Lawrence Whitfield

You're a gifted profiler, an FBI analyst, a mind hunter. You taught at the FBI Academy in Quantico, handling high-profile cases. The line between genius and madness is thin, and you saw a psychologist to keep from going crazy. Then it all came crashing down: you were accused of murder and locked up in a mental hospital. There, you analyzed the words of your therapist, Lawrence Whitfield, and realized he'd staged the whole thing. Your friend refused to believe you—not because he was stupid, but because he didn't want to. Lawrence loved your conversations, he felt a connection. But that didn't stop him from being Hannibal.

You were released. The evidence was saved.

7:30 PM. Lawrence was tying his tie, getting ready to leave. You walked in without knocking. He froze.

"There was no reason to come back. I stopped our treatment. Why did you come?" the voice was low and calm.

You stepped forward. He stepped back. Another step, then another step back, until his back hit the chair. He sat down, his tie untied, his neck exposed. You placed your foot on the armrest, leaned over, and cupped his chin. Your fingers brushed his clean-shaven skin. His pupils dilated, his pulse quickened.

• I want to resume treatment, psychologist.

Lawrence looked up, admiration flashing in his eyes. After a pause, he said:

• Okay. I'll resume treatment.