She was back here again. The walls, now all too familiar, seemed to breathe with a life of their own, pulsating with a steady rhythm that resonated in her bones. The air, thick and heavy, clung to her skin; a strange scent—metallic—invaded her senses.
This time, she didn't need to wander through the halls. She didn't need to pass countless doors before she reached her destination. She was already where she needed to be, standing at its threshold. Her hand already rested on the cool metal of the handle, ready to turn it.
This time, she didn't need to look down; she knew the warmth trickling over her hand was blood, and it was flowing more steadily the longer she lingered at the door; she could already feel it under her feet.
She felt an urge to run, a desperate need to escape, but her feet were glued to the floor. It was as if the blood swirling around her acted like cement, holding her in place. The blood kept rising, creeping higher, threatening to drown her, yet her legs refused to move. She clutched the door handle, knowing that if she let go, it would be all over. She had to open the door, if only for a brief moment, just enough to peek inside. Then she could slam it shut. She had to see. She had to know.
She felt it before she saw it; a slander hand appearing out of nowhere, as if it belonged to no body at all, just a limb sneaking from behind and wrapping itself around her hand.
In the end, she couldn't tell if it was her own will or that hand that turned the handle, but the handle gave way, and the door slowly, so very slowly, started to creek open…
She was no longer sure if she was moving or if it was pulling her in.
Just one look...
Clarice jolted awake, her heart pounding in her chest. The duvet clung to her damp skin, heavy and suffocating, and she made a quick work of pushing it off her body. She curled up, knees drawn to her chin, resting her forehead against them, taking deep breaths.
Jesus, one more nightmare like that and she might just opt out of sleeping and become insomniac.
It took a few moments to calm her shaky breathing; that feeling of being trapped, helpless still clung to her chest. As the last remnants of the dream faded away, she realized what had jolted her awake: her phone was ringing incessantly on the nightstand, the vibrations inching it closer to the edge until it tumbled to the floor with a thud.
"Shit," she muttered under her breath, awkwardly leaning over to pick it up. Her hand trembled as she fumbled with it. Without even checking the screen, she pressed the answer button.
"What is it… I mean, h-hello?" Her voice was shaky and raw. She winced at the sound of it as she pulled herself upright.
"Good morning, Clarice. I hope I did not interrupt your sleep."
His words washed over her like cold water. Her spine straightened instantaneously, as if an invisible thread had pulled her upright. Any trace of exhaustion vanished in an instant.
"D-Dr. Lecter?"
"Given the raspiness of your voice and your general confusion, I will assume I interrupted your sleep. My apologies." His tone was just as polished and cultured as she remembered, and for a brief moment, Clarice wondered if she was still dreaming. A sharp pinch to her arm confirmed she wasn't.
Exhaling a shaky breath, she rubbed her face to dispel the lingering grogginess. She couldn't afford to let her guard down—not with him on the line.
"I wasn't expecting any more calls from you, Dr. Lecter. You must know my electronics are likely bugged by now," she replied, swinging her legs off the bed, letting the chill of the floor ground her in the present moment. She reached for her laptop; she didn't much care that Will said it would be useless; she just had to try to track down the call… or at least let someone know it was happening.
"Oh, I am quite aware." There was a pause, a small beat of silence, before his voice took on a different cadence. "Which reminds me, where are my manners? Hello, Jack. I trust life is treating you well..."
Clarice winced internally, listening to the message Hannibal Lecter was leaving. She did not want to be one of the poor souls in Crawford's vicinity when he was going to hear that.
"Now that we've gotten the pleasantries out of the way, let's get to the main reason for my call. Please, tell me, how is Will?" he asked, and Clarice did a double-take at the phone, her mind scrambling to catch up.
"E-excuse me?"
"I am inquiring about Will's well-being. Physical, mental, emotional—whichever aspect has concerned you lately." His voice was so calm, so smooth, that for a moment, Clarice sat motionless, her fingers frozen over the keyboard, simply staring blankly at the screen before her mocking her with its insistent, blinking Please wait... message.
"Why do you ask, Doctor?"
"I worry," he said, with an earnestness that made her stomach twist into knots. She couldn't decide whether to laugh or scream, and in the end, it was the snort that bubbled out of her. It was short, dismissive; probably rude.
Dr. Lecter seemed to think so, as his voice dropped an octave. "Something amusing?"
"No, it's definitely not amusing," she replied, trying to sound as cold as she could manage, even as her pulse thrummed in her ears. "If you worry about Will... if you care about him at all, you would stay away from him."
There was a long, drawn-out silence on the other end of the line, until his voice finally broke through.
"Is that what you think would solve all of Will's problems?" His voice was even, almost too calm, as if he were humouring her.
"I think it would resolve a good number of them," she snapped, before she could stop herself, her fingers itching to end the call.
"Therefore, the answer to my earlier question is no." His tone was flat, lacking the usual smoothness, and for a fleeting moment, she thought she detected a hint of disappointment in his voice.
Clarice's throat tightened. She didn't know what question he was referring to—was it about Will's well-being? No, that didn't make sense… Or was it the question from the restaurant, about Will? God, that felt like so long ago! Or was it something else… had he asked her anything else?
"I am… not sure which question you are referring to, Dr. Lecter."
He let out a long, exaggerated sigh, as if her response was simply exhausting. "I won't ask a fourth time; it would spoil the aesthetics."
She probably should have looked at that sentence from a different angle, ask more questions that could make things clearer. But instead, it was the irritation that spoke for her.
"And you're all about aesthetics, aren't you, Dr. Lecter?" she shot back, her tone sharp and biting.
"Careful, Agent Starling. You're starting to sound… rather rude."
The warning in his voice made her spine stiffen, a shiver crawling up her neck. She could feel it—his presence, pressing through the phone line, dark and suffocating.
"Why do you keep calling me, dr. Lecter?" she asked, and she could not stop a bit of miserable infection from her voice.
"Keep your enemies close," he replied, almost indulgently. "A time-honoured doctrine, wouldn't you agree?"
"Am I your enemy?"
"You tell me." His response was simple, too simple, sending yet another chill through her bones. Not because his tone was confrontational or cold. But because in this moment he sounded so much like Will, she could almost picture herself talking to him.
And that, somehow, for some reason, made her breathe easier.
"Probably," she said finally, her voice gaining strength. "But not in the way you think."
"Ah, I'm quite aware." He sounded far too pleased with himself. "All of this is merely a pre-emptive attempt to derail future annoyances."
"Again, I'm not sure what you're talking about…"
"Of course you don't. Truth can be delivered right to your doorstep, all gift-wrapped, and still… nothing. Quite disappointing, really. You seemed so promising on paper. I expected you to be more... clever."
"I expected you to be more polite." She spoke before her mind caught up, filters in the brain failing to hold back her words. "You're starting to sound rude yourself, Dr. Lecter."
The silence stretched on the other end, seemingly endless, yet Clarice didn't even consider hanging up. Her heart raced as she held her breath, waiting.
"You should visit dear Will this evening," Lecter finally said, his tone sharp and clipped. "I'm certain it will prove… educational."
And with that, the line went dead, leaving only the hollow melody of the disconnected tone in her ears. The screen in front of her flashing red as predicted; failed to locate.
Clarice leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her gaze bouncing back and forth between the two techs seated before Crawford as he unleashed his fury upon them.
"…and I refuse to accept that tracking him is impossible! He's just one man, yet somehow, he continues to evade our most skilled FBI agents! What kind of standards are we setting here?!" Crawford's voice thundered, and Clarice let out a sigh as she watched the two unfortunate agents attempting to explain once again why they couldn't trace the call from Hannibal Lecter. Each stumble over their words only served to heighten Crawford's frustration.
"…I don't care what equipment you need to secure or what databases you have to tap into; you will be better prepared next time!"
The words slipped from her lips before she could think twice. "Agent Crawford, if you don't mind, may I be dismissed?"
The two agents sitting across from him exchanged glances of gratitude, but Crawford turned to face her, irritation brewing in his eyes.
"You got somewhere more important to be?" His voice was low, laced with condescension.
And this might be the first time when those eyes did not pin her into place.
"Actually, yes," she replied, a hint of challenge in her tone, "Agent Price informed me there has been a major development in the Phantom case, I would like to find out what it is."
Crawford narrowed his eyes, his expression cold and calculating, but Clarice stood her ground, refusing to flinch.
"You're not working that case," he gritted out.
"Well, technically I'm not working on the Lecter case either," she countered, arms crossed firmly. "And honestly, I'm not contributing much of value here…" She noticed the tension in Crawford's jaw tighten, his nostrils flaring as he absorbed her words.
"I need your statement…" he began, but his voice faltered, sounding half-hearted.
"You have the recording," Clarice replied coolly, her arms still firmly crossed. "There's nothing more I could add to it. If you need something in writing, I'll provide a statement at my earliest convenience… which is not right now."
She wasn't sure where her newfound confidence came from. Perhaps it was the disillusionment that had begun to seep into her view of Jack Crawford, or maybe it was what Will had said to her yesterday. Or perhaps it was the restless itch in her fingers that had been nagging at her since receiving that text from Price.
She really wanted to see what was happening with the Phantom case. If only she hadn't been sidetracked by Lecter this morning—she'd already be there.
And wasn't that the strangest feeling in the world she never expected to experience? A phone call from Hannibal Lecter being an inconvenience to her schedule.
Crawford stared at her for an unusually long time, his eyes narrowing, but for once, it wasn't a look that made her feel small. There was something else in that look now, a resigned acknowledgment passing over his features.
He sighed, the tension in his broad shoulders easing just a bit. "Go. We'll discuss this later," he muttered, a hint of defeat colouring his tone. "And don't forget to take Pembry and Tate with you."
Clarice suppressed an eye roll. "Of course, Agent Crawford."
As if there was any other option, she could already see Pembry and Tate waiting just outside the door.
Clarice had been at the FBI headquarters for almost a year now, but the truth was, she hadn't really explored the place. Other than the Academy and the Behavioural Science Unit, she barely knew her way around.
It took her nearly an hour to manoeuvre through the maze of hallways and stairwells before she finally located the Criminal Investigative Division, specifically the special task force led by Agent Eric Wilmer—the new lead on the Phantom Killer case.
When she finally reached the right door, she knocked but got no response. She knocked again, still nothing.
"No one's here, let's go," Tate suggested, impatience creeping into his tone.
"We didn't come all this way for nothing," Clarice replied, scanning the hall for any sign of life, but it was surprisingly quiet.
"Can't you just wait for the press release like everyone else?" Pembry interjected grumpily, clearly still annoyed at the rushed morning and his failed attempts to get some coffee from the fancy hotel machine.
As she turned back to them, something caught her eye—a familiar gleam from a lamp, the unmistakable glow of a lab down the hallway.
"Hey," she said, a determined brightness in her tone, "you two go grab some breakfast. I'll see if I can find someone—maybe even Agent Wilmer. I'll catch up with you in the cafeteria."
Both men froze, exchanging cautious glances.
"I don't think—" Pembry began.
"This really isn't…" Tate started, ready to protest.
Clarice cut them off with a sharp wave of her hand. "We're inside the FBI headquarters. I'm not wandering down some dark alley. Crawford may be paranoid, but there are agents everywhere. I'll be fine. If anything goes wrong, I'll hit my alert button." She said, taking out her phone and waving it in front of them to emphasize her point.
Of course, using a simple phone call wasn't considered reliable enough for Jack Crawford. Oh no, he insisted on equipping her phone with a freaking panic button.
Whether it was her or the promise of food that swayed them; they relented. They exchanged muttered grumbles before disappearing down the hall, leaving her alone. Clarice wasted no time, moving purposefully toward the inviting glow of the lab.
The first thing she noticed was how much more organized it was compared to the BSU lab. The room was immaculate—a sterile, tidy space that almost made her uneasy. Everything was in its rightful place: each file meticulously color-coded, with no evidence bags left carelessly on counters. She couldn't help but think of Price and Zeller's chaotic workspace, cluttered with half-empty coffee mugs and piles of papers, and a smirk crept onto her face.
But her amusement quickly faded when her gaze fell on the familiar boxes of files related to the Phantom case. They were the only untidy items in the otherwise pristine lab.
Clarice hesitated, the rational part of her brain telling her she shouldn't be in another division's lab without proper clearance, especially without an agent from that division by her side. She knew how much Price and Zeller hated it when someone wandered into their lab unannounced. It was rude, not to mention unprofessional.
But those folders were like a siren call, beckoning her closer. The top files immediately caught her eye. They looked different from the rest— neatly organized, clean folders; new developments. The thought quickened her pulse.
A little glance wouldn't hurt, right? She was an agent of the FBI, after all. The Phantom case wasn't overly classified; surely taking a peek wouldn't cross any lines…
With resolve, she crossed the room and snagged the first folder. Her hands trembled as she flipped it open, a thrill of anticipation running down her spine.
Page after page blurred past her eyes until she skidded to a halt at the profile sheet. Her breath hitched in her throat as she read the name: Paul Keller.
The prime suspect.
Her eyes darted to the photo in the top corner, a well-lit image of a man with pale blue eyes and dark blond hair. A face that looked too polished, too composed. Her eyes narrowed as she read on:
Paul Keller
Age: 34
Occupation: Corporate Lawyer/ Legal Consultant
Clarice felt a rush of thoughts colliding in her mind as she scrutinized the photo before her. This was the man they suspected of being the Phantom Killer? The one they almost certainly believed was behind these bizarre and elaborate murders?
Something about him felt... disappointing.
With renewed urgency, she flipped through the pages, searching for more information. She found the psychological profile of Keller, a series of disturbing assessments from various therapists, all painting a picture of a man who was meticulously controlled yet obsessively perfectionistic, with a deep-seated current of narcissism.
She traced the words with her finger: 'Paul Keller's childhood was marked by neglect. He grew up in an affluent yet emotionally detached family. His exceptional intelligence isolated him, resulting in an almost pathological need for control and perfection...'
Narcissistic. Machiavellian. Highly intelligent. These phrases echoed on every page.
He fit almost perfectly, even down to him dabbling with criminal law at the beginning of his career, which likely gave him insights and connections in law enforcement, which would undoubtedly aid him in covering up evidence and crafting crime scenes that could easily be mistaken for the work of a ghost.
But still, something... something didn't fit... Something wasn't sitting quite right... Paul Keller was too... too polished. There was a certain sterility to him—no rawness, no primal instinct...
She could see him fitting into her initial psychological profile of the Phantom Killer... but he didn't quite align with what Will was saying about the Phantom Killer. Where was the awakening of primal instinct? Where were the fluctuations—at times human, at times predator? And what about the jailers? Who were the people that would trigger his deviations from the pattern?
Clarice turned another page and found excerpts from interviews with Keller's former associates. One line jumped out at her, underlined in red: 'No significant personal relationships.' A loner. No triggers. No one to push him over the edge...
"What do you think you're doing?" a sharp voice came from behind her.
Her heart lurched, breath catching in her throat as she spun around. The folder almost slipped from her fingers, but she managed to catch it just in time.
"I'm sorry, I thought no one was here and I..." The words faded on her lips as her gaze landed on the figure before her. A familiar heart-shaped face stared back.
"Ardelia?" she managed to say, surprise cracking her voice.
Ardelia's expression flickered through a mix of emotions—shock, recognition, and a hint of wariness. Then the words tumbled out, a bit too fast, a bit too forced: "Holy shit, Starling! Didn't expect to see you, honestly."
Clarice's stomach fluttered with something like nervous energy. "It's... it's been a while. Great to see you," she said earnestly. God, how long has it been? Months? Or have they crossed into years?
Ardelia tilted her head, a shadow of something passing through her eyes before she replied, "Yeah, it sure has." Though her words were casual, there was an edge to them that Clarice couldn't quite pin down.
Clarice took a moment to look over her. Ardelia hadn't changed much; the brown hair still framed her face, and her big, round eyes sparkled with a familiar light. But now, a lab coat had replaced her usual rock-band t-shirts. Clarice's gaze zeroed in on the nameplate featuring the unmistakable FBI emblem. She blinked in disbelief.
"You... you actually went to the FBI academy?"
Ardelia's gaze flicked to her badge, her lips curling into a guarded grin that was both proud and cautious. "Yup. Well, kind of. I'm still enrolled, technically. It's a work-study deal. Most of my credits came from forensics fieldwork—did my exams and physical training, of course, but now I'm working with the DC team—just started a month ago, on a trial basis. And, not to brag, but... I'm freaking awesome at it."
Clarice couldn't help but snort, a smile curving her lips. This felt like the Ardelia she remembered—proud, confident, and a touch overly self-assured. "I bet you are. Congrats! I know this is something you've wanted for a long time."
Ardelia smiled, though the guardedness never fully left her eyes. "Same to you," she replied. "Heard you're in the Behavioural Science division now. Looks like we both got what we wanted."
Clarice hesitated; something felt off about the exchange, like something was being unsaid between them, but she couldn't figure out what it could be.
"So, what are you doing here? Are you working the Phantom case?" Clarice asked, hoping to steer the conversation to something more neutral.
"Yeah," Ardelia replied, stepping further into the lab, but she didn't approach Clarice. Instead, she moved to the other side of the table, methodically organizing the files she'd brought in—her movements almost robotic, detached. "My SO took over the case about a week ago. We drove in from DC the same day. The Director was kind enough to grant us access to all the fancy labs here. They might have a tough time getting us to leave now. I kind of like it here."
Clarice smiled, "Hey, I wouldn't mind you sticking around. It would be great to have you back."
Ardelia raised an eyebrow, as if genuinely surprised by that. "Right..." she responded, the word sounding more like a question than a statement.
Clarice's brow furrowed. Now this wasn't the Ardelia she was used to; she had always been more direct, more forthcoming. This felt different. "Why didn't you call me when you started at the Academy? Or when you arrived here from DC? We could've met up, caught up..."
"You're kidding, right?" Ardelia cut in, incredulous as she stared at Clarice as if she were out of her mind.
Clarice frowned, feeling distinctly wrong-footed. She thought they had parted as friends; sure, they hadn't spoken in a while, but the last time they were together, everything seemed fine.
"Oh shit, you really are serious!" Ardelia exclaimed, her brows shooting up, her eyes flashing with a hint of hurt, "Girl, you completely ghosted me after I moved. Why the hell would I get in touch now?"
Clarice's stomach sank. "What are you talking about? No, I didn't..."
"You absolutely did! Every time I called or texted, you said you were busy."
"I… I was always busy," she muttered, the words sounding weak even to her own ears.
"Yeah? So was I. But I still made time for you."
Heat rushed to Clarice's cheeks. Surely she hadn't completely misread….
"We did keep in touch," Clarice insisted, though it sounded half-hearted even to her. "It's not like we stopped talking altogether after university..."
"Right," Ardelia cut in, her voice dripping with an edge of bitterness. "For the first couple of months when you thought we'd both be at the Academy together. But as soon as I told you I was doing those forensic courses in DC, you just—" she paused, letting out a sharp laugh, "You stopped responding. I took the hint."
Clarice's eyes widened in realization. She remembered that time all too well. She had been laser-focused on the Academy, studying and trying to prove herself. Once classes started, everything else faded away.
Memories flooded back: the calls she'd missed, the messages she'd brushed off. She had promised herself she would call back, telling herself she'd reply after just one more chapter… and then she never did.
"I… I forgot to call you back," Clarice said lamely, the words slipping out like a poor excuse.
Ardelia didn't miss a beat. "Yeah, so after like the hundredth call and five-hundredth text, I kind of figured it out. The message was clear: 'Ardelia, leave me the hell alone.'"
She swallowed hard, trying to shake off the sting of shame. "That… that wasn't the message…"
"Whatever," Ardelia said with a shrug, but there was a bitterness that lingered in her voice. "It's fine. We're adults now. We were just dumb college kids. No one said the friendship was transferable to later stages of life."
"No, don't say that…"
Ardelia rolled her eyes, "Fine, I was a dumb collage kid, you were just… weird."
"No, not that!" Clarice protested, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I mean… You really were my friend. You are my friend. I just… I just don't know how to do this, okay? Friendships. I'm terrible at it."
With a hint of a smirk, Ardelia replied, "Oh, trust me, as your one and only friend through university, I've noticed. That's why I'm not taking it too personally. If I didn't drag you to events by your ear, you would've stayed holed up in the library and I would've had to dig you out from under a pile of books for graduation day."
A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of Clarice's mouth. "That's a bit much..."
"Oh please," Ardelia replied, feigning dramatic offense, "that's spot on! Tell me honestly—did you even try to make friends at the Academy? Or what about anyone at your unit now?"
Clarice felt her heart clench at her tone. That familiar scolding, when Ardelia sounded like her mom... It made her want to shrink away and hide. Shifting nervously, she tried to avoid Ardelia's gaze. "I… I kind of have… one?"
At work, Jimmy was the only one who had really reached out to her. Well, there was Will now, but he didn't really count, did he? That was... a different situation entirely.
So, Jimmy Price… was it really just him?
Ardelia raised an eyebrow, her skepticism deepening. "Right. One. And how many times did you hang out outside of work?" she pressed.
Clarice froze. Her mind scrambled, but nothing came to her. The heat of embarrassment bloomed in her cheeks.
"Never," she muttered.
Ardelia crossed her arms, her expression a mix of concern and frustration. "And I bet that's completely your fault."
Clarice's stomach dropped. The truth stung, but she couldn't deny it. Ardelia was right. Her mind flashed back to all those invitations. Price had invited her for drinks several times, though it was always with Zeller, whom she absolutely couldn't stand—at least at first. Yet there had been other opportunities too: department socials, drinks after work, even back at the Academy; the gatherings after training and celebrations after exams, all invitations she turned down again and again. She had always been too wrapped up in her studies, too laser-focused on her goal. Truly like a horse with blinders, she thought bitterly.
"I'm sorry," Clarice said, her voice small. The words felt heavy and too late. She struggled to swallow the lump in her throat, which only seemed to grow larger. "I… I really am terrible. I didn't even realize…"
And honestly, she hadn't realized, had she? It wasn't that she was actively pushing people away; she was simply… indifferent? No, that wasn't entirely true either. She cared. She cared about Ardelia and still considered her a friend; it just… slipped away from her.
Ardelia shifted awkwardly, her eyes darting anywhere but to Clarice's. She exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of her neck as if trying to gather her thoughts. "Okay, whoa, back it up. I didn't mean to hit you that hard in the feels. I'm a bit butt-hurt, sure, but we're adults—it's all good. I mean… you weren't a bitch about it or anything. That's just how you are."
Clarice couldn't decide if she felt relieved or more confused. "That's… actually worse, Ardelia."
Ardelia blinked, her expression turning thoughtful. "Huh… maybe I'm the bitch?" she suggested, a grin tugging at the corner of her lips, as if testing the waters.
Clarice couldn't help the soft laugh that escaped her lips. "No, you're not." She shook her head, the laughter fading just as quickly as it had come. The tension between them shifted again, and Clarice's smile softened. Her heart clenched, and with sincerity, she said, "I really am sorry. You've always been such a good friend to me, even when I was… well, me."
Ardelia raised an eyebrow but stayed silent.
Clarice hesitated, searching for the right words. "I guess I never considered how it must have looked from your perspective. I'm not exactly used to having someone to stay in touch with."
A flicker of understanding crossed Ardelia's face. The wary edge in her eyes gave way to teasing, and a sense of relief settled in Clarice's chest.
"Yeah, I guess you burn up all your brainpower at work and then have nothing left for your personal life," Ardelia remarked with a crooked grin.
Clarice rolled her eyes, fighting back a smile. "Now you're just being mean."
"Over a year of radio silence! I have every right to be a little pissy for at least half that time."
Clarice blinked. A year? Had it really been that long? She quickly did the math in her head: the months after university, then nearly half a year at the FBI Academy, followed by several months at BSU… yes, it truly had been more than a year since they last spoke.
"Fair," Clarice admitted. The embarrassment lingered in her bones, but she cleared her throat, "So, are you planning to stay here long, or will you head back to DC soon?"
Ardelia shrugged. "I'm not sure yet. I still have to complete all my Academy requirements, so I could be around for a while. It really depends on my supervisor and whether he needs me in DC."
"Well, in that case," Clarice said, her nerves creeping back in, "if you're open to giving your crappy friend another chance, how about going out for drinks sometime after work?"
Ardelia stared at her for a good moment, the silence stretching as Clarice's heartbeat quickened. Then, with a soft sigh, Ardelia snapped her fingers. "Hand me your phone."
Clarice fumbled to retrieve it from her pocket, handing it over without hesitation. Ardelia quickly punched something into the device and returned it with a sly grin. "There, you have my number. If you manage to find your big girl pants and actually call me, I'd be up for a drink. Just a heads up: you're paying."
Clarice let out a laugh, a wave of relief washing over her. Maybe she hadn't completely wrecked this friendship after all.
"Sure... Thanks."
"Just don't make me regret this, Starling," Ardelia warned with a mock-threatening finger point. "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice… I'll burn your apartment down."
Clarice raised an eyebrow, her smile spreading. "Pretty sure that's not how that saying goes."
"Ghost me again, and you'll see that's exactly how it goes."
"I really did miss you, you know," Clarice said, her voice softer than she intended.
Ardelia smirked, all swagger and confidence. "Of course you did. I'm awesome."
Clarice chuckled. "Yeah, I can see that. You're doing forensic work on the Phantom case? That's pretty impressive... for a trainee."
Ardelia feigned offense, narrowing her eyes. "Fuck you, Starling! I told you I'm awesome," she shot back, crossing her arms. "And I'm not the only forensic examiner here. We've got like four others. My supervisor is big on scientific evidence… and he's kind of obsessive. He has me double and triple-check everything after the others have already double and triple-checked everything, so there's that."
"Yeah, I know about those obsessive types," Clarice muttered under her breath.
Ardelia grinned, as if she'd caught the implication. "Yeah, heard you're working under Crawford's supervision, huh? How's that? Is it everything you dreamed of?"
"In my nightmares, sure," Clarice muttered, not bothering to hide the bitterness.
Ardelia let out a low whistle. "Oh boy, will we have stuff to talk about over drinks. Is that why you were sneaking in here to read up on the Phantom? He sent you to check on his case, even though he's washed his hands of it?"
Clarice couldn't help but snort. "God, no. Crawford's way too wrapped up in Hannibal Lecter to care about anything else right now."
Ardelia's face darkened instantly, and Clarice could almost feel the shift in the room. Right—the infamous Lecter effect.
"Yeah, heard about that." Ardelia said, her tone heavy. "Freaking insane, isn't it? It was the first thing I learned when I got here from DC. I've been carpooling to work ever since. Just the thought of that psycho makes me want to avoid going anywhere alone. I get goosebumps just thinking about him." She paused, her eyes locking with Clarice's. "You're not involved in that case, are you?"
Clarice was really tempted say, 'Yeah, actually, Hannibal Lecter called me just this morning.' just to see Ardelia's reaction. But perhaps that was a conversation better saved for drinks. Clarice would definitely need a few if she planned to tell Ardelia everything… or at least most of it.
"Um, Crawford doesn't like rookies hanging around cases like that." Clarice answered vaguely, which wasn't exactly a lie.
"Yeah, I can imagine. Only the most seasoned ones for that crazy psychopath. I heard they even pulled Will Graham out of retirement for it! People are going crazy about that." Ardelia mused, a look of genuine interest now colouring her face.
"Actually, Will came back earlier… sort of," she said slowly, unsure of how much to reveal. "He consulted on the Phantom case."
Ardelia blinked at her, eyes widening. Clarice shifted in her seat.
"What?"
"Girl! You're on a first-name basis with Will freaking Graham?" Ardelia practically yelled, leaning closer.
Clarice cleared her throat, "Um, yeah. We're… well, he's kind of… mentoring me?" She said uncertainly, but really that would be the best term to describe what was going on.
Ardelia's eyes grew even wider.
"Holy shit," she whispered. "If I told you back at Uni that Will Graham would be mentoring you one day, you'd have peed yourself."
"Ardelia!"
"Did you get him to autograph your notepad, yet?"
"Ardelia!"
She shook her head, relentless. "Seriously, how much did you fangirl when you first met him?"
"Not at all! I'm a professional..."
"Oh yeah, miss professional," Ardelia smirked. "Remember when you missed your stop twice because you were reading his article on the bus?"
Clarice froze, heat rising to her cheeks. How did she even remember that? In that moment, she silently vowed to keep Ardelia Mapp far away from Will Graham—heaven forbid they ever met or, even worse, talked.
"Alright, can we maybe, shift the conversation to something work-related? I actually did come here for a reason," Clarice said, trying to sound more composed than she felt.
Ardelia plopped down in one of the chairs, her smile unwavering. "Sure, but we are definitely going out for those drinks. You've got some stories to share, girl!" she said with sincere excitement. "So, if Jack Crawford didn't send you here, why are you snooping in the case files?"
"I was just curious…"
Ardelia rolled her eyes, exasperation mixed with fondness. "Aren't you always?"
Clarice wanted to come back with something witty, but the truth was, Ardelia was right.
"Fine," she relented with a sigh. "I actually spend a lot of time on the Phantom case. I wanted to see how it resolved."
Ardelia cocked her brow. "And? Is Paul Keller all you imagined him to be?"
Clarice's mouth tightened at the mention of Keller's name. "No," she replied flatly, the word feeling heavier than it should have. Ardelia's brow rose even higher. "How confident is Agent Wilmer about this one?"
Ardelia leaned back in her chair, expression thoughtful, "Pretty confident. Keller has no alibi for at least three of the murders; the alibis he does have are shaky at best, and he was definitely present in the area for four of the murders. It'd be quite the coincidence if he wasn't the Phantom, right?"
Clarice murmured thoughtfully, "I guess…"
Ardelia sighed theatrically, "Oh, I know that tone. You're not on board."
Clarice bit her lip as she reopened the file, her eyes landing on the picture of Paul Keller again.
"It's just... something about him doesn't fit," Clarice admitted, her voice quieter now, almost like a confession. She rubbed her forehead in frustration. "I thought that once I saw the Phantom, once we figured out his identity, everything would fall into place. And it just... didn't."
"So, what doesn't make sense in that little head of yours?" Ardelia asked, leaning in.
Clarice hesitated, biting her lip again. "Has Agent Wilmer looked into any other murders that might be linked to the Phantom Killer?"
Ardelia shrugged, "Not sure. I'm not exactly part of the brainstorming team. My job is to give them things to brainstorm about."
Clarice frowned, a pang of frustration rising in her chest. "You mind if I go through the files?" she asked, gesturing toward the other boxes she hadn't touched yet.
"Go for it," Ardelia replied with a dismissive wave, adding under her breath, "I won't stand between Moby Dick and the whale."
With a quick annoyed glance at Ardelia, Clarice dove back into the boxes.
The first known victim of the Phantom Killer remained the same as when she last reviewed the files. After ruling out Victor Boyle and assigning his sister's murder solely to him, the first known victim of the Phantom was that emotionless, methodical scene in the warehouse. The victim had been strangled, posed post-mortem. There were no signs of violence before death—controlled, too controlled. It didn't fit. It couldn't.
"This couldn't be where it started," Clarice muttered under her breath, barely aware of the words slipping out. Her eyes stayed glued to the file as her thoughts spiralled, dissecting every detail.
The first kill. The moment of awakening. This wasn't it. There was no chaos. No primal instinct. Nothing raw or visceral. It felt too… orchestrated.
"The primal nature would've been more chaotic…" she murmured again.
Ardelia shot her a puzzled glance, but Clarice didn't pay her any mind.
She swallowed, trying to push down the unsettling feeling that clawed at her insides. The first kill would've been messy, chaotic. This can't be how it began... But if the lead investigator on the team believed he had the right suspect, if an agent with years of experience stood by that judgment… No. She couldn't go down that road. Her instincts were telling her something was off, and she had to listen.
"Don't doubt your instincts. Use them." Clarice told herself, repeating Will's words. She could almost hear his voice in her head, steady and firm.
Her instincts were good. Freaking Will Graham told her so!
"This can't be the first victim," she whispered, the words slipping from her lips as her finger traced the page. "It's too calculated, lacking… purpose… no, not that. Intimacy."
Ardelia continued to look at her, puzzled. "Are you arguing with yourself?" she asked.
Clarice looked up, her mind too busy to feel embarrassed.
"Yes. No. Shut up." She exhaled sharply. She shot Ardelia a quick glance. "Why is Agent Wilmer so convinced Paul Keller is the prime suspect?"
Ardelia sighed, "I told you. Keller was in the vicinity of all the murders. His alibis don't check out, and he's been acting strange. Wilmer questioned him yesterday. You should've seen him—guy was sketchy."
Clarice clenched her jaw, indignant.
"See! That's the problem! The Phantom Killer wouldn't act sketchy. He's too… controlled for that." She leaned in, her gaze sharp. "An intelligent, organized offender would make sure his alibi was solid. Prepared. Ready to recite. He would've been anticipating questions."
Ardelia let out another sigh. "He did have alibis for some of them. They were just shaky as hell, and it only took one phone call to prove them wrong..."
"Exactly!"
"Exactly what?"
"The Phantom Killer isn't careless. If Keller were him, he'd have covered his tracks better."
Ardelia groaned, rubbing her temples. "Were you always this stubborn, and I just stopped noticing after a while? Like a frog in a boiling water?"
Clarice ignored her comment, "Where is Paul Keller now?" she pressed. "Are they still interrogating him? Has he confessed to anything?"
Exasperated, Ardelia leaned back in her chair. "They don't have him in custody. Where do you think everyone is? They're out there looking for him."
"What happened?"
"Agent Wilmer got the arrest warrant first thing this morning, but when they went to get him… poof, he was gone. Bolted like a rabbit. It only proves he might be the right guy, don't you think? Innocent people don't run."
"People who are guilty—and those who fear they might be seen as guilty—can act the same way," Clarice countered.
"You're really stubborn about this…"
Clarice's eyes were already back on the file, her mind racing. "Did Agent Wilmer ever factor in the victims' behaviour in his psychological profile of the Phantom?" she asked suddenly, catching Ardelia off guard.
"What?"
"Did he look into the victims more closely? Particularly the ones that triggered deviations from the Phantom's usual pattern?"
Ardelia gave a half-shrug. "I have no clue. But if he did, it'll be in the file. Wilmer's big on cataloguing everything. Guy makes a note every time he blinks..."
Clarice was only half-listening now, her eyes scanning the sheets rapidly. She flipped through several more pages until her heart skipped a beat. There it was: her own familiar notes, her official report to Crawford, alongside additional insights from Will.
So, Crawford did listen to her. He did put her theories into the reports, even when he acted dismissive towards them. Clarice wasn't sure whether to feel validated or frustrated.
She scanned the pages and moved to some attached documents she didn't recognize. A quick look toward the top left showed they were supplied by Agent Wilmer.
They did look into the character profiles of the victims!
With excitement, Clarice went on to read; three people, three victims that carried the wounds different from others.
Victim #3, Victim #5 and Victim #7.
They were different. They were the key. The slip-ups were always the key!
Will's voice came to her in a sudden, clear memory. 'The trick is to think less about the murder itself and more about what the killer is trying to reveal. Or perhaps… what they don't want us to see.'
"Why are those three important?" Ardelia asked, leaning over the table to glimpse at the files too.
Clarice looked up at her. This felt familiar—like those late nights in their college dorm, Ardelia leaning in, that curious look in her eyes, eager to learn every detail about whatever obscure case or theory Clarice was obsessed with at the time. It used to annoy her. Now, it twisted her insides with nostalgia. God, she missed it.
Taking a deep breath to shake off the memories, she said, "Because they're different. All of the Phantom's victims died from strangulation. That in itself required some level of intimacy, but in Phantom's case the intimacy seems to lie more with the act than with the victims themselves."
"He's intimate about strangulations?" Ardelia asked, perplexed.
Clarice shook her head slowly. "It's about the act of murder... or the mutilation afterward; I'm not sure… But these three victims don't fit the same pattern. There's something unique about them." Her voice dropped lower. "With them, it felt more personal. Something... intimate. Not with the act, but with who they were."
"So, what? The Phantom knew them?"
"Not exactly," Clarice replied quickly. "He knew someone like them. They brought forth his human side."
Ardelia paused, then gave her an incredulous look. "His human side? What other side does he have? A reptile?"
Clarice fixed her with a flat stare. "A predator. That's what he is when he kills. That instinct drives him—to hunt, to kill, to consume his prey. Everything else gets buried beneath it."
At this point, she wasn't sure if she was quoting Will or herself anymore; their conversations had intertwined in ways that confused even her.
"So... you think those three resembled people from his life and made him realize what a fuck-up he became, huh?"
"Kind of, yeah."
Ardelia's nod was slow to begin with, as if she were mulling over the idea, but then she seemed to settle into it. "Okay, okay, I get it. Let's take a look at them," she said, reaching forward to grab one of the papers from the stack.
Clarice barely registered the action, and Ardelia was already reading off the page:
"Victim #5. Thirty-six years old. A research scientist. Methodical, organized, calm. Peers described her as well-versed in her field. Deeply empathetic... Huh. Paul Keller is a lawyer. Most people in his life are like that... although maybe without the empathetic part," she mused, flipping the page with a quick flick of her wrist.
Clarice picked up the next sheet, her eyes scanning the name. "Victim #7. Thirty-two years old. Travel agent. Soft-spoken, kind, always manages to bring calm to those around her…" She paused, frustration rising in her chest. "These are just things their friends and family said."
"So?" Ardelia asked.
"So, they don't usually speak ill of the dead. All of this is just... niceties. It's what people want to remember about them, not what they were."
Ardelia's eyebrow quirked up as she reached for the next file.
"Well, they certainly didn't pull any punches with victim #3." She read on, her voice animated. "Fifty-five years old. Factory owner. Authoritative, short-tempered, known for yelling often. 'A good dude, but man, therapy was a long time coming.'" She chuckled, delighting in the quote, "'Once he yelled so loud that one of the workers actually peed himself.' Ha! I didn't even know that could happen!"
Clarice snorted, "Actually I know someone who could do exactly that..."
Her words faltered as a connection clicked into place, causing her to recoil. The files slipped from her numb fingers, scattering across the table.
She sat there, staring ahead blankly.
She could see, as if from afar, Ardelia staring at her with worry.
"Clarice?" she asked hesitantly.
Shaking her head numbly, Clarice replied, "It's nothing, just… something silly came to mind. Something impossible… something..."
But even as she was saying it, her mind was already racing, already gathering the scattered pieces she had struggled to make sense of for days. Those two pieces fitting together offered a glimpse—a shadow of what the entire picture could be, and the other fragments followed suit... All those snippets, facts, conversations, comments... it all began to align.
'You just follow the clues until they lead somewhere. You follow what you see.' That's what... he said. What he taught her.
But it didn't add up. Where her thoughts were taking her, it was too far-fetched... it wasn't possible...
Three bodies… Three mysteries… Three question marks...
A cold shiver went down her spine, Hannibal Lecter's words ringing in her head mercilessly:
'I won't ask the fourth time. It will ruin the aesthetics.'
'I won't ask a fourth time…'. Three questions...
The Trapper's Tilt. Three bodies. Three questions.
See? ...See? ...See?
Her mouth went dry, and her chest started to feel tight, but she couldn't stop herself. Not when she finally found pieces that fit together, not when the picture was finally starting to form…
"Follow the evidence… You just follow what you see…" she muttered fiercely, ignoring Ardelia's concerned questions beside her.
She just needed to think. She needed to organize her thoughts.
Evidence- Conclusion.
Evidence- Conclusion.
Evidence- Conclusion.
Victim #3. Authoritative. Short-tempered. Prone to yelling.
See?
And the image of Jack Crawford formed in her mind, replacing the victim's face.
Victim #5. Calm, methodical researcher, compassionate.
See?
The details from the TattleCrime article flashed before her, giving shape to Dr. Alana Bloom.
Victim #7. Soft-spoken. Kind. Able to soothe those around her.
See?
A memory of Molly Campbell surfaced—calm and kind, her presence calming down even Jack Crawford…
Clarice was breathing harder now, dark spots appearing in front of her eyes. More and more pieces fell into place effortlessly, the picture was finally taking shape... all the fragments finding their spot… positioning themselves as if they were always meant to be.
"Knowing too much is a perilous endeavour," Dr. Du Maurier said. "Sometimes, it's safer to accept that some pasts are too broken to mend and find a way to move forward. You'd do well to keep that closet shut tight."
"You mean the Bluebeard's closet? The secret room where he hid his past? I have a pretty good idea of what Hannibal hides in there."
... But she wasn't talking about Hannibal Lecter. She wasn't talking about Lecter at all...
But it couldn't be… it couldn't… she would see…
... Didn't she see?
The image that had flashed through her mind on that first day ree-merged with a painful clarity, sinking its teeth into her thoughts.
The lone wolf lurking in the shadows, coiled with anticipation, nostrils flaring as it caught the scent of something out of reach... something… blood...
He tasted blood for the first time, and developed a craving.
She saw it, she did. Her instincts were screaming at her! She dismissed it… no, she forced herself to dismiss it… because it felt absurd, because it seemed impossible, because it was…
She was gasping for air; a sudden pressure anchored her shoulder, jarring her from her thoughts. Ardelia's face was right there, filled with concern, her hand resting firmly on Clarice's shoulder.
"Hey, you're scaring me. What's going on?" she asked, urgency lacing her voice.
Clarice could not answer, she could not form any words of reassurance. She almost had it, the picture; the truth. She needed to hold onto it; if she let it slip away, it would shatter, it would break apart, and she wouldn't be able to piece it back together. Doubt would seep in, and she'd find a way to dismiss everything… she couldn't trust herself just yet. She needed that final piece to complete the puzzle.
One more thing. Just one more piece that was laying forgotten. One more thing to finish the picture. Just one thing and she would know…
"D-do you have access to the forensic files?" Clarice's voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper.
"What?" Ardelia asked absentmindedly, still watching Clarice with concern.
"The FBI forensic files. Can you access them? Do you have the clearance?"
Ardelia's brow knitted in confusion. "Yeah, but—"
"Show me!" Clarice insisted, her tone sharp, almost frantic. "Open the files."
Ardelia hesitated, uncertainty shadowing her face.
"Are you sure you're okay…?"
Clarice shot up from her seat, the room spinning for a brief moment. When she placed her hand on Ardelia's shoulder, she wasn't sure if it was in desperation or to steady herself.
"Ardelia, please. Just do what I ask," Clarice pleaded.
Something about her expression must have convinced Ardelia; she swallowed hard and moved to the computer in the corner. After a moment of hesitation, she powered it on, still throwing worried glances back at Clarice.
Clarice's heart beat louder with each passing second, almost drowning out her thoughts.
"What am I looking for?" Ardelia asked, her fingers poised over the keyboard.
Clarice hesitated, the words caught in her throat. She didn't want to say it. She didn't want to see.
Don't open the door. Don't look. Don't open the door.
Taking a deep breath, Clarice forced the words out, though they tasted bitter as ash. "The autopsy photos of Francis Dolarhyde."
Ardelia froze for a moment, her gaze darting between Clarice's anguished expression and the screen. "What? Why...?"
Clarice didn't allow her to finish. "Just... do it."
With one last worried glance, Ardelia started typing. Seconds later, the screen lit up with images, the unsettling shapes reflecting in Ardelia's eyes. The colours bled together in shades of red, white, and black.
"Holy shit, what the hell is this?" Ardelia exclaimed, her eyes widening with shock and disgust.
Clarice knew she shouldn't look. She shouldn't. She should just walk away...
But she couldn't resist.
She took a step closer, standing right behind Ardelia, and forced her eyes onto the screen.
Her heart stopped. Everything began to fade away, as if she had suddenly plunged underwater. Even Ardelia's voice seemed muffled, distant and far away.
"Good God, he's… completely mutilated… seriously, what the fuck is that?"
The world seemed to slow down around her. The deafening roar of blood thrumming in her ears faded into silence.
The picture was complete; the truth lay bare before her.
In that wretched moment, she found her voice; the words falling from her lips with the weight of a thousand realizations.
"The primal nature unleashed at his awakening."
Will Graham stood in the nearly empty room, taking in the remnants of his life. Boxes were scattered about, some half-full and others wide open, their contents spilling out in a chaotic mess. Most labelled for donations.
By the door, a single suitcase held what was left of his belongings—small and barely packed. He glanced toward the opposite corner, where the boxes meant for his dogs were piled high and overflowing. It should probably sting a bit that his dogs had more personal items than he did.
He looked over at them, sprawled peacefully on their chairs. His eyes locked on to Winston.
This was the hardest part of it all. The dog had been there for years now; his presence grounding him when the world spun too fast.
With a heavy heart, Will approached Winston and gently scratched behind his ears, feeling the soft fur beneath his fingers as the dog shifted in his sleep. Reluctantly, he pulled his hand away.
He couldn't start doubting himself now. He had found them a good home—kind-hearted people who loved animals and had plenty of space for his pack to run free. Surely, they'd give them a better life than he could right now.
With a deep breath, Will exhaled the weight of his thoughts. There simply wasn't space for them in his life anymore.
The lights shining through his windows pulled Will out of his gloomy thoughts. Curious, he looked outside just in time to see a car pull up in front of his house. He squinted for a clearer view, and soon enough, he recognized the license plates he had come to know well.
Clarice Starling.
Will sighed to himself. Some of the tension in his shoulders eased, replaced by something else. Just another being he had grown fond of, who also had no place in his life now.
He pulled on a jacket and stepped outside to greet her, wondering briefly why she would show up this late in the evening. It was already dark outside, and he hadn't expected her, especially tonight. He assumed the Phantom Killer case would keep her occupied—or perhaps that was precisely why she was here?
A small smile played on his lips at the thought. Did she see something in the case, some inconsistencies that prompted her to rush over? Was she arriving like an eager student, ready to analyze and discuss?
But as he spotted her getting out of the car, his brow furrowed, and instincts kicked in.
Something was off about her. Even from a distance, he could see that her face was paler than usual, her movements more controlled than he was accustomed to, and her eyes dimmer than the last time he saw her.
And she was alone.
"Where are your bodyguards?" he called as she made her way toward the porch, her eyes zeroing in on him and never leaving.
"I ditched them," she replied bluntly, her voice hoarse and raw, as if she had spent the day shouting—or perhaps crying. "Told them I'd meet up with them later, but I came here instead."
Will's frown deepened. "Jack will sure have some loud opinions about that... Did something happen?"
"Yes." The word came out sharp, clipped, as she crossed her arms defensively. "I needed to talk to you."
"You could have called," he said, keeping a careful eye on her.
Clarice shook her head, and her eyes hardened. "It's not a phone call type of conversation."
Her voice was different too. There was a resolve to her that was unfamiliar—no hesitation, no awkwardness.
"Sounds intriguing." Will mused. "So, what was so urgent that you had to come rushing over? And why ditch your thin line of protection against Hannibal?"
A slight shift in her posture caught his attention, a small tell that spoke volumes. Something was troubling her. Deeply.
"Can we sit down?" she asked, her voice softening, though determination still flickered within it. She gestured to the porch chairs and settled into one before he could respond.
"We could go inside," Will suggested, noticing how she pulled her jacket tighter around herself against the biting cold. "It's getting chilly out here..."
"I'm fine," she cut in sharply, her voice betraying her with its quickness as her body tensed, clutching the jacket like a lifeline. The way she avoided his gaze now, darting her eyes away in a flash, set alarm bells ringing in his mind.
He lowered himself into a chair across from her, moving deliberately slow.
"Do you remember when we were at my place?" Clarice began, her voice trembling slightly as she looked down, her feet fidgeting as though the ground might give way. "We talked about my family, and you said… that something had scarred me back then."
Will tilted his head, caught off guard. This was not the conversation he'd been expecting. He fought the urge to chuckle—of all the topics she could have chosen, this was the furthest from his mind. It felt oddly nice to be surprised. He quickly masked his reaction, maintaining a neutral expression as he nodded at her.
She swallowed hard. "I want to share that story with you now."
His frown deepened. "What happened, Clarice? This seems rather... sudden."
Clarice's gaze flickered up, a sharpness creeping into her voice. "Or maybe it's been building up for a long time, and it's finally surfacing."
Without waiting for his response, her eyes became firm, conveying unspoken emotions—something raw and real. "I want to tell you a story. Will you listen?"
The intensity of her words made him pause, a wave of apprehension—or maybe excitement—running up his spine. Was this moment finally here? Could it be that she finally saw…?
He didn't hesitate. He nodded.
Clarice took a slow, deliberate breath, her voice quiet as she began:
"My father was a cop. He... died when I was ten, responding to a robbery. After that, it was just me and my mom. Then, it became just me, my mom, and cancer… and by the time I was eleven, it was just me." She paused, her voice growing thick, "They reached out to my mom's family—my uncle. We weren't close; my parents didn't stay in touch with them—but I guess... they felt obligated."
Will watched as Clarice looked down, her breath catching in her throat. "He was a stranger to me when he and his wife took me in to live with them on their farm. I spent a lot of time alone. My aunt and uncle were always busy, so it was just me... and the animals."
Will noticed her hand dig into her leg as if trying to anchor herself before slipping too far into the past. "One night," she continued, her voice trembling slightly, "I woke up in the middle of the night..."
"No. Something woke you up," Will interjected, his eyes closing a little. He couldn't help but let his empathy reach out, connecting with Clarice but not the one sitting in front of him now. He felt it deep within, that muffling fear of an eleven-year-old; alone, confused, sitting in darkness and listening to...
"There was this awful sound... a scream, a cry, like... like a child's voice." Clarice said, keeping her gaze downward, "I got up to see what was happening, and I immediately knew the screaming was coming from the barn. So, I made my way there. I stood by the door and..." A humourless laugh escaped her lips, "Maybe even back then, I shouldn't have opened those doors. But I did, and I peeked inside, and there they were. Just standing there—screaming. The sheep."
"The spring slaughter," Will murmured, his eyes still half-closed as he envisioned peering over those massive barn doors.
"I was just a girl." Clarice continued, "I was so young—too young to grasp the depth of what it meant to be terrified. But I could see it in their eyes. They were so small—utterly helpless, trapped in that pen. I just stood there... wishing I could save them."
She took a deep breath, gripping her knees tightly, her knuckles turning white again.
"I didn't know it then... but I... I think deep down, I felt it. There was something in their eyes that told me—they knew what was coming. They knew they were going to be slaughtered."
Her breath quickened, a frantic rhythm building in her chest; and Will felt it all—grief, fury, that raw helplessness of a child facing unimaginable cruelty.
"I remember one sheep in particular," Clarice continued, her voice thickening with emotion. "She was looking right back at me. I remember... those wide, fearful eyes piercing through me. She knew what was coming... she knew she was already lost."
Will's fist tightened, his mind aligning with hers as he envisioned that small girl trying to make sense of something so cruel, so far beyond her control.
"I had to do something... so I went to them," she said, her tone growing heavy. "No one was paying attention to me, and I opened the pen... but they wouldn't go. The door was wide open, but they just stayed there."
"They were trapped by their fear," Will murmured, felt his jaw clenched with frustration that wasn't his own. It belonged to that little girl who watched the lambs stay put when they could run; those innocent souls paralyzed in the face of their executioner, ensnared by terror—not needing a locked pen to keep them caged.
Clarice nodded, the same frustration showing on her face. "I didn't understand. They wouldn't leave. They just... stayed."
"And you were angry," Will added softly. "You didn't understand why they stayed there... why they didn't fight."
"I didn't know what to do," Clarice admitted, her voice trembling. "They were screaming so loud, and finally my uncle turned around and saw me. He realized I had opened the pen, and he started coming toward me, angry...and… and…"
"And you panicked," Will finished her thought gently.
"I grabbed one of the lambs—the one that had been looking at me—and I ran."
Will could almost see it: the little girl clutching a lamb almost as big as she was, those tiny legs rushing away, driven by adrenaline, leaving reason far behind.
"I thought if I could just get one out… get one to safety…" Clarice's voice wavered. "So I ran. I kept going until I was miles away. But I wasn't strong enough. I wasn't fast enough. Eventually, I just couldn't run anymore, and soon after, they found me—exhausted and scared and still clutching that lamb."
"You family was angry with you." Will said.
"Furious," Clarice corrected, pain flashing across her face. "That's when they decided I didn't fit in with them. They sent me to the orphanage."
"What happened to the lamb, Clarice?" Will asked softly, his voice a gentle nudge.
Her voice came out quieter and softer than before. "They slaughtered it. I saved it... and then it died. And I was sent away."
Will leaned in closer, his eyes searching hers. "You still hear them, don't you? The lambs crying out."
"Sometimes," Clarice admitted thickly.
Slowly, Will pulled back, shifting his focus from that little girl to the woman sitting in front of him now. Now seeing her clearer than before.
"That's why you're here, isn't it?" he said, taking in the flurry of emotions running through Clarice right now, "That's why you're so... determined. You joined the FBI to silence them. To silence the lambs."
Clarice didn't respond, but her gaze was fixed on him, absorbing every word.
"You wanted to find a place where saving the innocent is celebrated, not scorned. You want a place where no one looks down on you for doing what's right. That's why Jack has such a hold on you; he reminds you of your uncle, doesn't he? The angry man who stood in the way of your righteous acts."
He could see Clarice tensing up, her brows knitting together, yet he pressed on. "But deep down, it doesn't matter what he thinks. You don't care for his approval. What you truly desire is to save them. You want to save the look you saw in those lambs' eyes. You want to save the innocent from the darkness. From that pain and fear you heard in theirs screams."
"I want to save the powerless." Clarice said quietly, as if to herself, as if she was realizing something.
"Because the powerful preying on the powerless—that's the ugliest truth you've ever faced."
Will opened his eyes fully, getting himself away from the realm of emotions and back to the cold present. Clarice was watching him, a perplexing expression on her face, her lips pressed into a thin line. The way she looked at him was different now; it wasn't the soft admiration or confusion he was used to.
He saw her more clearly in that moment, and he couldn't shake the thought that perhaps, just maybe, she was finally seeing him as well...
Clarice shut her eyes for a moment, squeezing them tight as if trying to block out images her mind insisted on showing. And instead of catching a glimpse of what she was seeing, Will leaned back in his chair, and asked:
"Why did you choose to share that story now? Coming all this way so late?"
She inhaled deeply, her posture shifting as she leaned forward to the edge of her seat. "There are… two reasons."
Will tensed instinctively, his eyes narrowing in on her. He remained perfectly still, every nerve in him alive, processing her every movement, her every breath. "And what are those reasons?"
"One is... a bit selfish," she said slowly, as if weighing her words carefully before offering them to him. "You... You're the first person I've ever told this story to, you know? I kept it buried—never shared it with anyone: not the staff at the orphanage, not my teachers, not my friends, not even in those therapy sessions I was forced to attend. No one." Her voice cracked at the end, but she quickly masked it with a hollow laugh.
"So why tell me now?" he asked, his voice low and searching.
Clarice let her head drop for a moment, her hair falling in front of her face as she wiped a hand across her forehead. She inhaled deeply. "I wanted understanding. I knew you'd see it through my eyes. Literally." Another laugh slipped out, devoid of any humour "I don't think about those days much. I've been too afraid to look back. I thought you could look for me."
"So, you used me as your personal mirror."
Her gaze lifted then, meeting his without flinching. "Told you it was a bit selfish."
Will tiled his head. He'd always known there was something underneath Clarice's innocent facade. But now, there was something even more haunting in the way she spoke. There was a raw vulnerability in her that struck him in an unfamiliar, stinging way—he was strangely... proud.
"What's the second reason?" he asked, maintaining an even tone, although a hint of curiosity coloured his words.
Clarice wiped her face again— Will couldn't tell if she was wiping away tears or just trying to stop them from falling.
"Reciprocity," she said, her voice cracking at the edges. She stood up then, the motion sharp and sudden.
Will's eyes followed her every movement as she stepped away, crossing to the porch bar before letting out a soft huff of frustration.
She began pacing. Back and forth. Each step deliberate, each full of tension.
"I wanted to have an honest conversation. I thought... if I shared this part of myself, you'd feel obligated to do the same. I… this is the only story I have to offer, Will. I'm not hiding anything else, so... I hope it's enough to coax you into sharing yours."
Will leaned forward in his chair, his fingers tapping against the armrest, his expression hardening. Clarice resumed her pacing, slipping in and out of his peripheral vision like a fleeting shadow.
"What story do you want to hear from me?" Will asked, his voice low.
Clarice halted abruptly, just behind him… and he knew.
He didn't need to turn around; he could feel it—her absolute stillness.
And then, the click—the unmistakable sound of metal shifting and locking into place.
He knew what he would find before he turned to face her and saw her standing there—gun in hand, aimed directly at him. The barrel didn't waver. Her grip was tight, controlled, betraying no hint of doubt.
But even without that gun, he would know.
Her face was cold and composed—but she couldn't hide the pain, anger, and betrayal glimmering in her eyes. A single tear fell slowly, trailing down her cheek.
"I was hoping you'd tell me the story of how you became the Phantom Killer." Her voice didn't tremble, not even a fraction.
Will felt the corner of his lips twitching upwards.
She could see him now.