I come back to consciousness slowly, at first, then all at once. Suddenly light is shining in my eyes and there's rapid beeping in my ears. There's pain deep in the juncture between my neck and shoulder, my head is throbbing, and immediately I'm in panic mode because the last thing I remember is…

"Dad!" I scream, hysteria making my voice hoarse, "Dad!"

There are wires and all sorts of machines attached to my arms and I start yanking at them, making the beeping turn into one long keen. Hospital. I'm in a hospital, I realize.

The nurses rush in, holding me down, yelling at each other, trying to get me to stop struggling. I hear something about a sedative and my mind comprehends that they're going to knock me out again if I don't calm down.

"Wait!" I call, trying to force myself to relax, "wait!"

One of them must hear me because the hands holding me down slowly let me go, and I'm just lying in a hospital bed, still scared and confused. At least I'm not screaming anymore. I glance around at all the unfamiliar faces, trying to figure out who to speak to.

"Where am I?" I ask shakily, turning to the nearest nurse as the others busy themselves with cleaning up my mess.

"Baltimore Psychiatric Facility," she answers gently, giving me a sympathetic look, "do you remember what happened?"

My mouth goes dry at the question. Oh, I remember. I remember my father grabbing me as the front door burst open, threatening to kill me if the FBI agent didn't drop his gun. I remember reacting on instinct when I heard that, slamming my elbow into his gut, bucking and kicking, the knife slicing through the meat between my neck and shoulder rather than my jugular. I remember falling to the floor, gunshots, then someone above me, panicking more than I was, frantic hands trying to staunch the blood flow…

"Yes," I choke out, "where…where is my father? Is he still alive?"

The nurse studiously avoids my gaze without answering. I frown, disliking the unfair treatment. Hasn't she ever heard of quid-pro-quo? Does she think ignoring me makes me feel better?

"I'm going to call Doctor Bloom," she informs me, "try to get some rest until she gets here."

I sigh, watching as she and the other nurses leave the room, a new IV attached to my arm. What am I supposed to do now?

Alana Bloom entered the hospital room as quietly as possible, in case Holly was asleep. The girl was sitting up, staring out the window with a magazine forgotten in her lap. She was pretty, with gray eyes and brown hair tinted just the slightest shade of red. Her skin was pale and smooth, but it was hard to tell if the light skin tone was natural, or from all the blood she'd lost recently. Holly took after her mother, but her features were less severe thanks to her father's genes.

Upon hearing the door open, the girl turned to see who had entered, surprised to find that it wasn't a nurse or a doctor she recognized.

"Hello, Holly," Alana spoke first, smiling.

"Hello," Holly answered politely, expectantly.

"My name is Alana Bloom. I'm a psychiatrist. I specialize in family trauma, among other things."

Holly's gaze was drawn the several colorful bags in Alana's hands as she approached the hospital bed, but the victimized woman nodded, indicating that she'd heard.

"You came to talk about my father?" she inquired, quicksilver eyes returning to Alana's.

Alana considered her, reading her. Holly's body language was hesitant, verging on defensive, but she at least seemed open to whatever Alana had to say. She shut the magazine in her lap and shifted into a more comfortable position for conversation, a subtle cue for the doctor to continue.

"If you want," Alana replied kindly, settling into the seat by the bed, "or we can talk about something else. Whatever you want."

Holly nodded, a smile finally pulling her lips up.

"Thank you," she said, blinking rapidly, "I don't think I'm ready to talk about it yet…"

Alana nodded her understanding, expression encouraging. Holly's gaze drifted away, to her hands in her lap. She was waiting for Alana to say something, to keep the dialogue going.

"I brought you some things. Clothes, books, music. Anything that doesn't fit you just leave the tags on and I'll return it."

Holly looked at the colorful bags curiously, brushing a few strands of hair out of her face.

"You brought me all that?" she asked in surprise.

"Yes, I thought you might be ready for a change and something other than Hollywood magazines."

Holly smiled, looking for a moment like she was going to cry before getting ahold of herself.

"Thank you," she managed past her constricted throat.

"You're very welcome," Alana answered, placing her hand over Holly's.

"I don't know, Jack," Alana said later that same day after leaving the hospital, "Holly doesn't show any signs that would lead me to believe she helped her father in any way, but…"

Jack Crawford leaned forward on his desk, fingers laced together. Doctor Hannibal Lector sat in the chair on Alana's right while Will Graham shifted restlessly behind them, on his feet. He desperately wanted to speak to Holly Kaye and it rankled him that he needed permission to do it. Hannibal, too, wanted to speak to her, but he was much more discreet about it.

"But…?" Jack Crawford prompted.

The only interest he had in Holly Kaye was if she helped her father kill people. During the investigation, it had been made clear that Holly often visited her father while she was in college and that they were close since her mother had passed away in a car accident when Holly was young.

"She feels as if she did something wrong and that's why her father hurt her. At this point, being too harsh or too confrontational will upset her and she may regress. I was surprised by how well she was doing today but that could easily change if she's pushed too much," Alana explained sternly, "I suspect she might have trust issues but it's too soon to tell yet."

Jack Crawford lowered his head, considering what the psychiatrist had said.

"I want to speak to her," Will cut in.

Alana shook her head.

"I don't think that's a good idea. She said she remembers what happened. I'm sure she remembers you. You shot her father, Will."

The FBI investigator frowned, wishing he could argue. Jack raised a finger at Alana, turning to Hannibal.

"What do you think, Doctor Lector?" he asked, much to her consternation.

Hannibal considered his colleague and what she'd said and weighed it against his own desires. He and Will had saved her life, he was sure that he at least would be able to reach her in some way.

"I believe that it would not be detrimental to Miss Kaye's health if Will and I were to visit her," he answered.

Everyone turned to see Jack's final decision.

"Alright then. It looks like you get your wish, Will."

I shift uncomfortably, considering the redheaded woman carefully. There's something about her that I just…don't like. I'm not sure what it is, but she's setting me on edge. Maybe I should press the panic button? Would she leave if I asked her to? No, Freddie Lounds seems like the persistent type.

"So…you're a journalist?" I ask, chewing on the inside of my lip uncertainly.

"That's right," she answers, giving me a strange sort of smile that makes me feel as if I'm cracked glass, "I want to tell the truth-your truth."

I swallow, feeling a twinge where the blade sliced through my flesh under the bandages.

"You mean what happened," I clarify, hand straying to wound.

Her gaze follows my hand as she nods, her expression sympathetic, but I can't help but think it's artificial.

"There are some people that think that...because you were so close with your father…you helped him kill people," Freddie reveals.

I freeze, feeling my eyes go wide. She has to be lying. She has to be. There's no way people think that I helped my father kill people!

"But-but he tried to kill me," I stammer, "Doesn't that mean anything?"

She shakes her head, placing a hand over mine. I want to pull away, uncomfortable with the physical contact, but remain still.

"You can change what people think. We can change that together. Everyone will know the truth," Freddie promises, blue eyes boring into mine.

I look away, eyes straying towards the door wistfully. I wish Alana would come in and save me. I prefer her over Freddie Lounds, at the very least, even if I'm not a big fan of Alana either.

"How did they catch my father?" I ask at last, turning to look at her.

"A man named Will Graham," she replied, eyes sparking with dislike as the name passes her lips, "he's also the one that killed him."

I swallow, taking this in. The man I remember, the one whose hands shook as he held the gun, the one who was more scared than I was when I was bleeding out in the living room. I remember his eyes, the desperation as he pressed his hands to the wound.

"Will Graham," I repeat, committing the name to memory.

I don't know whether I want to thank him or if I want to hate him for what he did.

"He's not an investigator," Freddie continues, "not officially, anyway, because he's unstable."

The door opens quietly behind her, and in walks none other than Will Graham himself. He looks calmer than I remember, less…strung out. His hair is a curly, dark shade of brown, messy but in an endearing sort of way. He's taller than I remember, maybe half a foot taller than me if we stood next to each other. There's stubble along his jaw, and his eyes are a pretty color that I can't tell leans more towards blue or green from the distance. I sit up straighter as Freddie continues, probably knowing that he's right behind her.

"He catches insane men because he can think like them. He is insane."

I open my mouth to say something, I'm not sure what, but she turns to Will before I can, finally leaving my bedside. The two face off, the tension practically crackling between them and I wish that I could just disappear into the bed sheets. I grip the blanket, knotting my hand into the fabric, wishing Freddie would just leave already.

"Hello Mister Graham," Freddie greets with false sweetness.

"Miss Lounds," he nearly spits.

With a satisfied expression, she glances back at me, as if to say "I told you he's insane" and pulls a business card from her bag.

"In case you wanted to talk," she says, but Will snatches it out of her hand.

I swallow, glancing between the two uncertainly. I reach for the panic button, but a third man, who I'd noticed but not paid much attention to shakes his head subtly. He's a little taller than Will, but compared to me he'd probably tower. He's impeccably dressed, much more sophisticated-looking than Will Graham, with his hair combed away from his face.

"Please excuse us, Miss Lounds. We'd like to speak to Miss Kaye in private," he says smoothly, and I note he has an accent.

Freddie looks for a minute like she's legitimately scared before she tosses me one last look over her shoulder and leaves. The other man, whom I don't recognize, shuts the door behind her. I shift on the bed, crossing my legs under me.

"You're Will Graham," I say, wondering if my voice betrays some of my confliction.

"Yes," he confirms without looking me in the eye.

I glance behind him at the second man curiously.

"My name is Hannibal Lector. I'm a psychiatrist, like Doctor Bloom. I was there when your father tried to kill you," he introduces himself, approaching the bed.

I brush a few stray strands of hair from my face as I try to recall if I've seen him before.

"I'm sorry," I murmur at last, "I only remember Mister Graham."

Hannibal settles in the chair Alana was in yesterday, offering me a reassuring smile.

"That's because you had already passed out when I arrived," he explains, "but I've visited you here while you were in your coma, as has Will."

I look at Will who is standing by the bed now as well. Unlike with Freddie, I don't mind them being near me. Maybe it's because they were there when everything happened, or maybe it's because they both tried to save my life, but I'm not as wary of them as I feel towards everyone else.

"Was Freddie telling the truth?" I ask.

Will looks away, obviously thinking that I'm talking about him being insane.

"Do people really think I helped my father?"

He looks up, obviously surprised, and exchanges glances with Hannibal. He clenches his jaw, clearly annoyed, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

"Perhaps," Hannibal answers honestly, "the FBI is investigating the possibility, but there hasn't been any evidence."

I lower my head, a mixture of frustration and disappointment washing over me. It's not as if they're going to find anything, but it's not exactly comforting to know that I'm a suspect at the same time that I'm a victim.

"We don't believe you had anything to do with it," Will adds, "but the FBI doesn't want to miss anything just in case…"

I look up at him, hoping to meet his eyes, the same eyes that I saw as I was bleeding out, but he studiously avoids looking at me.

"Why don't we go for a walk?" Hannibal suggests, helping me from the bed, "You look like you could use some fresh air."

I stroll through the hospital's garden between Will and Hannibal, my hands shoved deep in the pockets of the new jacket Alana bought me. We exchange few words as we march in the cool air, and by the time we rest for a moment, I'm so desperate to speak to Will that I break the silence first.

"I'm sorry," I say, making both men look at me, shocked, "about what Freddie Lounds said."

Will settles beside me on the bench, and I wonder for a moment if maybe he's just as eager to speak to me.

"It's not your fault. That woman…she likes to spread lies for publicity," he tells me, "she only does something if she thinks she'll get something out of it."

"Freddie Lounds is dangerous," Hannibal agrees, "it'd be best to keep your distance from her."

"She said she wants to 'tell my truth'," I reveal, "but I don't think I want people to know any more about my truth than they already do."

Will scowls at nothing in particular, squeezing his hands together in his lap.

"She chooses the version of truth that suits her best and pursues it pathologically. She is not someone you should put your faith in."

I nod, accepting what their saying more willingly than anything that Freddie had. I just don't trust her. Something about Freddie Lounds raises alarm bells in my head, and I really haven't been in any position to ignore my instincts lately.

"She makes me uneasy," I admit, "I don't like speaking with her."

"I'll see about keeping her away from you," Hannibal offers and I give him a grateful smile.

I turn back to Will, hesitantly reaching out and touching his hand. He's warm, which surprises me, since it's so cool out. He looks stunned for moment as he finally meets my eyes.

"I don't blame you for killing him," I tell him gently, "I actually…I'm struggling with what to feel about him since he tried to kill me."

He flips his hand around, so that he's holding my hand in his, which is certainly a comforting sign. I'd been afraid for a moment that I was overstepping my bounds.

"I'm sure you're confused, Holly, but we can help you sort it out," Hannibal interjects, placing his hand on my shoulder.

"It's alright, if you're angry at me," Will adds, "I…understand."

I shake my head, trying to think of how to get my point across.

"Doctor Bloom told you I remember everything before I blacked out, didn't she?" I ask, to which he nods, "I remember how badly your hands were shaking when you held the gun."

His hand tightens on mine, but not painfully. Taking this as encouragement, I continue.

"When he cut me…I heard the gunshots but then you were beside me and you looked so scared, more scared than I was. You were trying so hard to save me...I remember thinking that I wanted to comfort you in some way and then I blacked out."

A sad smile pulls at one side of his mouth as he shifts on the bench.

"You must not remember this, but right before you blacked out you reached up and touched my face. I couldn't figure out why until you said that just now."

He's right, I don't remember it, but it sounds like something I'd do. Satisfied that I've said I what I needed to say, I look back at Hannibal.

"Thank you, for helping as well, Doctor Lector," I add.

He smiles down at me, squeezing my shoulder.

"There's no need to thank me, Holly," he assures me.

I hesitate, looking between them.

"What now?" I ask, "I was going to move but I don't want to now. I was staying with a friend while I was in college, and I was just visiting my father before I left when he…what am I supposed to do?"

The two men exchange glances again before Hannibal turns back to me.

"Well that depends on you, Holly."

"I-I think I want to go back…"