What are you thinking?" I asked him when he failed to say anything.
A sheepish smile spread across his lips before he sipped his drink again.
"What am I thinking," he echoed. "I'm thinking that you are more interesting than I initially thought, Dr. Ives."
"How so?"
"For starters, you're awfully young for how successful you've become. Not many people your age have made such a dent in the field as you have. Your clothes don't scream decorated psychologist either."
At that, my eyes narrowed. My attire for the afternoon consisted of black denim jeans, a light washed denim shirt, white Chucks, and a maroon beanie.
"Your point?" I asked.
"I don't have one. Just an observation. You're different."
"Why were you so nervous to meet with me?"
Another smile appeared on his face, this time mixed with a bit of confusion.
"I wasn't nervous," he told me. "I was surprised to hear from you."
"How long have you been married?"
Another confused smile along with that furrowed brow.
"A few years."
"Your run in with Hannibal Lecter, did it happen before or after your wedding?"
His tiny show of joy faded from his eyes, and with a newly birthed grimace he said, "Before. Lecter was assisting the FBI for months before he escaped to Italy."
"That must've been frustrating to lose him like that," I commented.
"Frustrating, Dr. Ives, would be a delicate word to describe how I, we, felt during that time."
"But you're close now. Close to capturing Dr. Lecter."
A chuckle.
"I've always been "close." Proximity is never the problem."
I nodded at that, though I knew that whatever Will Graham was feeling, I couldn't understand. The Hannibal Lecter that I've met only a few times, that was a part of his intricate portrayal of humanity. I had only a shade. Will Graham had the whole damn crayon box.
"Do you know anything about his childhood?" I questioned.
The man openly scoffed at me.
"That's pretty basic psychology," he muttered.
"We begin at basic," I sniped. "Don't knock my approach."
Mr. Graham sighed at that and finished his beer. Our waitress stopped by to ask if we needed anything, and even though I ordered dinner, Will Graham refused to order anything.
"I'm buying," I told him.
"I'm not hungry."
"You've been eyeing those fries at the next booth over. Come on. It's not like we're on a date or anything."
"Considering, Dr. Ives, that I'm married, you're absolutely right. What could you make of his childhood?"
"Be honest and order what you want, then I'll talk."
After a sharp inhale through the nose, Mr. Graham at last relented and ordered the same thing I did along with another beer.
Not gonna lie, I was getting a kick out of messing with the man. There was something cute about him. Married or not.
"It's hard to say anything solid about his childhood since I don't know facts about Hannibal Lecter," I began. "But, for starters, did his parents die when he was young?"
"They did. He didn't have any guardians until he was sixteen, when his uncle and his wife adopted him."
I nodded subtly, not too much, not too disinterested. Pretending to not know something was harder than it looked, especially when one sits across a man labeled with an "empathy" disorder.
"Siblings?" I asked.
"Um, a sister. A younger sister. He told me once that he used to have one. She died somehow."
"You don't know how?" I pressed while our food was set between us.
"No. I don't."
Plucking a sweet potato fry from my plate, I said, "Huh, well, whatever happened to her probably impacted a lot of what he thinks about the world."
"How is that?"
My shoulders rose and fell as I bit into the orange stick.
"I don't know. One, his parents are gone. That sucks. I can relate. Two, a sibling, a person who experienced the loss with him, is gone, too. That wound's fresher. Then again, maybe it doesn't matter that his sister died, but it was how she died that hit him hardest."
"My sister is dead so there is no good in the world," says Graham plainly.
"Or, there is a third option."
"Is there now?"
"Yep," I said casually. "The third is that his childhood doesn't matter, and that who he chose to be today as an adult was by his design and free will. The rest, it pales in comparison to the identity he now proudly owns."
For a moment, Will Graham silently nibbled on his food while he absorbed my words. I watched him closely while he dwelt amongst his thoughts. At last, a new expression warmed his features, a light smile and a brightness that lit his eyes.
"So, what you're saying is that your role in the investigation may not even matter?" he said smugly.
It was my turn to narrow my eyes.
"Or, it could matter a lot," I said.
"Please."
"What if I run into him one day?" I questioned. "Wouldn't it help to know something?"
"The Ripper? You're saying that you could possibly meet him here in Seattle?"
"I dunno. Maybe."
Will Graham's soft mouth hardened into a firm line.
"This conversation is ridiculous," he said.
"No, what is ridiculous is that I'm here offering my free hand to the FBI, and you're turning me down. Think about this: My brother's case, the one that is so interesting to the psychological community, is open to you. If you let me in on this, plus one incentive, then it's all yours."
"I'm not interested in your brother or his mental state."
"I know. But the Behavioral Unit of the FBI is. And as you already stated, you're not in much of a position to be making these sort of important decisions."
"Then why are you asking me, Dr. Ives?" he quipped.
"Because I know that you want to catch the man who's alluded you for nearly three years, Mr. Graham. I can help, and like I already mentioned, I'm not a beggar. I'm a chooser."
While rubbing his tired eyes with his fingers, Will Graham released another sigh, this one sounding more frustrated.
"What's on your mind?" I said politely.
"I'm wondering if you've always been this confidently abrasive towards acquaintances, or if I'm just lucky."
"Sorry. The answer is yes to both."
Those blue eyes opened to half stare, half glare at me. I smiled openly, which only made him shut them again.
"I will ask Jack about it," he told me. "But that's all I'm going to say on the matter."
"That's all I need to hear."
"And I'm going to guess that your "one incentive" is for your brother to be released from Vashon?"
"Yep," I said as I turned to dig in my purse.
"I'm already doubting your ability to be much help-"
Before he could finish his words, I dropped Adrian's envelope on the table. Mr. Graham blinked at it before glancing up at my face.
"You're welcome," I said.
"What's this?"
"What does it look like?"
Mr. Graham slowly grabbed his unused knife by his plate and flipped the envelope over with it. His eyes were intensely focused on the paper, reading the words that were scribbled on the front.
"You and your brother lied to the FBI and withheld evidence," he stated.
"We did, but you can rest easy knowing that Adrian and I are the only ones whose fingerprints are on it, and are the only ones who've read what it says."
"Dr. Ives," he breathed. "How long have you had this?"
"Since you interrogated him, Adrian, I mean."
My hand reached out towards the envelope. I then carefully took out the letter and placed it in front of Will Graham. Though he appeared rather angry, he said not a word and started to read its contents.
"Who is Blaine Darling?" he asked quietly.
"An old client of mine. He's harmless."
"This doesn't guarantee that we can release your brother or that we'll take you up on your offer," he said. "Remember that."
"I know, but it doesn't hurt."
The letter was slid back into the envelope and wrapped gently in napkins. Understandably, Mr. Graham said that he needed to get the letter to Agent Crawford and the lab as soon as possible since I "wasted so much valuable time already." I smiled openly once more, irritating him while we stepped out the front door of the sports bar and on to the sidewalk.
"I'll grow on you," I told him lightly.
A weak, ghost of a smile graced his mouth as Will Graham looked at me, but he said nothing in response. Instead, he offered a small nod before turning and walking down the sidewalk away from me.
It was my turn to sigh, to release the tension that was slowly building throughout the day. My body was tired from driving, from worrying, from lack of sleep. I needed to go home. I needed to be brave and take a long, hot shower in my own bathroom. Bro was waiting for me in the car, and as I turned to start towards where I parked, something caught my eye.
The street was still vibrant with passing cars and pedestrians, but I didn't miss it. It was as if he was magnetic, my attention having no choice but to fall on his face as he stood still on the corner of the street a few yards away.
I wanted to swallow, to breathe, but I couldn't.
Dr. Lecter was staring right at me. His face still wore that mask of indifference, but subtly, so small, I could tell that he was not happy. There was no joy in his eyes, in those dark windows of his. No spark of amusement like he had when we ate breakfast together, making jokes and flirting. There was only distaste.
My legs made no effort to move, to run, to do anything. He was the one who moved first, but instead of approaching me, Dr. Lecter merely turned and walked away. He left. Just like that, he decided not to confront me. He blended quickly into the mass of people around us, the back of his head the last thing I saw before I exhaled.
I'm pretty sure that Bro could sense my anxiety as we drove back home. He kept licking my cheek, even after I swat him away several times. My breathing was calm, but shallow. I couldn't cry if I wanted to.
When we arrived at the house, I let Bro out of the car first. He sniffed around our lawn and padded about the perimeter, giving no indication that we weren't the only people on the property. Didn't expect that. I was convinced that his fur would stand straight up and that he would begin manically barking the second we arrived at the house, but so far his behavior was that of a calm, happy dog. Despite his serenity, the process of resettling took about an hour as I opened each door and let Bro investigate a room first before going on to the next, closets and all.
We were absolutely alone. I had no excuse to think otherwise by that point and had to ignore my paranoia. No one was waiting for us when we got home. Not a soul.
I made sure that everything was secured before going to sleep. Lawn lights, check. Deadbolts, check. Pitbull in the bedroom, check. I even put one of my kitchen knives on the table beside my bed, a laughable gesture but it made me feel safer. I closed my eyes believing that I did everything I could.
And still, I don't know what it was that woke me. Like a sixth sense, or something. I was awake.
My tired eyes opened to the fairly lit bedroom, the moon serving as a silent guide to the place I slept in. I raised my hand to my face, wiping away any remnants of tiredness from it as I grew more awake by the second. My body then slowly sat up, my bed sheets barely covering my bare chest.
That's when I saw him. A dark silhouette. He was sitting in front of my bed, right across from me in a chair that normally rested in the corner of my room. All at once I felt the systems in my body cease their functions. My lungs, my heart, my mind simply stopped as I saw Dr. Lecter for the second time in weeks.
"Are you here to kill me?" I said thickly. I hardly could talk above a whisper. My voice, it sounded like it belonged to someone else. Heavy. On edge.
Dr. Lecter was a devil in the chair. In his palm rested his chin as he looked at me with a sort of observant manner, posture relaxed and expression unreadable. One leg was crossed over the other. His elbow rested on the arm of the chair, holding his chin, the other hand in his lap. I felt so very small sitting up in my bed watching him as he watched me. A moon beam brightened a part of his face, revealing to me one, dark eye.
When he refused to answer, I swallowed and studied him closer. My eyes had better adjusted, and I could see that he was dressed in a dark suit and tie, the clothes much too formal for the hour. But there was something else, too. Something strange covering his clothing, a second layer. It looked like plastic.
"What are you wearing?" I asked, not bothering to hide my confusion.
Again, the man said not a word. My body shuddered involuntarily as my pulse beat quickly in my chest, the fight-or-flight system in my brain having a difficult time discerning what to do.
A new thought crossed my mind: Where the fuck was my dog?
Slowly, I turned to look at the side of my bed. Sure enough, Bro wasn't there. I noticed, too, that the kitchen knife that I so thoughtfully put on the table was also missing. When I heard a crinkling noise from the foot of my bed, my eyes flit to look at Dr. Lecter. This time, I saw that a slight smile was teasing at his lips as he revealed an item in his hand.
My kitchen knife.
I swallowed.
"You're here to kill me because you saw me talking to Will Graham."
The understated smile on his face weakened.
"That's understandable," I continued. "The FBI and you probably don't get along."
Ever so slightly, Dr. Lecter's eyes narrowed. His body then rose from the chair, the plastic of his bizarre suit crinkling again as he walked around to be at the side of my bed.
"If you're going to kill me, please do it soon. I don't like how you're looking at me right now. Rude to stare."
His head tilted at that, like a reptile's would. Inwardly, I was laughing at how crazy I must've appeared. No tears. No begging for my life. I was just sitting in my bedsheets, reprimanding him on the basics social etiquette.
Without warning, the hand that held my kitchen knife rose from his side. I flinched, but instead of feeling the searing pain brought from the sharpened tip of a blade, no harm came my way. Instead, Dr. Lecter merely set the knife on the bed beside me, the weight of it felt through the mattress. The man then waited expectantly, his dark eyes glancing between me and the weapon.
"What are you doing?" I asked, though it was stupid of me to bother.
I felt as if he was waiting on me to do something, to act. His face still wore a look of patient indifference. He didn't seem tense at all. It was as if I was some phenomenon that he was watching, an experiment. But I didn't. I didn't do anything. I just blinked at the man in the plastic suit like a goldfish, my brain still trying to decide on whether or not Dr. Lecter was a true threat. Of course, he was by background alone, yet the actions that I have witnessed first-hand proved to be fruitless. So far, he hadn't touched a single hair on my head. No physical harm was done.
And that's when realization struck me.
But of course.
"I'm not going to kill you either, Dr. Lec-Hannibal," I said to him, a new strength emerging from within.
He frowned.
"I'm not," I added. "I wouldn't do that to someone who has been so polite towards me. You had been so polite and receptive to courtesy, Hannibal. True, I've spoken to the FBI about you, about your past, your sister. But, in the end, you've never dealt me personal harm. Nor do I intend to harm you."
For what I said next, I made sure that he was looking me straight in the eyes. I wanted to hold him prisoner with my gaze alone.
"You're not an animal," I continued. "My question regarding you is not what you are, but who. I think it would be quite something to know you in private life, Hannibal. It'd be fun. Oh well."
God, the way he looked at me. It was a look that I've never seen in a man before. Was it happiness? No, too simple. It was as if I had unlocked some secret door in that mind of his, said something that he never thought I would say, yet longed to hear. A met dream. I don't know. Maybe I'm making something out of nothing, but for a split moment, I swear to God I saw his eyes gleaming in the moonlight. There was heat in them, an emotion so raw that I almost pitied him for feeling it. But like smoke, in a breath it dissipated into nothing.
The silence that followed was tense, yet short-lived.
It was interrupted by a gesture that I will never forget. To this day, it still makes me shiver just thinking about it, as if my skin committed to memory what he did that evening.
He was so close to me. Dr. Lecter had sat down at the edge of my bed, so near that I could feel his body heat and smell the carnal scent of his cologne. I watched as his eyes diverted from my own to stare at my body, his attention lingering on my chest. It was not, I feel, in a lecherous way. I wasn't unnerved by feeling his eyes on me, not one bit. But then, he moved, and I became hyper-aware of a dreadful fact: I was absolutely naked and bare before him. Between my paranoia and his actual presence in my room, I neglected to think about clothing and my current state of dress, or lack thereof. I don't know how I could forget. Fear is an awful blinder to the obvious.
My mortified thoughts ceased as his hand left his lap to slowly creep towards my body. Every muscle of mine stiffened as his hand lowered towards my waist. Though my eyes were fixed on what he was doing, I could feel his own eyes watching me, observing my reaction as he moved closer and closer to one of the most intimate parts of my body. His fingers then curled around the edge of my bedsheets that had pooled there, and in a simple motion, he pulled upward at the sheets until they draped over my whole chest and rested on top of one shoulder.
"Th-Thank you," I mumbled.
I'm pretty sure he ignored me. Though his hand let go of the sheets, it still was raised between us, hovering near my face. I realized that his mind was off somewhere else, his eyes staring dazedly at my mouth while he appeared deep in thought. For a moment, I debated saying something, but I froze as I suddenly felt the pad of the man's thumb run over my bottom lip. Slow. Firm. Dominant. Unconsciously, my lips parted in the slightest, giving him more access to my mouth.
And I heard it. He probably didn't want me to, but I definitely did. It was faint, but I heard Dr. Lecter exhale a shallow breath. I felt the heat dance across my cheek. When his eyes rose to meet mine, his hand immediately withdrew.
In an instant, the mask was set back in place before I caught any signs of emotion. Dr. Lecter, after giving a parting glance, rose from my bed, turned from me, and walked out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Even with him gone, I didn't move an inch. My breathing barely returned to normal, and my pulse was still quick as my eyes stared at my bedroom door.
I waited.
One minute. Nothing.
Five minutes. I didn't move.
Ten minutes. He was gone. He had to be.
I was left in a conglomerate state of emotion of fear and longing. I was drunk on the way his finger felt on my lips and how his knuckles ran up my abdomen as he pulled the sheet over my skin.
I laughed.
What the fuck do I do now?