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Hannibal
Alcuin Delaunay sat at a small metal table in a police interrogation room, his hands folded tightly in his lap to stop them from trembling. The fluorescent light above him buzzed faintly.
He had dressed carefully that morning, choosing a dove-gray cashmere sweater and black slacks—simple, elegant, deliberately unassuming. His usual style, though today it kind of felt like a costume. He tugged at the cuffs, his fingers brushing the faint smudge of charcoal still clinging to his skin from sketching the night before. He hadn’t been able to sleep and had tried to distract himself, but his drawings had turned out like every other attempt for the past three days: dark, jagged lines, incomplete.
He had barely stepped out of his car at the studio lot that morning when two detectives intercepted him. Their tone had been polite but firm—Could he come down to the station to answer a few questions about Anafiel Vessar?—and the polite veneer didn’t fool him for a second. He had agreed, of course; refusing would have only made things worse.
Alcuin rubbed his thumb along the edge of his palm, an old nervous habit, as he replayed his last moments at Anafiel’s house for the hundredth time. He had been careful, hadn’t he? The door locked behind him. The lights off. He'd already admitted to the police that he'd been there that day, and (convincingly, he thought) expressed his uncertainty about the exact time. Perhaps someone had seen him to pinpoint it more exactly, in a way that might be damning? A neighbor? A camera? Or even worse, had he left behind some damning piece of evidence in his panic? His fingerprints all over the house could be explained easily enough...
His breath hitched at the thought. You could have saved him, a small voice in his mind whispered, insidious and relentless. If you’d stayed—if you hadn’t run—he might still be alive.
Thank God, he thought, that was an actor. He thought he'd gotten through that interrogation pretty well, but they'd told him to stay put, that someone else would be coming to talk to him.
He had dressed carefully that morning, choosing a dove-gray cashmere sweater and black slacks—simple, elegant, deliberately unassuming. His usual style, though today it kind of felt like a costume. He tugged at the cuffs, his fingers brushing the faint smudge of charcoal still clinging to his skin from sketching the night before. He hadn’t been able to sleep and had tried to distract himself, but his drawings had turned out like every other attempt for the past three days: dark, jagged lines, incomplete.
He had barely stepped out of his car at the studio lot that morning when two detectives intercepted him. Their tone had been polite but firm—Could he come down to the station to answer a few questions about Anafiel Vessar?—and the polite veneer didn’t fool him for a second. He had agreed, of course; refusing would have only made things worse.
Alcuin rubbed his thumb along the edge of his palm, an old nervous habit, as he replayed his last moments at Anafiel’s house for the hundredth time. He had been careful, hadn’t he? The door locked behind him. The lights off. He'd already admitted to the police that he'd been there that day, and (convincingly, he thought) expressed his uncertainty about the exact time. Perhaps someone had seen him to pinpoint it more exactly, in a way that might be damning? A neighbor? A camera? Or even worse, had he left behind some damning piece of evidence in his panic? His fingerprints all over the house could be explained easily enough...
His breath hitched at the thought. You could have saved him, a small voice in his mind whispered, insidious and relentless. If you’d stayed—if you hadn’t run—he might still be alive.
Thank God, he thought, that was an actor. He thought he'd gotten through that interrogation pretty well, but they'd told him to stay put, that someone else would be coming to talk to him.
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"I think you're the survivor of an abusive relationship," Hannibal replied simply. "And while you've come to terms with the truth of that relationship, you've not yet come to terms with your sense of relief and feel guilt for your part in ending it."
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Then he took a breath. “Well what do I do now then?”
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"We can talk, we can give it a place," Hannibal suggested. "It... may be good to revisit some of that past."
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"I think we've come to a good point. You can think on what we're talked about and we can build from there next time." And simmer in that guilt.
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Hannibal nodded kindly and got up. "I have a private exit," he said. "It ensures anonymity for my patients."