Chapter Text
Bedelia du Maurier was a good therapist, in her time, except when she wasn’t. She would admit, if you confronted her, that her murder of a patient was not her being a good therapist. She would further go on to explain that it was because of the most notable patient in her career: Hannibal Lecter.
She’d retired from the practice, but he had demanded she keep seeing him, so she did. She was afraid: for herself, for Hannibal, for whoever interacted with him. So she kept seeing him.
She breathed a sigh of relief when missive of the Chesapeake murders reached her. After all, Hannibal had certainly talked about how enthused he was for the conference. Notably, he said he’d have the opportunity to meet Will Graham- he certainly had went. And died, apparently.
She was eager for a truly relaxed retirement. Hannibal Lecter, after all, was a man the world was better without. She was certainly better without him.
Life did become an almost sort of lonelier, after. Through it, Bedelia felt dull, as though life was simply less substantial. She did everything in an unreal haze.
Hannibal Lecter, her main human connection, was dead. She was well aware that she was misanthropic, and thought she preferred it that way. Everything was sharpened. She lived on a hair trigger instead of Hannibal’s knife edge.
She took the cork out of her nicest red wine and obsessively checked for news. They were calling the murders the Chesapeake Rippings, and starting to investigate for bodies.
They found nine. Ten guests, counting the Verger twins, were supposed to have attended. Some of them couldn’t be identified, but nobody could have entered the island. So nine of the ten had died, and Bedelia was terrified again.
She knew that Hannibal Lecter had a hand. The only question was why he would kill the other nine, in such an array of ways, but Bedelia no longer considered it her responsibility to understand him.
Would he come for her? To kill, to keep, to converse; any were dangerous. What could he want from her?
She woke at any noise, shivered in the night under layers of blankets. The peace she had felt was gone, and in its place a low-burning surety that Hannibal would find her again.
A knock came on the door. It was too dark for Bedelia to see who it was. Still, she peered through the peephole. Another knock, and Bedelia startled back, full-body shudder rolling through her from fear. Then she stood, straight, brave.
She pulled the door open.
The visage of a man totally unfamiliar to her stood in her doorstep. His dark curly hair was wet and matted, and his clothing was flecked with water. He was rather damp everywhere.
“Bedelia du Maurier?” said the man. “Are you accepting new patients? My name is Will Graham.”