Carnivore, Won't You Come Digest Me?

Chapter 7

The next day, Hannibal drives up to and parks outside of Will's house. It is a lovely building in a rich part of town, and he knows his beaten-up vehicle looks out of place amongst the shiny BMWs and Lincoln town cars. There is a space next to Will's car and he parks there, turning off the engine and climbing out of the car.

He walks up to the door and knocks, receiving no answer.

He frowns. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't be worried, but Will had antagonized a killer not even twenty-four hours previously, and his car is parked outside. He knocks again, and when he still hears no movement from inside, he checks the handle.

The door is unlocked, and swings inward after he turns the handle. Hannibal's frown deepens, he presses his lips together, and slowly slides his gun from the hostler at his side. He cradles the gun gently and steps in, closing the door behind him.

"Will?" he calls, stalking down the dark hallway. He doesn't see any signs of a scuffle, no wayward shoes kicked to one side or coats ripped from their hangers in the hallway closet. There is a light on at the end of the hallway and he walks towards it, trying to stay as silent as possible.

"Will?" he calls again, and reaches into his pocket to take out his phone in case he needs to call for backup. He passes a doorway and spies a kitchen inside, plainly decorated. Nothing appears out of order, and the room is dark. He continues down the hallway towards where the light is.

He doesn't hear any movement upstairs. The door beyond is half-cocked, letting a shaft of light in. Hannibal presses close to it and spies a dining area beyond. He can see the shadow of someone sitting at the end of the table, like they're waiting for him.

He pushes the door open, gun ready, and freezes when Will looks up at him, his eyes flashing in surprise. Will tenses, breathing out shakily when Hannibal straightens and lowers his gun. "Good lord," he mutters, wiping his hand over his face. The table is empty and in front of him sits an iPad and a notebook. "Gonna give people heart attacks, skulking around like that."

"I called for you," Hannibal says, putting his gun and phone away. "You didn't answer," he adds, somewhat sharply.

"You did?" Will asks, his brow furrowing. Then he sighs and shakes his head. "Sorry. I was...lost in thought. I'm sorry I didn't come meet you to help you move things."

"I could have been anyone," Hannibal says curtly, stepping into the room and leaving the door open. "You ought to be more careful."

Will offers him a tight smile. Then, his eyes go back to the iPad, and his expression darkens. "Do you read a lot of Miss Lounds' work?" he asks.

Hannibal cocks his head to one side. "When it is entertaining," he replies, approaching Will. Will huffs, his mouth tight with anger. "What is it?"

"See for yourself," Will mutters, and turns the iPad so Hannibal can see. He picks it up, his eyes alighting on a photograph of himself and Will, standing close together outside of the Opera House. He frowns – this was taken from last night. Hannibal recognizes Will's body language as when he had been apologizing for lying about the nature of his ex-husband.

The title reads, in big block font: FBI GETS A LITTLE TOO UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL.

"What is this?" Hannibal growls, sitting down at Will's side.

Will rolls his eyes. "Apparently Miss Lounds is under the impression that your marriage to me is news-worthy."

"She spoke to you at the crime scene," Hannibal notes, scrolling through the article, skimming over the text. "She has made some...rather disparaging remarks about us both."