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Beverly Katz had always been sharp, the kind of friend who could catch your lie before you’d even committed to it. And now, as you sipped on the strongest coffee Quantico’s breakroom could muster, you couldn’t help but notice her eyes narrowing at you like a cat spotting an unruly mouse.
“Spill it,” she said, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, her jacket askew from the long day of staring at evidence boards and autopsy photos. “You’ve got that look. The ‘I know something but can’t say’ look. It’s the same one you had when we found out about Will’s stray dogs.”
You raised an eyebrow, trying for innocence but landing somewhere closer to guilty toddler caught with a cookie. “What look?”
“The one that screams, ‘I know something’s up, and I’m debating how much to say without looking crazy.’”
Touché. Beverly was annoyingly good at reading you, which made your partnership—and your other arrangement with her—all the more entertaining.
“I just...” You hesitated, lowering your voice as if the breakroom walls had ears. “I think Hannibal might be hiding something.”
Her laugh was immediate, loud, and so out of place in the morbid air of the FBI offices that you winced.
“Hannibal? Your boyfriend? Dr. Fancy-Suits-and-Perfect-Manners? What’s he hiding, a secret cooking show? Recipes for the New York Times?”
You shot her a pointed glare, but the corner of your mouth twitched. “I’m serious, Bev. He’s... too perfect.”
She grinned, sipping her own coffee like it was a glass of wine. “That’s your reasoning? Too perfect? Babe, that’s every boyfriend who hasn’t disappointed us yet.”
“Every time there’s a Chesapeake Ripper murder,” you continued, ignoring her sass, “he knows things. Like... too much. Stuff that doesn’t hit the reports until after we’ve interviewed him.”
“Hmm.” Beverly tilted her head, her grin faltering just enough for curiosity to creep in. “Go on.”
“He also…” You swallowed hard, feeling ridiculous even as you said it. “He gets this look in his eyes when the crime scenes are... artistic. Like he’s admiring a painting instead of someone’s insides.”
Beverly’s eyebrows shot up, and she lowered her coffee cup. “So, you’re saying Hannibal—your ridiculously attractive, Michelin-star-chef, loves-you-like-you-hung-the-moon boyfriend—is the Chesapeake Ripper?”
You held up your hands defensively. “I didn’t say that!”
“But you meant it.”
Her tone was teasing, but you could see the gears turning in her head now, that same meticulous attention to detail she brought to every case.
“Alright, let’s play detective,” she said, stepping closer and lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Does he ever disappear on ‘business trips’ that can’t be verified?”
“Yes.”
“Does he seem... weirdly calm around dead bodies?”
“Too calm.”
“And he doesn’t blink when talking about entrails?”
You grimaced. “It’s like he’s into it.”
Beverly’s eyes widened. “Oh, my God. You’re dating Hannibal the Cannibal.”
The nickname made you burst out laughing despite yourself, and she joined in, both of you clutching the counter for support as the absurdity of it hit. But beneath the humor, there was a flicker of unease in Beverly’s expression—a glimmer of genuine suspicion that mirrored your own.
Just then, the man himself entered the breakroom, his tailored suit immaculate, his presence magnetic as always. “Am I interrupting?” Hannibal asked, his voice smooth as silk.
Beverly straightened immediately, her expression shifting to one of polite disinterest. “Not at all, Doctor Lecter. We were just discussing the horrors of Quantico’s coffee.”
“Ah,” Hannibal said with a faint smile, his eyes flicking to you. “A travesty, indeed.”
You gave him a tight-lipped smile, your mind racing with everything Beverly had just said. Was it paranoia? Or were you both onto something?
As Hannibal left with his cup of coffee, Beverly leaned in close, her voice barely a whisper. “If he offers you dinner tonight, don’t eat it.”
And for once, you weren’t sure if she was joking.
~~~