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Molly Foster Graham had believed naively up to the moment that her husband jumped off a cliff with a notorious serial killer — and even for some time after that — that Will Graham genuinely cared about her. Maybe he had, once upon a time, but it was no longer easy to believe so. Not after he left her and her son Wally in the hospital for the man that had made their life living hell.
Dr. Hannibal Lecter. She didn’t want to ever hear that name again, but it was inevitable, with their faces plastered all over the news. LIVE UPDATES: Notorious serial killer Hannibal the Cannibal escapes from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane with former FBI special agent Will Graham, the headlines screamed, right next to photos of Dr. Lecter and her husband. It was hard enough when Molly thought that Will had sacrificed himself to rid the world of a serial killer by tackling him off the side of the cliff; it was much more difficult when rumors started spreading that he had willingly gone over the cliff with Dr. Lecter after they murdered a man together. She had turned the hospital TV off after the idea first surfaced, her stomach churning nauseatingly.
It’s not true, she told herself over and over again. It’s not true. Will was a good man.
Will was a good man.
She didn’t want to think about how she was already thinking about him the past tense.
But the damage was done. Even as mainstream news cautioned that this speculation was not in line with the FBI’s official story, the doubt had wormed its way into Molly’s mind. Will had always been closed off when it came to his past. She knew that he had a history with Dr. Hannibal Lecter. The sloping scar across Will’s belly and another scar over his right eyebrow were a testament to the times he’d clashed with the serial killer before he helped put him behind bars three years ago. She also knew that he’d had problems with tabloid journalists spreading falsehoods about him.
Except now she didn’t know what to believe.
At first, Molly held off on searching for information about Will’s past. She’d resisted the curiosity for the two years that they’d been together, so what was a while longer? She was comforted by her family and friends and treated like the widow of a hero who sacrificed his life to take down serial killers. But with it came the relentless pestering from journalists and news outlets who clambered to get interviews with her. In particular, the tabloid journalist that Will had warned her about, Freddie Lounds, was persistent even after she consistently closed the door in her face. Eventually, the curiosity became too much to ignore.
Most of the information online was stuff Molly already knew: that Will started out working as a homicide detective and then became a teacher at the FBI academy in Quantico, Virginia. That the Head of the FBI Behavioral Sciences Unit, Jack Crawford, recruited him to help catch serial killers because of his ability to empathize with them. That he was put under the unofficial care of psychiatrist Hannibal Lecter, and that he suffered from increasingly severe breakdowns and was briefly hospitalized. That he was integral to capturing Dr. Lecter and putting him behind bars, but not before the doctor gave him several scars.
What she hadn’t known is that he’d left homicide because he couldn’t pull the trigger and suffered from mental breakdowns. That his breakdowns were partially because of undiagnosed encephalitis, or that he was hospitalized at the BSHCI because Dr. Lecter had framed him for his crimes. That Dr. Lecter had actually turned himself in instead of Will capturing him. That there were rumors that he and Dr. Lecter had a much more complicated relationship than merely psychiatrist and patient or law enforcement and serial killer.
Eventually, Molly found herself at Tattlecrime.com, run by none other than Freddie Lounds. It sickened her to see that the tabloid journalist was already advertising the upcoming release of her exposé book on Will, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
She hadn’t known that his empathy disorder only seemed to extend to serial killers and no one else.
She hadn’t known that the reason why he was recommended to Dr. Lecter in the first place was because he’d pulled the trigger on a serial killer ten times and landed every single bullet.
She hadn’t known that while he was in the BSHCI, he tried to have Dr. Lecter murdered by sending an orderly after him (and almost succeeded).
She hadn’t known that he had chased Dr. Lecter all the way to Italy without the direction of the FBI, or that he had lured Dr. Lecter into a trap once before by murdering and pretending to murder several people, or that Dr. Lecter had carved up a man into an anatomical heart for him.
The sweet Will Graham that she knew, the one who loved dogs and fishing and was a good husband and stepfather to her son, was not this Will Graham. This Will Graham was a murderer. This Will Graham was an unstable recluse who was drawn inexplicably to his psychiatrist even after figuring out that he was the Chesapeake Ripper.
This Will Graham was the one that left Molly and her son to jump off a cliff with a serial killer.
Molly dry-heaved over the toilet and cried until there were no tears left to shed.
☙ ⛾ ❧
Reba McClane didn’t have time to process that Francis Dolarhyde had not died in front of her before she learned that he was dead for real this time.
It didn’t matter at this point whether he was dead or alive. She still woke up screaming from nightmares of being tied up in the back of his rattling van, his painful grip on her face as he whispered hoarsely about his brilliance, the stench of gasoline in her nostrils, the burning heat and the crack of the shotgun and the hand she placed in what she had thought was his brains...and the pure, pulsating fear of thinking that she was going to burn to death in his house.
The smoke still hung in her nostrils, an insidious smell of burning hair that could not be shaken even as day passed into night passed into day again. The nurses marveled over how her burns were much better than they could’ve been: mostly first- and second-degree burns, only requiring a hospital stay of several days. Reba took this information in silence. She didn’t need other people to tell her that she was good at staying alive.
As numb and shellshocked as she was, Reba didn’t expect the next visitor to her hospital room to be Jack Crawford and not Will Graham.
She didn’t expect to hear that the man who had almost killed her — who said he loved her and professed his impulses to take her life in the same breath — who had shot himself after leaving her in his burning house — was actually alive and had paid Will Graham a visit.
She didn’t expect to hear that not only had the body she’d put her hand in not been D’s, but he was now actually dead, and at the hands of Will Graham.
She didn’t expect to hear that Will Graham and the infamous serial killer Hannibal the Cannibal, who had escaped from the BSHCI around the same time, were nowhere to be found.
On second thought, numb and shellshocked were good. They meant that she took in the information without really processing it, without applying real-world logic to it or comprehending fully that it had happened. Numb meant that she didn’t have to think about how good being with D had felt, or how she had attracted a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Numb meant she didn’t feel the pain of knowing that she’d been so careless and trusting, had allowed herself to think that she had found a true gentleman.
Numb meant that she didn’t think about how she’d fallen in love with a serial killer.
Numb meant that she didn’t think about how another potential serial killer had comforted her in this very hospital room only a few days before.
Numb meant that she didn’t think.
☙ ⛾ ❧
Recovering, like anything else, took time.
Molly didn’t know if she would ever recover.
While she stayed in the hospital, Wally stayed with her mother. They didn’t talk about Will during his visits, but she knew they were only staving off the inevitable. She didn’t know how she was going to do it; Wally was eleven going on twelve, too young to grasp the enormity of the situation but too old to be given a half-assed or sugarcoated story. Her mother was far more perceptive. The weight in her shoulders, the glint of anger in her eyes over the pain Will had dealt her daughter, the way that she gently steered the conversation away from the tragedy — everything spoke to her understanding of the situation.
Molly wished that she could be a child again, gratefully letting her mother deal with the difficult real-life problems, but she couldn’t. She was a mother now, too, and she had to be there for Wally.
The first few days out of the hospital passed in a blur. Molly took leave off from work, and her mother stayed with her and Wally for support. But she should’ve known that if she didn’t talk to Wally about what happened, he would learn about it from other, less desirable sources.
That day came all too soon.
“Is it true?” he demanded when he got home from school, throwing his backpack onto the ground. “The kids at school are saying that Will... That he... Tommy — Tommy’s mom —” He swallowed and squared his shoulders. “They say he murdered a man and ran away with a serial killer. He left us for a murderer! He’s a murderer!”
Molly stepped forward, her stomach clenching in knots and threatening to empty its meager contents; she hadn’t eaten in many hours. “Wally —”
“No!” he shouted, stepping back. “Don’t lie to me!” Tears streamed down his flushed cheeks. “I promised Dad I would take care of you! And I —” He sniffled and blinked rapidly. “I failed.”
“Oh, sweetie...” Molly swept her son up in her arms and held him tightly as his tiny body shook with sobs. “You didn’t fail,” she whispered in his ear, her grip loving and fierce, running her hand through his hair over and over again. “It’s not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault.”
Even in her crushing grip, she could feel Wally shaking his head vigorously.
“It’s Will’s fault,” he sobbed angrily into her chest. “It’s all his fault.”
Her heart broke, and she merely squeezed him tighter. For what could she say to that?
☙ ⛾ ❧
Reba’s therapist suggested that she find others who had gone through similar traumas. (Reba’s therapist suggested a lot of things, most of which were inanely unhelpful.) But for whatever reason, this particular piece of advice stuck in her head far after her appointment.
The first person she thought of was Will Graham’s wife. Maybe it was because of the kindness Will had shown her in the hospital (or maybe it’s because he was a serial killer, just like D, her mind screamed), but she figured that his wife fit the bill — at least, as close as she was going to be able to find. How common could it possibly be to fall in love with a serial killer and escape enlightened but ultimately unharmed?
Define unharmed, her mind said. Reba ignored it.
Once she set her mind to something, it was nearly impossible to shake her of it. She found, after a little bit of digging, where Will had settled with his wife; she hoped that she hadn’t moved to a different location yet. Reba took a taxi there the next day. She had to pay the driver extra money, both for the cabin’s remote location and for him to wait for her. She shook off the driver’s worried questions about whether or not she would be fine walking up the long gravel road by herself and got out of the car, unfolding her cane. The walk up to the cabin wasn’t anywhere near as bad as her taxi driver made it out to be; it was the cabin’s weirdly high porch and impossible-to-find stairs that were the problem. Finally, she found them and made her way onto the porch. Must be an entire story off the ground, she thought, holding slightly tighter to her cane. She rang the doorbell. Somewhere inside the cabin, dogs barked.
After what felt like an eternity, Reba heard the lock turn and the door open, except it sounded as if the occupant hadn’t opened the door more than an inch or two.
“Can I help you?” The woman’s voice was wary and tired, rough from disuse or crying or both.
Reba cleared her throat and turned her head in the direction of the voice. “Molly Foster Graham?”
A beat of silence. “I’m not taking interviews.”
The door hinge creaked as the woman began to close the door.
“I’m not a reporter,” Reba said quickly. The creaking stopped, and the air around them moved as the door opened slightly more than before. Reba folded up the cane and held out her hand. “Reba McClane. I’m... Maybe you’ve heard of me.”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“I...” Reba trailed off; she hadn’t planned this far. How was she supposed to introduce herself? ‘Hi, you remember the psycho who tried to kill your family and was sent to do so by the serial killer your husband jumped off a cliff with? I was sort of dating him.’ ? “I suppose you’ve been avoiding the news,” Reba said carefully, hand still extended. “I don’t blame you. I, uh. I knew D — the Red Dragon, I guess they’re calling him. I was the unfortunate sort-of girlfriend.”
A warm, firm hand gripped hers and shook it. “It’s just Molly Foster now,” the woman said. “Or it will be, once the paperwork goes through.” Her voice was dry and sardonic, but not unfriendly. “Can I help you with something?”
Reba figured it was best to be honest; they both had dealt with a lifetime’s worth of dishonesty.
“My therapist says that it might be helpful to connect with others with similar traumas.”
To her surprise, Molly laughed, a loud, full-body laugh that brought a involuntary smile to Reba’s face.
“I’m a bit wary of psychiatrist types myself nowadays,” Molly said, and Reba could hear the wry smile in her voice. There was a pause. Their hands were still intertwined from the handshake, but neither woman moved to untangle herself. “Do you want to come in? My mother is out grocery shopping, and my son is at school, so I have some time.”
“You know, if I’m another serial killer, you just told me that you’re home alone,” Reba said.
Molly laughed again, and Reba felt it like warmth through her veins.
“Oh, don’t worry. I have dogs.”
☙ ⛾ ❧
The woman standing on Molly’s doorstep was, at first glance, not unlike the other strangers who had paid her a visit after the disappearance of her husband. The woman’s beauty was certainly not a reassurance; Freddie Lounds was beautiful, with her sharp cheekbones, porcelain skin, and fiery curls, and she was cutthroat and unafraid of consequences. But after a second glance, Molly felt that Reba was a different kind of stranger.
She claimed that she wasn’t a reporter. That was already a step in the right direction. When Molly opened the door, she noticed that her eyes didn’t follow her. The collapsible white cane confirmed that she must be blind. Then there was the revelation that she was the girlfriend of the serial killer who had tried to kill Molly and her son...the same serial killer who was found murdered at the hands of Will and Dr. Lecter...
Molly should’ve closed the door in her face upon this revelation, but something about her body language made her take her hand. She was immediately rewarded by the contact. Molly hadn’t realized that Reba’s face mirrored her own apprehension until it melted away and was replaced with the slight parting of her lips, the smoothing of a crease between her eyebrows, and the nearly imperceptible widening of her eyes. Her eyes were captivating, two black gemstones that glowed in the sunlight. Molly smiled even though her guest wouldn’t be able to see it.
She invited her in, and she accepted.
“Would you like something to drink?” Molly asked, moving clothes from furniture and rearranging piles before it occurred to her that Reba couldn’t see the mess. “Tea? Coffee? Water?”
“Do you have anything stronger?” Reba’s tone was humorous, and Molly almost laughed again.
“Kind of early for that, don’t you think?” Molly turned suddenly in the kitchen doorway, feeling a jolt of embarrassment that she hadn’t offered to help Reba sit down, but Reba had already settled herself primly on the end of the couch. “I have wine and...” Molly trailed off, thinking of Will’s alcohol in the fridge, untouched. “...beer and whiskey.”
If Reba noticed her hesitation, she politely ignored it. “Whiskey would be nice.”
Molly poured Reba a finger of whiskey and herself a small glass of red wine and brought them out into the living room. She felt another jolt of embarrassment when she realized that she hadn’t ushered the dogs out of the room, but her embarrassment ebbed when she saw that Reba seemed content with them. The dogs crowded around her, snuffling at her and licking her hands.
“Here’s your whiskey,” Molly said, sitting on the other end of the couch.
Reba took it from her. Their fingers brushed gently as the drink exchanged hands.
As Reba breathed in the scent of the whiskey, Molly allowed herself a moment to study her. She was petite and pretty, with thick black curls and rich brown skin as smooth as polished amber. Molly tried to ignore the odd warmth that traveled through her body as she watched Reba’s lips part and her eyelashes flutter with a sip of the whiskey. She looked strangely comfortable on Molly’s couch. While some of the dogs had already wandered away, Winston and Buster stayed close by, looking like they wanted to leap into Reba’s lap. Reba didn’t seem to mind, a hand resting on Winston’s head. Winston wagged his tail.
Molly took a sip of wine and cleared her throat.
“So, your therapist suggested you find other people with similar traumas, huh?” she said lightly. “I can only imagine how that conversation unfolded.”
Reba chuckled, but it was followed by the small crease reappearing between her eyebrows. Her fingers twitched against her whiskey glass. “How much do you know about what happened?”
Molly leaned back into the couch, letting out a slow breath. “Not much more than what was on the news,” she admitted. “I know that the Red Dragon killed families, and that Wally and I barely escaped him with our lives. Wally is my son,” she added, and Reba’s mouth parted in a silent acknowledgement, along with a tiny jerk of her head. “I know that Will was investigating him. But I didn’t know any more than that until...until after the fact.” A wave of anger crashed over her. “Damn that Jack Crawford! If he hadn’t come to ask for Will’s help...we could still be...” Molly swallowed down her anger and sighed. Reba’s face was open, sympathetic, even though she was only partially turned towards her. “Ah, sorry, I got mad there for a second.”
“It’s okay to be mad,” Reba said, absentmindedly petting the top of Winston’s head. “Lord knows I have plenty of anger, myself.”
Molly smiled before she remembered that Reba couldn’t see her. Still, it didn’t erase the sudden, warm gratitude she felt for the woman sitting across from her. “Jack Crawford came into my hospital room and said that the Red Dragon was dead, but that my husband was nowhere to be found. Assumed dead in the line of duty, but that Dr. Lecter had escaped, so it was possible they were together.” Her stomach churned, and she took a gulp of wine in an attempt to ignore it. “He vaguely mentioned another murder attempt, a girlfriend of some sort, but I was understandably preoccupied.” Her eyes were wet. When had her eyes become wet? Molly blinked furiously and took another gulp of wine. “That’s all I know.”
Reba let out a little sigh, both hands wrapped around her whiskey glass. Winston nudged her leg with his nose and then sat down at her feet, resting his head on his paws.
“D kidnapped me and trapped me in his burning house before faking his own death,” Reba said with a feigned lightness that settled heavy in Molly’s chest. “He blew the head off a dead body with a shotgun, and I thought it was him. I put my hand in it.” She stared off into nothingness, face blank. “I put my hand in it,” she repeated distantly, then took a slow sip of whiskey. “I knew he was odd, reserved, but I admired that he didn’t treat me like a burden or a cripple. He didn’t treat me like a blind woman. He just treated me like a woman. A human being. He was mysterious and romantic.” Reba’s lips twisted into a wry smile, but it disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. “And apparently crazy.”
After a beat, Molly stood up from the couch and said, as lightly as she could, “I think I’m going to need more alcohol for this. You?”
Reba’s smile returned, this time genuine, and she held out her mostly empty glass.
☙ ⛾ ❧
They talked for hours, so long that Molly had to rush to pick up Wally from school and Reba had to pay her taxi driver extra to make up for his lost time. But it was worth the minor inconvenience. Reba found herself returning to Molly’s the next week, and two weeks after that, and a week after that, and the next thing she knew, they were going out to lunch once a week…
It excited her, but it frightened her, too. Reba was never one for not going for what she wanted, but last time, what she’d wanted ended up being a fledgling serial killer and a man she never should have trusted. What if Molly wasn’t as trustworthy as she seemed? What if Reba had fallen into another trap? What if they were both too damaged to truly love and trust another person that deeply again?
What if Molly wasn’t into her like that?
Reba was not one for avoiding what she wanted — and thankfully, neither was Molly.
A few months later, they had a lunch at a slightly fancier restaurant than usual, Molly’s pick. It seemed like the perfect time to say something. Every pause in conversation racketed up Reba’s heartbeat, yet every pause passed without event. She had plenty of opportunities, but the words died in her throat. To stall, she ordered dessert and ate it slowly. It tasted like disappointment on her tongue.
All too soon, Reba heard the scrape of Molly’s chair being pushed back, but instead of the usual goodbye, she was startled to feel a gentle hand on hers.
“Forgive me if I’m misreading your intentions, but would you like to go out for drinks?”
Reba’s heart soared.
“Miss Molly Foster, are you asking me on a date?” she said slowly.
Molly laughed, and her next words sounded slightly apprehensive. “Too forward?”
A smile spread across Reba’s face, and she took Molly’s hand in hers. “Not at all. I would love to.”
☙ ⛾ ❧
Healing from tragedy wasn’t easy, nor was it a linear journey.
For Molly and Reba, healing would take the rest of their lives. Unlike the whirlwind courtship between Molly and Will — dating for ten months, engaged for five, married for twelve — they were much more cautious. Years of dating before moving their households together, years of cohabiting, a lengthy engagement and a million nights spent picking up the pieces and mending the cracks. The blessing of Wally, and Molly’s mother, and the dogs, both new and old. The genuine smile on Reba’s face when Molly brought home another dog, or the rush of affection when Molly saw how Reba treated her son like he was her own. The unbridled joy of Crawford’s remaining team members when they received the wedding invitations, and the unexpected postcard from Alana and Margot, wishing them well.
But most of all, Molly and Reba were no longer sweet Ophelias, drowning in their sorrows or choking on the broken vows of mad Hamlets. They were something more: shining swords that came out of the forge stronger than they went in, birds rising from the ashes of white-hot flames, teacups whose cracks were mended and transformed by gold. They were survivors, and goddamn it all if they didn’t take life by the horns and live happily ever after.
How could life say no?