Chapter 15: QUESTIONS
The coffee shop Beverly chose occupied a corner building three blocks from the FBI field office. Small, quiet, the kind of place that valued quality over volume. The walls were exposed brick, the furniture mismatched but comfortable, the coffee actually good.
She was waiting when I arrived, two cups already on the table. "I ordered for you. Black, dark roast, nothing fancy."
"You've been watching."
"I'm a forensic specialist. Observation is literally my job." She pushed one cup toward me. "Sit. Talk."
I sat. The coffee was excellent—smoky, complex, nothing like the institutional swill at headquarters. I appreciated it for exactly two seconds before Beverly started her interrogation.
"Your insights at crime scenes are too specific."
"I have good observational skills."
"Better than good. At the mushroom site, you knew the killer returned multiple times, that he watched the victims for extended periods, that the cultivation mattered more than the death. You knew it within minutes of arrival, before any evidence processing." She leaned forward. "I've been doing this work for ten years. Pattern recognition doesn't explain what you do."
I'd prepared for this. The explanation needed to be true enough to withstand scrutiny, vague enough to avoid revealing too much.
"Years of scene work create mental shortcuts," I said. "I've processed hundreds of violent crimes. After a while, you start seeing patterns that recur—not consciously, but intuitively. The brain makes connections faster than rational analysis can."
"That's a nice explanation. It's also incomplete."
"What do you want me to say? That I'm psychic?"
"I want you to be honest." Her voice softened slightly. "I'm not trying to expose you or get you fired. I'm trying to understand. Because if you have some technique that produces these results, it would be professionally valuable. And if you have something else..." She trailed off.
"Something else?"
"Will Graham sees things no one else sees. Everyone knows it, no one talks about it. His empathy is almost supernatural." Beverly held my gaze. "You're not like Will. You don't become the killers. But you see things at scenes that you shouldn't be able to see. And I want to know how."
The silence stretched between us. Outside, Baltimore traffic moved past the windows in a blur of ordinary life. Inside, a woman too perceptive for my comfort waited for answers I couldn't fully give.
I chose partial truth.
"The accident changed things." The words came slowly, carefully measured. "The coma. When I woke up, certain abilities were... heightened. I notice more. I process visual information differently. It's hard to explain because I don't fully understand it myself."
Beverly's expression flickered—surprise, then consideration. "Brain trauma enhancing cognitive function. It's documented in the literature. Acquired savant syndrome."
"Something like that."
"Why hide it?"
"Because it sounds insane. Because I don't know how to control it reliably. Because explaining that I nearly died and came back with enhanced perception would make people treat me like a freak instead of a professional." I sipped my coffee. "You'd hide it too."
She was quiet for a long moment, processing. I watched her work through the implications—the investigator in her weighing evidence, the person in her weighing trust.
"You're still not telling me everything," she said finally.
"No."
"Will you? Eventually?"
"I don't know. Maybe. It depends."
"On what?"
"On whether you're someone I can trust with things that don't make sense."
The directness surprised us both. I hadn't planned to be that honest, but something about Beverly—her competence, her directness, the way she looked at me like I was a puzzle worth solving—made evasion feel wrong.
She leaned back in her chair, expression unreadable. "You watch Will Graham like you're waiting for him to break."
The subject change caught me off guard. "I worry about him."
"Most people don't see how fragile he is. They see the results, the profiles, the case closures. They don't see the cost." Her eyes sharpened. "You do. That makes you either very perceptive or very dangerous."
"Can't it be both?"
The question hung in the air. Outside, someone honked a horn. Inside, the coffee machine hissed and burbled.
Beverly's almost-smile broke the tension. "Maybe. We'll see." She stood, reaching for her coat. "I should get back. Evidence doesn't process itself."
I stood too. "The check—"
"I'll get it."
"I invited you."
"I picked the place."
We argued, briefly, pleasantly. The negotiation ended in splitting the bill—a compromise that felt natural, comfortable, like something we'd done before even though we hadn't.
"Same time next week?" Beverly asked as we reached the door.
"If the cases allow."
"They usually don't." She paused, hand on the frame. "Mikaelson—Adam. Whatever's going on with you, whatever you're hiding... I've worked with people who had secrets before. The ones who survive are the ones who eventually find someone to share the burden."
"Is that an offer?"
"It's an observation." She pushed through the door into the afternoon light. "Take it however you want."
I watched her drive away. She looked back once before the car turned the corner—a quick glance in the rearview mirror, checking if I was still watching. I was.
The walk back to my car gave me time to think. Beverly Katz was too smart, too observant, too good at reading people. She'd seen through my professional deflection to something real underneath. And instead of pushing harder, she'd offered space. Trust. The possibility of future honesty.
In the show, Hannibal had killed her for getting too close to the truth. I'd watched that episode in my old life, felt the gut-punch of her death, wondered why such a good character had to die.
Now I knew her. Not the actress, not the fictional construct, but the actual person—sharp and warm and dangerously perceptive. Someone I could respect. Someone I might even be able to trust.
Someone I needed to keep alive.
I got in my car and sat for a moment, hands on the wheel, thinking about the future I knew and the one I was trying to create. Beverly would investigate Hannibal eventually. That's who she was—someone who followed evidence wherever it led, regardless of consequences. My job wasn't to stop her from being herself.
My job was to make sure she survived being herself.
My phone buzzed. Jack Crawford: Stammets located. Tactical response in progress. Get to coordinates ASAP.
The mushroom farmer case was reaching its climax. I started the engine and pulled into traffic, leaving the quiet coffee shop behind.
The game continued. The next move was already in play.
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