Clarice was walking down the hallway of the house she had never been to before. Yet, oddly enough, her feet seemed to instinctively know where to take her. She passed grey walls that, in the shadows where the moonlight couldn't reach, appeared almost black. Each door stood tall and elegant, their intricate designs briefly catching her attention before she continued on her path.
Her feet guided her toward a door at the end of the corridor—the only door from which light spilled out beneath. The only door in the house with a key that glinted invitingly in the lock.
The door seemed to pulse with a life of its own, beckoning her and pulling at her curiosity with an irresistible allure. With a trembling hand, she reached out and brushed her fingers against the golden key, surprised by its warmth—a stark contrast to the chill that surrounded her. But as she looked down at her hand, she realized; the warmth didn't come from the key.
Blood seeped from the lock, each drop landing softly on the pristine carpet, staining it a deep crimson. She felt the warm stickiness clinging to her fingers.
Every instinct screamed at her to turn back, but her feet moved as if under a spell, pulling her closer. She twisted the key in the lock, which yielded easily, as if it craved her entry. With a slow, ominous creak, she pushed the massive door open.
There was no light inside, even though she could see it seeping from underneath the door. It was dark—so dark that she couldn't see anything at first.
She stepped inside, letting the darkness envelop her. Slowly, as her eyes adjusted, she began to discern shapes. Right there, on the opposite wall, something caught her attention.
The soft click of the door closing behind her barely registered; she was transfixed. Step by cautious step, she moved closer, her heartbeat echoing in the silence. Just as her eyes started to identify the shape before her, she reached out in curiosity.
Her palm connected with a rough texture, and as she felt the matted surface, she realized it was hair. She gasped and jerked back in horror.
Her heart raced as the dreadful truth solidified before her eyes: nailed to the wall was a body.
With a firm grip, she seized a handful of hair and pulled it upward, desperate to reveal the face. Her heart sank like a stone in her stomach when her gaze met the lifeless, vacant stare of her own eyes staring back at her—disarmed and utterly still.
She felt it then, a chilling presence as a hand emerged from the shadows, stealthily creeping around her neck. The long, cold fingers wrapped tightly around her throat, constricting with a firm, relentless grip.
"You should not have opened that door," whispered Hannibal Lecter's voice, smooth and insidious, brushing against her ear like a sinister caress.
The hand squeezed tighter.
Clarice jolted awake with a sharp gasp, her fingers instinctively darting to her throat, where she could still feel the tightening grip. In a frantic effort to wipe away the lingering sensation of the invisible touch, she clawed at her skin. Panting and disoriented, her chest heaved as her heart raced violently inside her ribcage. After several agonizing moments, she finally began to steady her breathing. Repeating a calming mantra in her mind, that it was simply a dream—just a dream.
Clarice sat at the edge of her bed, sheets tangled around her feet, beads of sweat clinging to her skin. It took her a moment to grasp what had woken her so suddenly. From what felt like a distance, the ringing of the phone broke through the haze. Was this the sound that summoned Hannibal Lecter to her messed up dream?
She reached out to grab the phone from her nightstand, a wave of relief washing over her when she saw 'Jack Crawford' flashing on the display. Letting out a long sigh, she pressed the answer button, bracing herself.
"Good morning, agent Crawford…"
"Why the hell aren't you picking up? This is the third time I've called!"
His familiar anger was oddly grounding, pulling Clarice back to reality.
"I was asleep…"
"It's 10 am!"
His words caught her off guard; she couldn't recall the last time she'd slept in this late. Granted, she had only drifted off to sleep when it was already getting light outside. "I apologize. I was up late and—"
"Never mind, I don't care," he cut in gruffly. "Have you seen Will today?"
At the mention of his name, a tight knot formed in Clarice's stomach, urging her to sit up straighter. "I... no, sir. Like I said, I just woke up. I haven't seen anyone yet." She could hear him curse under his breath. "Why… why are you asking?"
"He's not picking up his phone. And I really need his statement on what went down yesterday," Crawford snapped.
"I see…"
"Are you sure you don't remember anything else from that conversation?" Crawford pressed, reiterating a question he'd been asking since the day before.
A nervous gulp caught in her throat. "I only remember what I've already disclosed, sir," she replied stiffly. "Lecter called again. We spoke briefly before I handed the phone to Will, and after that... I can't really recall what was said."
"You didn't hear anything at all?"
"Like I said, my focus was elsewhere. I was concentrating on tracking down the signal," she said. She lied.
"That level of distraction doesn't bode well for you, Agent Starling," Crawford chastised, his tone sharper than she would have preferred.
A week ago, his criticism would have cut deep, but now it felt like just a minor sting.
"I apologize, sir. Unusual circumstances make it challenging to balance the role of an agent with that of a potential target," she replied, feeling only a faint twinge of regret at the weary sigh that escaped Crawford's lips.
"Yeah, he has a talent for messing with people's heads," Crawford murmured, almost to himself, and Clarice couldn't tell if the comment was meant for her ears. "We need recording devices on all your electronics in case he calls again. Are Pembry and Tate on it yet?"
"Yes, they set it up yesterday," she confirmed, stifling the urge to add, just after you called and chewed them out for twenty minutes. But she kept that thought to herself.
"Good, good. We don't want a repeat of yesterday."
Clarice felt her stomach twist uneasily.
"No, we certainly don't."
"Get yourself ready and come to my office. I expect a proper written and signed statement from you. And if you see Will before then, tell him to answer his damn phone."
"Of course, sir."
With no further pleasantries exchanged, Crawford hung up, leaving Clarice once again in silence. She listened to the dull disconnect of her phone, her fingers feeling slightly numb.
She was lying to Jack Crawford.
She was lying to her supervisor.
Not too long ago, that would have been unthinkable, but now? Now she found it impossible to act any differently. All because she wasn't sure if Will would want her to tell the entire truth…
But was it really a lie? More of an omission, perhaps. "I was focusing on tracking the number"—that part was true. "I wasn't really paying attention to their conversation," and she had been trying not to. What she had said when Crawford called right after Lecter hung up—"I didn't really understand what was being said between them"—was accurate in its own way; she genuinely didn't.
She really did not understand what the hell was happening between Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter.
A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she stared at the stack of books piled beside her bed. Books—yes, plural. She had scoured her entire apartment for anything written by Bessel van der Kolk on trauma bonding and post-traumatic stress. She had absorbed every word, to the point where she felt she could easily lecture on complex post-traumatic stress disorder. Yet, no matter how many pages she flipped through, she found no section dedicated to the potential effects of prolonged exposure to a cannibalistic serial killer who had developed romantic feelings for his victim.
Taking a deep breath, Clarice allowed herself to sink back into her pillow, the cool fabric soothing against her cheek. She was focusing so much on trying to understand the story of Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter that she had lost sight of the emotional implications a story like that would have on those involved. She knew there would be trauma; she knew Will must've been scarred by everything that happened—both physically and emotionally—but she had never considered that it could run that deep.
'You left me.'
Was it possible that Will was trauma bonded to Hannibal Lecter? Their conversation yesterday suggested as much. But Will was so fiercely angry and combative, a stark contrast to the passive victim profile typically described in psychological literature...
Clarice rubbed her eyes in frustration. There was little point in speculating; she doubted this unusual dynamic had ever been thoroughly examined by any psychologist or psychiatrist. There was only one place she could get answers.
With a heavy sigh, she reluctantly dragged herself out of bed. A couple of meager hours of sleep had hardly touched her exhaustion. She made her way to the bathroom and immediately cringed at her reflection in the mirror. God, she was a mess. Her brown hair stuck out in all directions, bags hung under her eyes, her skin pale. Grabbing the brush, she winced as it snagged on her hair, sharp pain tugging at her scalp. She grimaced again; at this rate, she was going to go bald because of this job.
As she glanced down at the hairbrush, she paused for a second look. It was surprisingly clean, with only a couple of loose strands caught in the bristles. A frown creased her brow; hadn't she noticed more hair yesterday? She didn't remember cleaning it...
She shook her head, there were more important things to focus on. With some effort, she wrestled her hair into something resembling order and did her best to turn herself into a presentable, functioning human being.
Entering the kitchen, she found Pembry and Tate slumped at the table, their expressions mirroring her own exhaustion. Apparently, Crawford's lecture yesterday had kept them up all night.
As soon as they registered her presence, they both looked up, their faces lacking any enthusiasm.
"If I make you guys coffee, can we stop by somewhere before work?" she offered, taking the hopeful spark in their eyes as a resounding 'yes.'
As they pulled up in front of the familiar house in Wolf's Trap, a wave of relief washed over her at the sight of movement through the window—Will was home. Just as she was about to step out of the vehicle, something caught her eye and made her hesitate. There was a car parked in front of the house that wasn't Will's, and she didn't recognize the license plates… Did Will have company?
Pembry and Tate got out of the car, eager to follow, but she raised a hand to stop them.
"Hey, guys, can you give me some privacy here?" she asked, catching the cautious looks they exchanged. She nearly rolled her eyes in exasperation. "It's Agent Graham's house. I'll be fine. Just stay by the car, okay?"
They exchanged glances, weighing their options, before finally nodding in reluctant agreement.
"Just don't do anything stupid. We don't want Crawford after our asses again," Pembry grumbled, casting a wary eye toward the house.
Clarice offered them one last tight smile before walking purposefully toward the front steps. She was nearly at the porch when the door swung open. Clarice expected to see Will, but instead, a woman stepped out. She was tall and poised, with deep red curls cascading around her face like flames. The moment their eyes met, a spark of interest flickered in the woman's gaze—a spark that sent an uneasy chill up Clarice's spine as she felt herself being assessed from head to toe.
"I didn't realize Will was expecting more guests today," the woman said, stepping off the porch and pulling the door shut behind her.
Clarice replied warily, "I could say the same. Are you a friend of Will's?"
A smile broke out on the woman's face, but there was something about it that instantly put Clarice on edge.
"A very dear friend. Will and I share a special bond." She replied, and somehow Clarice doubted that very much. "May I ask who you are? Will didn't mention making any new friends, and he tells me everything, so I must admit I'm a bit surprised."
Clarice regarded her coolly. Just who was this woman?
"I'm Agent Clarice Starling," she introduced herself.
The woman's eyes lit up. "An agent? Oh my, do you work with the FBI… with Jack Crawford?"
Clarice felt her guard go up, her suspicion deepening. "Why do you ask?"
The woman placed her hand on her chest, feigning innocence in a way that felt overly rehearsed. "Oh, I'm not prying at all! I'm just concerned… Will's been through so much; he's fragile. I want to help him however I can. I hope he's not in any trouble?" Her sickly sweet tone grated on Clarice's nerves.
"It's not a professional visit. I'm here as a friend."
"Oh, that's wonderful. He really needs those—poor boy. May I ask how you two got acquainted?"
With sharpened resolve, Clarice asked, "Could you tell me who you are first?"
The woman seemed unfazed, her saccharine smile unwavering. "Of course! My name is Freddie Lounds. It's a pleasure to meet you," she said, extending her hand.
"Don't touch that, Clarice," Will's voice interjected with warning as he appeared in the doorway, casually dressed, his dogs peeking curiously between his legs. He fixed Freddie with a flat stare. "She'll have a listening device on you before you can say 'nice to meet you too'."
"Will," the woman called out, her enthusiasm clearly put on. "I was just getting acquainted with your lovely friend here…"
"I know damn well what you were doing Freddie." Will sighed, moving closer with an exasperated shake of his head. "You just can't resist an opportunity, can you?"
Freddie maintained her smile, but it was laced with mock innocence as she fixed her eyes on Will in a way that made Clarice uneasy. "We do share that little flaw, don't we?"
"I'm sorry, but who exactly is she?" Clarice asked, turning her attention to Will and ignoring Freddie's probing stare.
"Her profession is… not something typically discussed in polite company."
"She's a prostitute?" Clarice blurted, making Will snort in amusement.
Freddie's smile faltered for a beat before she quickly replied, "A journalist, actually."
"So, that's a yes," Will clarified, looking at Clarice. "Just a heads-up: everything this woman says and does is a trap."
Freddie's eyes widened dramatically, her hand pressed to her heart as if genuinely wounded. "That's quite hurtful, Will, especially after I made the effort to come all this way at the crack of dawn. How very rude! … What would your significant other say?" She batted her lashes innocently.
"Don't you have an article to write? Get on with it." Will shot back.
Freddie cast a sidelong glance at Clarice, then shifted her gaze to Pembry and Tate, who were surely watching them like hawks from a distance.
"Maybe I'll have two articles to write," she declared, her sweet tone sharpening into a challenge.
"Let's stick to one for now," Will replied, his patience clearly wearing thin as his brow twitched.
"Is the second one a promise, or should we brace ourselves for a lengthy discussion?" She leaned closer, mischief glinting in her eyes.
Will shot her an exasperated look. "Remember when you were dead? I miss that."
"Those are some of my fondest memories," Freddie quipped without missing a beat. "Now, about that second article?"
Will exhaled a long, weary sigh. "It's a consideration," he muttered begrudgingly.
"Excellent," Freddie beamed at him. She turned to Clarice. "It was lovely to meet you, Agent Starling. Will, I'll be seeing you very soon."
"No need to rush," Will replied dryly.
Clarice watched, somewhat dumbfounded, as the woman walked away with effortless grace. Instead of heading to her car, Freddie headed straight for Pembry and Tate; with no sign of hesitation. In no time at all, Pembry leaned in, intrigued, while Tate's face flushed a deep shade of red.
Clarice turned back to Will, who was observing the scene with an expression of someone utterly done. One of her eyebrows raised in silent question.
"Don't worry. She'll spit them out after she's finished chewing them out," Will shrugged casually.
"Is she… the same Freddie Lounds from ?"
"The one and only…Thankfully," he replied flatly.
"What was she doing at your house?"
"She's doing me a little favour. But while we're on that topic of people being here, what are you doing here?" Will's gaze shifted to Clarice, his expression unreadable.
"Oh, right… um, Agent Crawford called me," she stammered, glancing away.
"Yeah, he called me too. About fifty times. Still doesn't answer my question."
Clarice straightened her posture, trying to gather her thoughts. "I… I wanted to check on you."
Will regarded her with mild curiosity. "Why?"
Clarice opened her mouth, only to close it again.
"Why?" she echoed incredulously. "Are you really surprised that I'd want to check on you after what happened yesterday?" Her voice wavered slightly, and she noticed his calm demeanour falter for just a moment.
He let out a weary sigh. "Right. Let's go inside…"
"Let's talk right here," she interrupted, crossing her arms defensively. That gesture finally broke through Will's laid-back façade.
His eyes sharpened, now alert and assessing. She could tell he noticed her flinching and the anxious way she bit her lip; she was sure he saw it all.
"It's just… Agent Crawford really tore into Pembry and Tate for abandoning their posts yesterday. Apparently, he doesn't think you're a suitable substitute for bodyguard duty, which means… I need to stay within their line of sight," she explained awkwardly, avoiding his gaze as she focused on the ground.
Silence stretched between them, and she could almost feel him dissecting her every fidget and twitch.
"Right. You just don't want to risk Jack's wrath," he said, though his tone made it clear he wasn't convinced.
Clarice swallowed hard, feeling both uncomfortable and frustrated with herself for feeling this way. She didn't want to feel uneasy around Will. She really didn't… But no amount of reasoning could ease the prickling sensation beneath her skin.
"Will, that phone call…" she began, but he quickly interrupted.
"Hold on a second. Let's wait for the weasel infestation to clear out," he said, his gaze locked on something beyond her.
Clarice followed his gaze and saw Freddie turning back from Pembry and Tate, two business cards clutched tightly in her hands like trophies. She instinctively looked away as Freddie's eyes swept in their direction; Will did not have the same reservations. His flat expression didn't budge as he watched until she climbed into her car and drove off.
"You didn't tell Jack about my conversation with Hannibal," Will said, breaking the silence.
"How do you know that?" she asked, furrowing her brow.
"Because he hasn't stormed into my house yet."
"You said he called you fifty times," she countered.
"That's just a mild two on Jack's maniac scale."
Clarice tugged at her jacket, wrapping it more snugly around herself as a chill crept in.
"No, I didn't tell Agent Crawford about what you talked about with Lecter. At least not in detail," she admitted, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"Why not?"
Why? That was a question worth pondering, wasn't it? Clarice bit her lip, the taste of hesitation leaving a bitter flavour on her tongue.
"I… I'm not quite sure. I've replayed it in my head, convincing myself it didn't impact the investigation, that it lacked evidentiary value, but… that's not really true, is it? I just didn't want you to get into trouble. I knew Agent Crawford would start to question things…"
"And were you motivated by loyalty to me or just insubordination towards Jack?" he asked, his tone surprisingly direct.
Clarice swallowed hard, her heartbeat quickening. "It felt personal for you. I didn't want to put you in that position."
"What position is that?"
"Having to share parts of yourself that you're not comfortable revealing to others."
Her eyes focused on the ground, unable to meet his gaze. Will remained quiet for what felt like an eternity. She could feel his eyes on her, weighing her every word.
"I'm sorry," he said abruptly, catching her off guard. She snapped her head up to look at him.
"W-what?" she stammered.
"I'm sorry about yesterday. That phone call… I lost my cool."
Clarice stared at him, incredulous. 'You think so?!' was on the tip of her tongue, but she held back.
"I shouldn't have left you alone in that room," Will continued, his voice low and sincere. "Not that you were entirely alone with all those agents around, but just being alone with Hannibal's voice can be dangerous. So, I truly am sorry." The simplicity of his apology hit her harder than she had expected.
She cleared her throat.
"Will, that's not… that's not the point. I wasn't worried about my safety. Lecter hung up as soon as you left. What concerns me is you." The surprise on his face—was it confusion?—made her even more worried. She pushed on, trying to clarify, "I thought the personal connection you have with Lecter was one-sided. I never imagined it could be mutual."
Will studied her closely, evaluating, analyzing, and Clarice suddenly felt like a specimen under his eyes.
"Do you think I'm on Hannibal's side in all this?"
Her eyes widened in shock.
"No! Absolutely not!" she exclaimed, urgency creeping into her voice. "I know you would never—I'm just worried that, after everything you've gone through with him, you might have developed some unhealthy attachments. It's not uncommon." She paused, searching for the right words. "Have you talked to anyone about this? A professional—anyone besides Hannibal Lecter's ex-wife, that is?"
As she shifted uneasily, a short laugh escaped Will—unexpected and genuine.
"You think Hannibal is influencing me?" he asked, a teasing glint in his eyes.
"I—well…" She faltered, suddenly feeling wrong-footed. "I don't know. I didn't think so, but after yesterday…"
"Clarice, you really don't need to worry about that." His tone was too casual—almost dismissive—and her frown deepened.
"I'm way past worried. I'm genuinely concerned." She insisted.
Will studied her again, and in his gaze, she found no discomfort, no stress. A wave of frustration washed over her. Hadn't he been angry just yesterday? Hadn't he said all those strange things before storming out? This felt like a complete shift, as if all the negative emotions had been wiped clean, as if yesterday had never happened.
Clarice couldn't shake the feeling that she was losing her grip on reality.
"I think it's entirely plausible that someone with your experience might have internalized the abuser's view of them…"
"Because victims in trauma bonds often struggle with agency and a clear sense of self," Will interjected, a teasing smile crossing his face. "Have you been reading up on toxic relationships lately, Clarice?"
Her cheeks flushed, but she pressed on. "I have good reason to be concerned here. You know that."
His expression softened, just a fraction.
"And I appreciate your concern, but honestly, it's a bit late for that. There was a time when Hannibal had an unhealthy influence over me, I'll admit that. But things have changed."
"So you think you're free from his influence?" Clarice asked uncertainly.
"Do you think otherwise?" Will replied, slipping back into that familiar academic tone—the teacher's voice she had heard him adopt before, one that made her feel more like a student than an equal. It was a prompt to analyze, to dissect. It was far too easy to slip into that mindset.
"Being free means being aware of what we can do, considering all the possibilities and consequences of our choices. How many genuine choices did Hannibal Lecter really leave you with?"
Will's mouth twitched in amusement, "Are we really going to debate free will versus determinism?"
"I just think that—"
"You think I'm trapped in a deterministic cycle. And that's charming. But it doesn't really apply here."
"What does apply, then?"
"The understanding that true freedom is internal. It's all about self-awareness."
"And are you truly self-aware of your connection to Hannibal Lecter?" Clarice pressed.
This time, Will's smile was more genuine, deeper—calmer.
"I've let go of all the external pressures related to that."
Fragments of his conversation with Lecter flickered in her mind, and she bit her lip.
"It sounded like Lecter's expectations were still really getting to you."
Will sighed deeply, his gaze momentarily drifting to his dogs playing nearby, as if he needed a moment to gather his thoughts.
"I won't deny that; Hannibal knows how to get under my skin. He'll do it again, I have no doubt. But trust me, it won't throw me off track in my pursuit of him."
"It already has," Clarice shot back. "Didn't you hear what I said? He ended the call the moment you walked out—no chance for us to trace it…"
"We wouldn't have traced it anyway," Will countered, not a hint of doubt in his voice. "He knows how to block it. He's picked up all the tricks; Beverly taught him."
Clarice fought the impulse to ask who Beverly was, aware that Will's cryptic nature would just lead to more questions. Instead, she turned her focus to her real concern. "If you knew tracing the call was a lost cause, why even engage with him? I thought you were trying to keep him on the line…"
"For more information," Will interjected quickly. "I was hoping to get something that would help us track him down."
His reasoning sounded reasonable, even convincing, but an unsettling feeling lingered in Clarice's chest. There was something else behind Will's motivations that she couldn't quite grasp. "And did we get anything useful?" she asked.
"Partially. He mentioned something that could help us lure him out of hiding."
"And what would that be?"
"Let's just say I know how to get under his skin too." Will smirked, "It's already in motion; I've got it covered." His gaze drifted back toward his dogs, as if they were more interesting than their conversation.
Clarice bit her lip. "Does Agent Crawford know about this? This… plan of yours?"
"Not yet, but he'll be in the loop by the end of the day."
Clarice took a deep breath and crossed her arms once again.
"Listen, Will," she began cautiously, "I really don't think it's wise for you to take matters into your own hands, especially when it comes to Hannibal Lecter..."
"Feel free to tell Jack everything, if you want," Will replied immediately, catching her off guard.
"About my plan. About the call. About your concerns." He continued. "Repeat every word you heard. I don't want you feeling like you need to shield me from him. I definitely don't want to come between you and Jack. You shouldn't feel obligated to cover for me."
Clarice watched him closely, her brow furrowing in thought. His voice was calm and gentle now, and just listening to that soothing tone began to ease some of her tension. He seemed unexpectedly open, almost vulnerable, as if he were laying everything bare for her evaluation.
"You really don't feel like you have anything to hide?" she asked tentatively.
Will smiled down at one of his dogs, gently stroking its fur as it wagged its tail happily. "Lately, I've been working on being more honest with myself. I suppose authenticity demands openness—both in how I see myself and how others see me," he said while petting the dog; the other two rushed over, eager for a bit of attention.
"And you're not worried about how Crawford sees you?"
"Jack's already made his judgments," Will shrugged, a hint of indifference in his tone.
She watched him for a moment as he doted on his pets, scratching behind their ears and eliciting joyful yaps. A corner of her lips twitched, maybe she really was getting too worked up? Maybe she was overthinking this—reading into things that held no hidden meanings after all. Maybe there wasn't anything hidden beneath the surface.
"Alright, then. I suppose I can be more open with Agent Crawford from now on, if you really don't mind me sharing personal details about you," she murmured, the words bittersweet on her tongue.
Will met her gaze with a warm smile. "Don't mind me at all. Share whatever you want."
"You know, you should really do the same," she suggested. "Crawford's going to want your statement about yesterday's phone call, so you might as well come with us now and get it over with."
But Will shook his head, a flicker of unease crossing his face. "I won't be going in until the afternoon. There's someone there I'd rather avoid."
Clarice tilted her head. "Who?"
"Molly Campbell," he replied quietly.
Clarice blinked in surprise. "Your ex-wife? What is she doing there?"
"She took Jack up on the offer to relocate outside the U.S. for a while," he replied, shrugging as if it didn't matter. Yet, the tension in his shoulders told a different story.
"I thought you said that's pointless?" Clarice wondered, "You said Hannibal Lecter would be able to reach her no matter where she was."
Will sighed, a hint of frustration in his voice. "It's her decision."
Unable to help herself, Clarice asked, "I thought authenticity was about being open? So why are you avoiding your ex-wife?"
He offered a bittersweet smile, gently stroking his dog's fur. "I don't want to cause her any more pain than I already have," he admitted softly. "I can't imagine she'd feel anything good if she saw me. Not after what I did."
And Clarice finally understood the root of their divorce.
It was Will who had that someone else.
Molly Campbell was nothing like the woman Clarice had envisioned. In Clarice's mind, she expected someone sharp-edged—an elegant perfectionist who could stand strong against Will Graham's quirks, someone capable of matching wits with his eccentricities.
But Molly was far gentler. Soft-spoken and warm, her kind eyes brought a soothing presence to the room. Even Crawford seemed different in her company; more relaxed and grounded.
"Don't take this the wrong way," Molly said, a teasing smile lighting up her face as they stepped out of Crawford's office, where Clarice waited just outside the door. "But I sincerely hope I won't have to see you again after this."
"No offense taken. I wish for myself and the entire FBI to stay far away from you," Crawford replied, then turned to Clarice. "Agent Starling, why don't you keep Miss Campbell company for a moment? I'll check on the transport."
"Of course, Agent Crawford."
"I'll be right back, Miss Campbell," Crawford said before leaving them alone. Clarice turned her attention back to the woman beside her.
"How are you holding up, ma'am?" she asked.
Molly chuckled softly. "Oh, you know, as well as anyone can when there's a serial killer after them. At least it's a fully-paid vacation courtesy of the FBI. If we come through this unscathed, it might even turn into a nice experience."
Clarice managed a hesitant smile in return.
"I'm really sorry this is happening to you. It must be incredibly tough for you and your family."
Molly shrugged in a gesture filled with resigned acceptance. "Well, this is actually the second time we've had a serial killer targeting us. It's strangely easier this time around. Definitely less stressful for Walter; he's older now."
"He seems like a brave kid," she mused, glancing at Walter, who sat calmly on a bench in the hallway, talking with the FBI psychologist, who spoke to him in soothing tones.
"He is," Molly affirmed, pride evident in her voice. "He knows how to keep his cool in a crisis. He takes after his father—both of his fathers, actually."
Clarice's eyes widened at Molly's words, a question forming on the tip of her tongue, but she caught herself and refrained from prying.
"I'm sure he takes after you too. You're handling all of this remarkably well."
"Oh, don't let this face fool you. I'm scared shitless," Molly confessed with a laugh that made Clarice's heart lift.
In that moment, she could see why Will would fall for this woman. There was something soothing about her, like a gentle breeze on a warm day.
They settled into a comfortable silence until Molly asked, "Hey, if you don't mind me asking… do you happen to know Will Graham?"
Clarice shifted uncomfortably, a subtle movement that Molly's keen eye caught immediately.
"Oh, I can tell you do," Molly teased, a playful smile dancing on her lips. "How is he doing? I asked Agent Crawford, but honestly, I can't tell if he's just trying to sugarcoat things for me." The concern in her voice tugged at Clarice's heart.
She paused, searching for the right words. "He's… doing well, all things considered. Um, he fishes and has his dogs. I think he's managing alright."
Relief washed over Molly's face, her smile breaking free as she exhaled, "Oh good, that's a relief. I'm really glad to hear that."
"You are?" Clarice couldn't help but ask, surprise creeping into her tone. The confusion on Molly's face made a flush rise in Clarice's cheeks.
"I'm sorry, it's just… Will thought you wouldn't be too happy to see him," Clarice admitted, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.
But Molly just burst into laughter, a bright, infectious sound that echoed in the hallway.
"Yeah, well, for a smart guy he can be really dumb." she said casually.
Clarice snorted. "This is the first time I've ever heard anyone describe Will Graham as dumb."
"That's because he's got everyone fooled with his fancy talk. Don't get me wrong; he's brilliant—absolutely the smartest guy I know. But when it comes to emotional stuff? He's a walking disaster."
There was a fondness in the way she spoke—genuine and heartfelt. Clarice had expected to see hints of resentment or bitterness in this woman, but instead, she found none at all.
She watched Molly with a hint of fascination. "You really have no hate for him at all, do you?"
Molly's expression softened. "There's anger, sure. But no hate. In the end, he was honest—with me and with himself. And while that hurt like hell, I can respect that."
Clarice couldn't help but smile. This might be the best character reference she could have about Will Graham's true nature. Because didn't that say a lot about him, that even a woman, who he apparently cheated on in some way or another, held no hatred towards him at all?
Just then, Agent Crawford's voice broke the moment. "Miss Campbell," he called from down the hallway, prompting Clarice to turn toward him. "Everything is ready for you."
"Thank you, Agent Crawford." Molly responded, then turned to her son, her demeanour shifting seamlessly to that of a caring mother. "Come on, Wally, it's time to go."
The boy joined her, his small hand slipping into hers. As they prepared to leave, Molly shot Clarice one last warm smile.
"Please send Will my best," she said.
"I will," Clarice assured her, watching as they rounded the corner and vanished from view. Just as silence enveloped the corridor, Crawford stepped closer, his keen eyes locking onto her face.
"What did you two talk about?" he demanded, his tone sharp and insistent.
"Nothing of significance."
"Did it have anything to do with Will?"
Her head snapped to him, surprise and indignation flashing across her face. "Is that why you left me here with her?" She paused, her brow knitting together. "Is that why you asked me to wait here in the first place?"
Crawford merely stared at her, his expression revealing nothing. Clarice clenched her jaw, feeling heat rush to her cheeks.
"If you wanted me to gather some information, you could've just asked." She said, her words sharp and clipped as they escaped from behind clenched teeth.
"I'm asking now."
Clarice took a quick breath to compose herself.
"We just talked about how she's feeling about all this. I told her I'm sorry it's happening to her," she responded, her tone sharp and to the point.
Crawford shot her a piercing look, frustration creeping into his expression.
"That's all you said?"
"In essence, yes"
His eyebrow twitched in irritation. "What about what she said?"
"About Will? She just wished him well. Apparently even his ex-wife doesn't resent him as much as you do," Clarice retorted.
Crawford clenched his jaw, anger flaring in his eyes. "I'm not too keen on your tone, Agent Starling," he said sharply. When she remained silent, he sighed in exasperation and added, "You still think my concerns about Will Graham are unfounded, don't you?"
Clarice sighed. "I think whatever happened between you two is clouding your judgment."
He huffed, clearly annoyed. "You've known him for days; I've known him for years. You should be careful, Starling. What he's showing you isn't the whole picture."
She held back the urge to roll her eyes. "You really think I don't get that? I may not know him for long, but I've already seen how frustratingly secretive Will can be. It's pretty typical, really. A lot of people in the FBI are like that. Just because he keeps certain personal things to himself doesn't mean he's the terrible person you seem to think he is," she retorted, her tone growing firmer.
"Will Graham can be any damn person he chooses to be." Crawford snapped, "That's what makes him dangerous. It's also why you need to tread carefully."
Clarice looked over the man before her, taking in his clenched fists, his rigid posture, and the way his eyes narrowed with disdain. Was it really possible for someone she admired so deeply to twist into such a distorted version of himself due to personal grudges? Resentment, it seemed, had a way of unearthing the ugliest facets of a person's character.
Clarice exhaled sharply. "You know, while you're trying to turn me against him, he's doing the exact opposite. He's actually speaking quite well of you. He still sees you as a friend. In fact, he's the one who insisted I tell you the truth—everything I see or hear. He doesn't mind you knowing anything that happens."
Crawford shifted his stance, suspicion glimmering in his eyes. "Are you saying you've been withholding information from me, Starling?"
Clarice just looked at him, an unexpected sense of detachment washing over her. There was Jack Crawford, eagerly digging for answers, desperate for the insights she possessed. She had his attention at last; he'd be hanging on her every word as soon as she mentioned Hannibal Lecter...
Yet, she didn't feel that familiar urge to please him or the compulsion to seek his validation. She no longer felt that obsessive need to offer him answers.
The thought echoed until she finally responded with calm resolve. "No, I've already shared everything I know. I have nothing new to add."
When had her desire for Jack's approval shifted to a longing for Will's understanding?
Crawford studied her, suspicion fading into weary resignation as he let out a heavy sigh. "You haven't even noticed it, have you?"
Clarice frowned, "Noticed what?"
"Starling," he said, a brief look of vulnerability flickering across his face, "This is the first conversation we've ever had where you didn't call me 'sir'. Not once."
Caught off guard, she blinked. "Oh."
She truly hadn't realized it.
"I guess we're all evolving, Agent Crawford," she replied, her lips tightening into a thin line.
For a brief moment, a hint of sadness crossed his expression—a fleeting glimpse, gone as quickly as it came.
"Go write your statement, agent Starling." He said, slipping back into the mask of professionalism, "We'll talk later. I'll reach out to Will again. Maybe he'll finally answer, and I can let him know he can stop hiding from his ex-wife."
Clarice simply nodded, unsure of what more to say.
"I'm just saying it's common fucking courtesy to bring one for me too!"
"I only have two hands! What do you want me to do, grow another one?"
"So you're telling me you can't handle carrying three cups at once? It's not rocket science."
"Why are you so worked up?! I said you can take mine!"
"I don't want your cup! You don't even put marshmallows in yours, you lunatic!"
"Just because I care about my teeth makes me a lunatic?!"
With an exasperated sigh, Clarice rubbed her brow, cradling her steaming cup of hot chocolate—the central point of this ridiculous argument.
"Zeller, go ahead and take mine if you want. I really don't care," she interjected, hoping to put a stop to it.
Zeller glanced at her dismissively, waving her off. "You've got Hannibal Lecter stalking you; you deserve the marshmallows. But you," he snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at Price, "are a different story."
Clarice let out another frustrated sigh.
"Is this the infamous Lecter effect in full swing?" she mused, prompting both men to turn toward her, a hint of sheepishness creeping onto their faces as they sighed in unison.
"More like the sleep deprivation effect," Zeller muttered, fatigue weighing heavily on him as the hot chocolate debate momentarily faded.
"Yeah, I'm feeling that one too," Clarice replied quietly.
They exchanged worried glances, and Price's voice took on a gentle tone. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Firmly, Clarice shook her head. "Definitely not."
"Alright then," Price conceded, keeping his tone soothing. "Just drink your chocolate; it'll help."
"Yeah, it would've helped me too if I had one," Zeller grumbled under his breath.
Price shot him an exasperated glare. "Oh dear lord, can you please just drop it?"
"Drop what?" a new voice interrupted. Clarice looked up to see Will strolling casually into the lab.
Clarice frowned. Something was different about Will since the last time she had seen him. He was still wearing the same plaid shirt and pants, which were now almost completely covered in dog hair that stubbornly clung to the fabric. His tousled hair remained the same, casually dishevelled as always.
Yet, something felt different. As he moved, a distinct spring had entered his step, radiating a lively energy that caught her attention.
It was clear that something had put him in a particularly good mood.
Price perked up at the sight of him. "Hey, Will! Marshmallows in hot chocolate—yay or nay?"
Will regarded him with a look of mild indifference and shrugged. "They're alright."
Zeller quickly joined Price's side. "And don't you think it's just common courtesy that when you make hot chocolate with marshmallows, you should bring one for everyone in the room?"
"Of course," Will responded without missing a beat.
Zeller's eyes sparkled with triumph as he turned to Price. "Ha!"
Will sauntered over to Clarice, his eyebrow raising in curiosity. "Do I even want to know?"
"Nope," she replied, lifting the steaming cup to her lips and savouring the rich, velvety taste of her hot chocolate. Jimmy had been right; it really was helping.
Out of the corner of her eye, Clarice noticed Will leaning against the counter next to her, his expression thoughtful.
"How's the statement coming along?" he asked, briefly glancing at the neatly written notes in front of her.
"Almost done." Clarice replied.
Will raised an eyebrow. "Looks a bit short," he commented, his gaze sharp, as though he were assessing not just the paper but her too, clearly appraising her reaction.
A lump formed in Clarice's throat.
"It contains all the necessary information pertaining to the case," she insisted, hoping the steadiness in her voice could cover for the way her eyes were definitely giving her away.
Will's eyebrow arched higher. "I really wouldn't hold it against you if the statement turned out longer."
Clarice couldn't quite decipher the expression on Will's face now. So casual, so unbothered. Why did it feel like she was more concerned about protecting his privacy and personal feelings than he was?
"I know, but this is my choice." Clarice said firmly.
"An unusual choice."
"Given the unusual situation," she countered.
"True. Only makes sense to craft a story that hinges on the narrative unity you bring to it."
Clarice's frown deepened as she glanced cautiously at Price and Zeller, thankfully lost in their own conversation. Lowering her voice to a near whisper, she said, "It's not a story; it's the truth—only... not the whole truth."
Will's lips curved into a slight smirk. "Naturally, there's often a dash of reality behind appearances..."
"WILL!" A booming voice echoed through the hallway, causing Clarice to jump in her seat.
Will closed his eyes and let out a sigh. "And now for my narrative unity," he muttered under his breath, delivering the line with almost theatrical flair.
"What's going on?" Clarice asked, but the answer rolled in without words.
A furious-looking Jack Crawford stormed into the lab, his steps heavy and purposeful, nostrils flaring as if he were ready to confront all the world's injustices at once.
A chill crept down Clarice's spine; she remembered the last time she'd witnessed him this angry—back at that first Lecter crime scene...
This time, however, all his fury was aimed squarely at Will, like an arrow shot with deadly precision.
"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!" Crawford bellowed, thrusting a tablet in Will's face as if it were a ticking time bomb.
Clarice, along with Zeller and Price, instinctively leaned in closer, their curiosity piqued as they tried to catch a glimpse of the screen over Will's shoulder. Her brow furrowed; it was an article, but what could it possibly contain that had set Crawford off?
Will leaned in, pretending to ponder as he squinted at the screen. "Oh, that? It's just the TattleCrime article Freddie and I put together. She got it online quick," he replied with a nonchalant attitude.
Clarice's eyes widened in recognition, remembering the red-haired journalist. Was that what this was all about? Was this Will's…plan?
"You had one little chat with Hannibal, and now you couldn't care less about the people you've put in danger? Do you even understand what kind of fallout this could create?! What the hell were you thinking?!" Crawford shouted.
"I was thinking that Bedelia didn't offer any useful insights, so we needed to lure Hannibal out another way. In the long run, this will save more lives than it endangers," Will shrugged.
"And the only way to lure him out was to poke the bear?!" Crawford retorted incredulously.
"It's not poking the bear; it's more of a… gentle nudge," Will suggested casually.
Crawford stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief.
"A fucking nudge?" he snapped, yanking the tablet back with such force that Clarice feared it might shatter. His eyes scanned the screen, flaring with indignation as he read aloud, "The infamous Will Graham returns from retirement to catch a killer—yet, not the one we all thought he would pursue. While everyone's focused on Hannibal Lecter's dramatic comeback, Will Graham's attention shifts elsewhere, toward what he deems a worthy threat—the Phantom Killer."
Crawford shot Will a piercing glare, who absorbed the lecture with calm, almost bemused demeanour, nodding along.
"I haven't read the whole thing yet. Gotta hand it to Freddie; she's quite the writer," Will remarked, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
Crawford huffed in anger before jabbing at the screen again, his voice seething as he continued to read, "Graham claims that Hannibal Lecter is nothing more than ancient history, undeserving of the spotlight he's stealing. He concludes, based on his considerable research and personal insight, that Hannibal Lecter is…" Crawford's voice tightened, vein pulsing violently at his temple, "… a glorified narcissist with a penchant for theatrics!"
Will continued to regard him with mild interest.
"To be fair, she did paraphrase a bit," he said with a light shrug.
Crawford peered at the screen once more, his voice rising, "Graham says, quote, 'Hannibal Lecter is the most overdone, but he is not the most dangerous. We must be cautious about mythologizing murderers as pure evil, as it grants them more power than they've earned. Personally, I think Hannibal is somewhat overrated.'"
Will shrugged again, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. "I don't see why you're so upset, Jack. This isn't new. We had similar discussions when we first met. Remember your little 'Evil Minds Museum'?" He pronounced the name with a hint of derision.
Crawford slammed the tablet down on the table, and Clarice winced at the noise, certain it would leave a mark.
"Do you think this is a joke?" Crawford growled.
"Actually, quite the opposite."
"Then what the hell is this article, Will?!" Crawford pressed, stepping closer.
"It's clear-eyed awareness and acceptance of the instability and ambiguity of the human condition."
It all happened in an instant. The moment the words left Will's mouth, Crawford sprang into action. In two quick strides, he closed the distance, looming threateningly in front of Will, gripping the fabric of his shirt with a fierce intensity. With a sharp yank, he hoisted Will up, slamming him hard against the wall.
"Agent Crawford!"
"Whoa, Jack...!"
Clarice sprang to her feet, with Price and Zeller closing in beside her. Zeller stood tense, every muscle taut and ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. Clarice's heart raced with mounting anxiety as she watched, her breath hitching in her throat while Crawford cornered Will against the wall, his chest rising and falling with fury.
"I am done with your games, Will," Crawford spat, venom dripping from his words.
"To be fair," Will replied, completely unfazed, "I never asked you to play. You showed up at the playground all on your own."
Crawford's knuckles turned white as he gripped Will's shirt tighter, the fabric straining under the pressure. Will's gaze dropped to Crawford's hands, curiosity igniting in his eyes.
"Are you going to hit me, Jack?" he asked, calmly, as if he were less concerned and more genuinely curious about the answer.
Crawford let out a rough, frustrated huff. "No… but only because that would just provoke Hannibal more." He gradually released his grip and took a measured step back.
Zeller wasted no time stepping in between them.
"Alright, now that we're done peacocking can we all chill the fuck down?" he said, shooting a pointed look at Crawford—the most defiant display Clarice had ever seen from him.
Still, Crawford's intense glare remained fixed on Will, his brooding demeanour making it clear that 'chilling down' was the last thing on his mind.
Just when the air felt almost suffocating, fate intervened: Crawford's phone began buzzing insistently. He nearly ripped it up from his pocket.
"WHAT?!" he barked into the receiver, and Clarice couldn't help but feel a wave of sympathy as she imagined the poor soul on the other end.
While Crawford listened to whatever was said, Clarice glanced at Will, trying to gauge his reaction. He seemed calm, as if nothing had happened.
When their eyes met, she mouthed, 'Are you okay?' He simply smiled back, unbothered, which made her heart sink a little.
Was he just used to this kind of treatment?
"We'll be there in 15." Crawford declared curtly into the phone before shoving it back into his pocket. He rubbed his brow, weary, as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. "We're moving out. Get ready."
Price looked at him uncertainly, "…Who are you talking to?"
"EVERYONE!" Crawford boomed, making Price jump. Without another word, both he and Zeller hurried to gather their things.
"Does that include me?" Will asked innocently, still casually leaning against the wall Crawford had so forcefully pushed him against.
Crawford turned to fix him with a sharp glare. "Especially you. It seems your article is already getting its first review."
"We were alerted about 30 minutes ago," the police officer explained as he led them deeper into the thickening woods. "A hiker reported a strange odour coming from one of the Trapper's tilts."
"Trapper's tilt?" Crawford asked, a frown creasing his brow.
"They are these small, temporary log cabins built along the trap lines and in hunting camps. Hunters use them during the season, but they often get left abandoned during the off months. That could explain why no one noticed anything unusual before," the officer clarified, glancing back at the group.
Clarice strained to catch the conversation between Crawford and the local police officer while also focusing on not tripping and landing on her face. Her boots crunched softly on the underbrush as they made their way further into the woods, and the fading evening light didn't help their visibility. The flashlights cast more shadows than they provided illumination at this point. She noticed Jimmy stumble slightly under the weight of his gear, with Zeller steadying him by the elbow.
Finally, they arrived at a small clearing where a solitary wooden shed stood at the center. It looked unassuming, but it was already cordoned off with police tape.
"Has anyone gone inside yet?" Crawford asked.
"No," the officer replied, his unease evident. "We didn't want to tamper with any evidence, and… we would have to if we wanted to open the door."
"Why's that?" Will asked.
The officer gulped, casting a furtive glance toward the door. "There's something on the door handle."
As they approached, their flashlights illuminating the area, Clarice could see it—a bow tied around the door handle, making it impossible to open without breaking it. Once the light hit the door properly, a chill ran down her spine.
"Is that hair?" Crawford asked, squinting for a better view.
"Looks like it," Price chimed in, leaning in closer and shining the light. "Yup, definitely hair, and I'd wager it's human."
The smell that had alerted the hiker assailed Clarice's senses, a sickening combination that twisted her stomach. It was unmistakable—the sharp, distinct odour that those who had worked homicides could recognize easily: the stench of decay, of death. Yet, mingling with that putrid aroma was a floral fragrance, hauntingly pleasant yet chillingly out of place.
The combination of rotting flesh and flowers was a pairing her brain now automatically associated with Hannibal Lecter.
Clarice swallowed hard. It was becoming clear why Crawford had been called here in such a rush.
"Jack, care to do the honours?" Zeller asked, pointing to the bow after he finished photographing the door.
Crawford shot him a sharp look but stepped forward, pulling on a glove with practiced ease. He reached out toward the hair, tugging gently until the bow came free with a soft rustle, drifting away. Price, standing beside him, eagerly presented an evidence bag.
As Clarice caught sight of the bag up close, her heart picked up a beat. The hair—its colour… She instinctively reached up to touch the few strands resting on her shoulders. They were the same rich chestnut shade as hers. Perhaps Price noticed too, as he cast her a brief, wary glance before carefully sealing the evidence bag.
Crawford placed his gloved hand on the door handle, and at that moment, a wave of unease shot down Clarice's spine.
'Don't open it. Don't open it. Just don't,' her mind spiralled into a desperate plea, her body tense with anxiety. They shouldn't be opening that door. They should just turn around and leave…
The door creaked open with a chilling groan.
They stepped in, and the acrid smell hit her senses, growing stronger the longer she looked at the bodies sprawled across the cabin; three lifeless forms positioned against the walls as if on display.
Each victim mounted on... antlers? And somehow, that was not the most horrifying detail; their hearts had been removed. In place of their vital organ were an arrangement of colourful, vibrant blooms.
She didn't even need Jimmy Price to know that every single flower in the room was the Dianthus barbatus- the Sweet William flower.
Her eyes were drawn upwards, over the head of each one of the victims. And there it was; a fresh stain, crimson and starkly visible against the wood, some of the blood still glistening with freshness.
The word formed in big, bold letters:
'SEE?'… 'SEE?'… 'SEE?'…
Will let out a deep sigh next to her.
"So, I guess he didn't like my article."