Will Graham is dragged back into the force by the firm hand of Jack Crawford.
While The Dragon hunts in the shadows, waiting for the next moon.
Hannibal Lecter abides patiently within the walls of his cell to begin the games once more with the cro...
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The letter would remain within the dark prisms and vaults in his mind forever. It was, when he looked back on it, the beginning of everything.
It was a small little thing, with dark slashes of ink curved elegantly across the crisp pale paper — Dear Will
His heart ached, even just for a moment. He could almost hear him.
We have all found a new life, but our old lives hover in the shadows, like incipient madness. Soon enough, I fear Jack Crawford will come knocking. I would encourage you, as a friend , not to step back through the door he holds open. It's dark on the other side and madness is waiting....
Will did nothing but watch it burn, the pale parchment disappearing in a hazy hiss of smoke. He would miss it, with a wild beating heart — the kind that Molly could never know.
•••
The Leeds home was a dreary place, filled with dark concealed windows and overgrown weeds that festered past the white-picket fence. He hated it on sight, it was everything his father had wanted, it was why his mother had left — Will shook his head, dark curls brushing gently past his brows.
His fingers drummed against the leather of the car wheel, muscles trembling with a fierce shudder as he nauseatingly gnawed at his bottom lip. Nobody was with him. He couldn't bear the thought. Will preferred to be alone, loneliness was a gift in matters such as these.
He opened the car door quietly, removing himself with all the gentleness of foot — he didn't wish to disturb the dead.
Will quietly shuffled under the weight of the shadowed trees, boots snapping the odd leaf and twig. The manor-house was the largest in the neighbourhood, surrounded by tall, dark, towering woods. It was everything his childhood home hadn't been; rich, decorative, beautiful, and enlightening. A small boat docked in the marina was nothing compared to this.
A car or two whistled past, a humming groaning sound as some of them slowed, heads poking out of the backseat windows as they peered at the strange man that looked up and up. The house had a visitor, draped in an old woollen coat, the kind that was beneath their notice. It was of a poorly kind, the strange man, in their eyes, did not belong.
He entered the house like he did mostly everything, quietly and without a single sound. It was a barren place, stripped of the necessities, the items that had belonged to the owners had long since been removed. All that was left was the evidence, untouched and bare for his eyes only.
It was a miracle, he wondered, that Freddie Lounds had yet to climb through the front window. She probably already had, it wouldn't surprise him in the slightest. He grimaced, feet anxiously stepping over the shattered glass — an accident of some kind, the murderer had not left that there.
The kitchen, he quickly realised, was the nicest part of the house. Hann— he would have loved it. The dark wooden bench glittered cleanly, painted and made from the finest of wood. If that was not beautiful, it was the marble floors that were scattered across the kitchen, lined with gold and silver as if the Ichor of the Gods had been spilt at whim. It was a home that had been treasured, loved and coveted by those that had owned it.
