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Chapter 2 - Week 1
Monday, 2:55 PM

"Sorry I couldn't get you something fancier."

I swallowed the six fries I'd stuffed into my mouth.

"Is fine," I mumbled, covering my mouth with one hand. "This is comfort food, which I need."

Detective Lawson relaxed in her seat. She took a sip from her diet coke.

"I probably should have asked this first," she said. "How do you like Dr. Lecter?"

Taking a bite out of my hamburger, I shrugged. "Too soon to tell. You were right about him being smart."

"I've been told he can be quite..."

"Impersonal?" I offered. "Cold?"

"You don't like him."

I studied an old grease stain on the table.

"I think if you are regarded as highly as he is, it's not because you're personable," came my careful response. "He's one of the most objective people I've ever met. Which is good. I don't need another person feeling pity for me. He's doing his job."

She released a sigh at that.

"We've tried this before. Handing off some of our victims who survived traumatic ordeals, to him. They're not as...receptive to his treatment as you are."

"I'm not under the impression he's there to cure me."

"On that topic, how've you been feeling since the new medication?"

"More balanced," I answered honestly. "Some semblance of happy, even, if that's possible."

"I'm really glad."

We finished our meals in comfortable silence.

Afterwards, I let her drive me home. That silence was a little less amicable, due to the conversation that arose.

"Reporters are a nuisance," she mentioned off-handedly. "We're fighting them left and right, trying to protect your identity."

Frowning, I turned to her.

"Grace-."

She'd never heard me use her first name before. It was a minor detail I remember absorbing from the police officer who handed me off to her. I used it now to relay my unhappiness with the subject matter.

"-I will never get peace if they learn my name. I can imagine it already. Non stop phone calls, reporters crowded in my front lawn, getting asked to be on talk shows-it's repulsive. No one can know I'm the victim that got away from him."

"They won't," she promised. "You're legally protected. It's just become...difficult. Your situation-."

"I'm not a situation," I snapped, twisting my head away to peer into the darkness. "I'm a human being. Is it too much to ask that I be treated like one?"

Detective Lawson didn't respond to that.

Only when she stopped outside my house, did she speak again.

"Someone on the force has been spilling sensitive information to a reporter. We don't know who it is or how they receive their information. I'm sorry."

"Do they know-?"

"No," she insisted, turning to me. "Only a handful of detectives know who you are. Your information is locked away, and not easily accessible."

I nodded, staring ahead. "But, you are warning me."

Her sigh worried me.

"Yes. Until we find out who it is and just how much access to information they have, there remains a danger that your connection to the Topeka murders can be discovered."

"Great."

"Robin."

Evening out my expression, I looked at her.

"I understand your frustration, both with myself and the police force. You gave us a goldmine of information, and we still haven't managed to catch the bastard yet. You and everyone he's ever harmed, deserve justice. We will find him."

I had so many counterpoints to respond with, but thought better of it and stayed quiet. Clearly, this felt cathartic for Detective Lawson to say. For the moment, I'd allow her her false sense of security. Which sounds mean, doesn't it? But she was so convinced Thomas was just a step away from being caught. I wasn't in the mood to argue that he wasn't.

"I'm heading to Topeka tomorrow morning," she announced. "Is there anything you want me to get from your house? I'll be doing a quick debriefing with your father and stepmother about how you've been holding up."

"No, I'm all set." I paused. "Don't tell him about the medication I'm on. He still thinks the money he sends each week, is being used on groceries and going out."

"Do you think that's best?"

My glare caused her to drop her eyes to her lap.

"I know it's tempting to get lost in his 'oh, my poor daughter' facade," I said, unable to keep the anger absent from my voice, "but, he doesn't give a damn about me. Not the way he should. If he found out I'm getting help for my depression, he would stop playing the role of the concerned father in a heartbeat."

After a few seconds of tense silence, she nodded.

"Grace," I reaffirmed, "please, don't say anything. To him, normality equal stability. Trust me, it's best he doesn't know."

"Okay," she agreed, meeting my eyes. "I won't tell him."

I released a sigh, sinking back into the seat. My eyes returned ahead, fixing themselves on the nearest streetlamp.

"I just wish...you had someone."

My heart warmed at the sentiment. This seemed to be the only positive to result from the aftermath of all that had happened. I got assigned to be looked after someone who actually gave a damn about my well being. And even though that contact would end permanently tomorrow (she had a job, after all) I knew if I ever needed anything, she'd answer my phone call and do her best to help.

"If you ever need something-."

I smiled in the darkness, wishing I could properly illustrate my gratitude. I always got so tongue tied around people who went out of their way to make my comfort, their priority. Because so little of it occurred in my life, there wasn't a familiar incident I could tap into to express what I felt.

"-call me."

"I will."

We traded a few last minute pleasantries before I exited the vehicle. With a final wave, she sped off.

Thursday, 2:01 PM

Dr. Lecter's muteness made me nervous. Other than a cordial 'hello' and 'come in' (this time around, he greeted me at his door) the man was all but silent. His eyes were focused on the notepad and papers on his lap, and after a minute of no communication, I started to feel a little on edge.

"I must apologize for how our last session ended," he announced. "I normally don't have such rude interruptions."

"It's alright," I assured, glancing at the door. "I noticed your lack of a secretary today."

Glancing up, Dr. Lecter kept his face neutral.

"A permanent reassignment. "

I nodded, unsure what to say.

"Is it cold in here?" he asked, eyes falling to the sleeves of my coat. "I am happy to adjust the temperature."

In any other circumstance, I would have thought the suggestion sincere and nothing more than what it was. However, the room was toasty already and from what I observed previously of Dr. Lecter, I knew there was a hidden point to his asking. In fact, I knew exactly what way he hoped to steer the conversation.

"I'm fine, thank you." His lips briefly quirked up at the swift response. "You're very clothed for such a comfortable room temperature. Feel free to shed a layer or two, Doctor."

I'd meant for it to come out as a challenge, proving I wasn't intimidated by his questions. Unfortunately, my tone was a little more...breathy than I intended. And the slow smirk spreading across Dr. Lecter's face, only served to heighten my own embarrassment. I could feel the fire erupting in my cheeks.

"If the presence of clothing bothers you, I can suggest another activity that may satisfy your appetite."

My throat closed up.

"No thank you," I mumbled, unable to maintain eye contact.

The sudden tension in the room made it difficult to breathe evenly. In part, I was taken aback at how easily he managed to wrestle the control from me. In any conversation topic, Dr. Lecter was not a man easily ruffled.

"Detective Lawson left today," I offered, wishing to diverge the subject to safer waters. "She and the others on the case, are going to be re-investigating the warehouse I escaped from."

A glance up at Dr. Lecter sent a wave of relief through me. Once more, he appeared composed and analytical.

"You believe it is a pointless venture."

"He doesn't leave behind anything unless he wants to."

Dr. Lecter nodded. He peeked at his lap.

"Do you remember what I said to you during our last session? About wanting to hear details from you as if the incident just occurred."

I nodded.

"I hope to still incorporate this. Because of the security doctor-patient confidentiality offers, very little of what you say, unless it involves harming yourself or someone else, will go past these walls."

"But you have an obligation," I pointed out. "To tell the police any critical information."

"I do," he agreed, smiling briefly. "But I also have an obligation to create an atmosphere where you are able to freely discuss your thoughts, no matter how mundane or unconventional they may be. I maintain what I said about wishing to know you, Miss Heleski. I am not here to lay judgment, only make helpful observations that may aid you in moving past this event. Merely regurgitating the details of what occurred, will not contribute to any meaningful progress."

"Have I been regurgitating things?"

"Quite the opposite. I find your honesty, refreshing."

I studied him for a moment. "How unconventional am I allowed to be?"

"The very nature of the human being is submerged beneath social rules and conditioned behavior. Without a strong sense of right and wrong ingrained in us from infancy, you'll find that our thoughts are not as orthodox. Often, I encounter people who struggle to explain their true thoughts while balancing the obligation to respond according to how you have been taught to."

Though he spoke hypothetically, his words made my chest ache. I understood what he wanted from me, but I wasn't sure if I could release that level of honesty. My own thoughts terrified me at times. I carried the belief that burying them would be a safer alternative to saying them aloud.

"Food for thought," Dr. Lecter remarked, sensing my unease. "I don't mean to impose regulations on what you divulge. Though, it is worth noting that you are handling your traumatic experience better than many would in your situation."

"It's almost been a month. You have to move on eventually."

Dr. Lecter narrowed his gaze as he searched my face. I attempted to remain expressionless, but it was a tough feat under his scrutiny.

"Are you currently on anti-depressants, legally or otherwise?"

"Yes," I answered. "Detective Lawson recommended a psychiatrist to me from a Baltimore mental health hospital. I think Dr. Frederick Chilton was his name? We managed a way for me to get prescriptions without it showing up on my father's insurance."

His jaw tightened.

"I needed them," I insisted, not thrilled about his displeasure. "Or I'd be in a much worse place."

"I don't disagree with that."

He didn't elaborate, and I chose not to pursue it.

"There is, however, a mild concern I have about whether the medication is inhibiting your mind's ability to process your experiences."

"Is it not enough that I'm balanced for the first time in forever?" I defended. "Am I expected to cry and snivel too, as I recount those three weeks in captivity? Do you want me to groan about how unfair it is that this is happening to me? Would that make your job easier? More entertaining?"

I was suddenly leaning forward in my chair, filled with a whirlwind of pent up energy. It felt as if he were blaming me for this rare inner peace I was experiencing, no doubt due to the medication. I didn't take kindly to it.

"Just because I'm handling my situation better than most, does not mean it's preventing me from coming to terms with what happened."

Dr. Lecter's posture remained stiff, though his tone thankfully softened. "I've upset you."

Rather than answer, I stood. Not wishing to face him, my feet wandered to the nearest bookshelf. He didn't comment when I stopped in front of the shelf and lowered my head, back facing him. One hand crawled out from beneath my coat sleeve. I used it to peel back the sleeve of my opposite arm.

Something harsh pinched my chest as I observed the long, marred scar straddling the middle of my wrist. Gritting my teeth, my nails bit down into the skin. I shut my eyes.

A low, strained sound escaped my throat. I worked on drawing out my breaths.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

When the ache became nothing more than a dull pressure, I opened my eyes and retracted my nails. Three bloody, crescent shaped indents greeted me.

I blinked once.

"Here, let me."

Nearly jumping at his sudden presence, I turned to him, eyes wide. Dr. Lecter gently grasped my wrist and with his free hand, pulled out a white handkerchief from his pocket. With a near non-existent pressure, he dabbed at the small wounds. I focused on the rough pads of his fingers, never once tightening on my wrist. Out of nowhere, a wave of exhaustion crashed into me.

"How many hours of sleep do you get?"

He asked this without once looking up at me.

"Five, if I'm lucky. I used to take sleeping pills, but had to stop because they didn't mix well with the anti-depressants."

Dabbing one final speckle of blood, Dr. Lecter lifted the handkerchief, his thumb softly brushing over the scar. It was an oddly tender moment, and rather than feel it inappropriate, I was thankful for the gesture.

"Do you suffer from nightmares?"

I found it difficult to lie at such a close proximity. I felt as if Dr. Lecter would immediately be able to detect it.

"No. It's more of...what if scenarios. I blame myself a lot."

"You have no reason to."

I lowered my wrist. "I know. It's a flaw that's always existed in me."

My eyes wandered down to my wrist.

"How long have you used your nails to harm yourself?"

Inhaling, I looked up at him. Amidst the unsteadiness I felt, his hard gaze was an anchor. How odd it was that his eyes could both be a source of unease and stability.

"Ever since I escaped from the warehouse," I admitted. "But, I view it less as self harm and more of coping. It grounds me anytime my emotions get to be too much or I go to a place I can't handle."

"This is not the same coping method you used, prior to your encounter with Thomas?"

The weight of what I wished to say, sank down on my tongue. Dr. Lecter, ever perceptive, patiently watched the emotions filter across my face.

"No," I finally answered, glancing down. "Um, about nine years back, I was babysitting my stepsister, Erica. I think one of my stepmom's clients had invited her and dad to a wedding, so they were going to come home late. At the time, Erica was always hyper. Her mom wasn't too concerned with what she ate, so she'd be pumped up with sugar and energy almost every night. I didn't see it happen, only heard her scream and the sound of something shatter on the floor. She had tripped and ran full force into this ugly, antique cheval mirror my dad had. I think he liked the Baroque design around it. She wasn't hurt too badly, just had a huge bump on her forehead. But, she did manage to knock the mirror over. There was glass everywhere and she was lucky she didn't cut open her foot."

"What was your father's reaction to Erica's clumsiness?"

My lips twisted into a humorless smile. "Erica cried so much after I cleaned her up. She was eight at the time. She'd seen my dad get angry at me before, and she didn't want that anger directed at her. So, I took the blame. My dad was livid, of course, but nothing he said wasn't something I hadn't heard before."

I tilted my head.

"The thing about my dad," I explained, "is that he never gets physical and never yells. He's so calm in his anger that you almost manage to convince yourself that what he's saying, isn't abusive."

When Dr. Lecter remained silent, I glanced up.

"Sorry, I think I got off track a bit."

"It is your time to talk about whatever you wish," he soothed.

My eyes found the clock in the room. Not even a full five minutes remained.

Dr. Lecter followed my gaze.

"Would you be opposed to extending your thirty minute sessions to a full hour?"

When I didn't answer right away, Dr. Lecter turned to me, brows slightly raised.

"I-sure. If you think it's necessary."

"I do. Beginning next session, if that is permissible."

"Okay."

Before I could take a step toward the door, Dr. Lecter spoke again.

"Your method of self harm?"

"The shards of glass from the mirror," I answered, nearly forgetting why I had brought up the memory. "I kept pieces of them, under my mattress. For whenever..."

The temptation of the door and the freedom outside it, called to me. Dr. Lecter was, thankfully, sympathetic.

"Until next time, Miss Heleski."

I nodded and without another glance his way, headed to the door.

Once the door was firmly shut, Hannibal walked back to his chair and sat. He lifted the handkerchief he'd been grasping in his right hand, spotted with blood, up to his nose. A moment later and he slowly inhaled, eyes closing.

He relaxed in his chair. The aroma forced a deep, pleased sigh out of his throat. Hannibal smiled.