I had to consult with my dissertation adviser that Monday. Though she was interested in my topic herself, she had qualms about the people I wish to interview.

"Are you still trying to interview Hannibal Lecter?" She asked after assessing the transcription of my interview with Dr. Bloom.

"Yes, Ma'am." I replied. "I've mentioned it to Dr. Bloom after the interview."

"And she said she would allow you?" She asked, lifting a brow as if she was certain I was lying.

I nodded nevertheless. Before we entered my father's room, Dr. Bloom had told me that, as his family, they would not be as strict with my visits as they were with others, and I just needed my father's agreement to conduct an interview with him. I had asked him about it before I left, to which Hannibal Lecter replied "of course, anything to see you again."

My adviser furrowed her brows. "I don't know what you're playing at Mr. Urbonas, but even I was refused by Hannibal Lecter himself when I asked to interrogate him for a study. I think you should find other resources."

"Who would you suggest, Ma'am?" I asked.

"Jack Crawford." She replied. I wish I did not hear her because that familiar chill immediately crept upon me when I heard his name. "Our department has arranged for him to conduct a lecture on Wednesday. He might have valuable input regarding your study."

"But Ma'am," I reasoned. "I also plan on interviewing Will Graham. The information I may get from him may overlap or be redundant with that from Jack Crawford."

"Will Graham!" She explained, aghast. "Your interviewees are getting more impossible, Urbonas. Graham has avoided anything that has to do with criminal profiling for more than a decade. Nobody in the academe has seen or heard from him for a very long time, and now you wish to interview him."

I pursed my lips to suppress my mirth. If I told her my dog was sitting on Will Graham's lap the other day, my thesis adviser would surely have thrown a fit. "Is there anyone else aside from Jack Crawford whom I can interview, Ma'am?"

"You can search for many others, of course, but they will be more difficult to contact. Meanwhile, you can be in the same room as Jack Crawford on Wednesday and you can personally ask to interview him." My expression and body language should have told her that I really was trying to avoid Jack Crawford, because she had also said, "Talking to a retired FBI agent will not kill you, Urbonas."

I inhaled deeply and nodded. I took my chances to see if a man who just might hate my very existence will not kill me indeed. That Wednesday, I found myself sitting in a lecture hall with Jack Crawford leading the discussion.

Morrie was sitting beside me. He was paying Jack Crawford the utmost attention whilst I could only listen for up to three minutes at a time before my mind slips into nervous thoughts. Whenever Jack Crawford looked our way, I was almost certain he was looking at me. I kept telling myself it was not the case and that my anxiety was getting the better of me. Before I knew it, the lecture was finished and I rushed out of the room.

I leaned against the wall by the room's threshold, determined to just wait for Jack Crawford there. The number of students walking out of the lecture hall increased, and Morrie spotted me soon enough.

"Are you just gonna stand there?" Morrie asked me.

"Yes. I'm waiting for Jack Crawford." I replied.

"Oh. Why didn't you approach him inside the room?"

"They're crowding up around him," I said, shifting my weight from one foot to another. "You know I hate crowds."

Morrie shrugged. "Whatever, man," He said, peering into the room. "He seems pretty engaged at the moment."

"I'll just wait for him."

"Okay," Morrie said. "I gotta go to class now, see you later dude." He patted my shoulder and walked away.

A few minutes after Morrie had left, Jack Crawford walked out of the room. A student was walking beside him, chattering incessantly on the topic of the lecture. I inwardly cursed that student and followed them not too close behind.

I was getting annoyed by the time I followed them to the parking lot. If that student did not leave Jack Crawford alone by then, I would have kicked him out of the way. Fortunately for him, the student bade farewell and trotted away. I mustered the will to talk to Jack Crawford before jogging towards him.

"Mr. Crawford, sir, excuse me!" I called.

Jack Crawford stopped and turned to look at me. "Oh it's you. You've been following us, huh?"

"Yes, sir, I wanted to talk to you." I replied.

"What's your name?" He asked, completely turning around to have a better look at me.

I gulped. He was looking at me with severe scrutiny. "Abiel Urbonas, sir." I replied.

"Urbonas?" He asked. "You must be Baltic, Lithuanian to be exact."

At this, chill rapidly crept from my fingertips and unto my arms. I was certain he was close to pinpointing my identity.

Jack Crawford smirked knowingly. "Or should I say part Lithuanian?"

My breath hitched. I wanted to move and step back, but I could not in fear that my knees will betray me.

"Don't play me for a fool, kid," He said, rage spilling from his eyes. "You look just like them."

I knew that this man who shares an unpleasant history with my parents would react this way upon seeing me, and yet I cannot help but feel afraid. I was not afraid of him, though, I was afraid that I would break, lash out, and eventually slaughter him who angrily likened me to the fathers I had so long denied.

"Of course I know what they named you." Jack Crawford continued. "Hannibal Lecter was so entitled that he gave his son a name that literally says 'God is my father', and Will Graham was so smitten that he believed it befits their child." He said the word 'child' in the same spite with which many would say the word 'demon'.

I barely heard him. My ears echoed with the unearthly sound of my own being cracking beneath the wrath Jack Crawford bore upon me. As if it was not enough for me to hate my own existence, this man had to hate it more. With what little composure I can contain, I finally had the nerve to tell him, "I am not here to discuss the nature of my name with you."

He scoffed. "And what could you ever want from me, Urbonas?" He asked mockingly.

"An interview." I replied, "For my dissertation on art as an element of crime."

"You should be interviewing your fathers."

"I mean to," I said, tucking my hands into my pockets in an attempt to ward off the biting cold of my own rage. "But my adviser insists I get your perspective on this."

"Very well," he replied. Jack Crawford reached into his coat pocket, and it would not have surprised me if he pointed a gun at me afterwards—which he did not. "Call me," He said, handing me a business card. "I should be free next Thursday."

I took the card from him. "Thank you." I said, looking him in the eye.

"But don't you ever dare introduce yourself as someone other than Abiel Graham-Lecter." He said. "After all, you are your fathers' son."

I could only follow him with my gaze as he walked towards his car. Twice in our brief conversation, Jack Crawford had almost driven me to breaking point. Though Will Graham had warned me against running away from the fact that I am their son, a childish impudence still made me deny my own parentage.

As Jack Crawford entered his car, I saw a movement behind another parked car not far away. When I went to investigate, nobody was there, but a mist was still fading on the car's window on which somebody must have been breathing. Someone has been audience to our conversation.