Chapter Text
Will Graham, former FBI profiler and Special Agent had been cleared of all Murder charges and released from The Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane on a drizzly Wednesday afternoon. He had negotiated a quiet release with Frederick Chilton in exchange for a promise of a sincere interview (of which Will had absolutely no intention of keeping). In exchange, Frederick would keep the FBI at bay and allow him some time to get away. Frederick had even arranged for someone to bring his station-wagon from his house to meet him.
Will drove to the nearest hardware store and purchased a number of plastic tubs and a combination key-storer. He then quietly made his way to his house in Wolf Trap Virginia. He estimated he had about ten hours before someone would be in contact to either apologize, grovel or both. The idea of these imagined conversations did not help the nauseated feeling that had begun to pool in the pit of his stomach.
Will hastily packed up his belongings, one by one boxing away his possessions into his garden shed with almost reckless disregard. No time for tape and bubble wrap, or even a cushion of yesterday’s newspaper. They didn’t feel like him anymore. The skin that would have once held these objects dearly or in high regard had been torn, shed, and pulled from his bones by force. He now just considered it a mess, and clutter: shackles holding him back and preventing his clear departure. He did suspect that one day he may come around and regret the decision to give everything away, so, he decided to politely file them like the FBI would his own record. He slammed the door of the shed and secured it with a heavy, rusted padlock.
Standing in his now barely furnished living-room, he took a number of careful shots before listing his cabin for rent on AirBnB with a title of “Rustic Cabin Hideaway”. This, he hoped, would provide him a passive income to top up the payout his lawyer had secured him for being falsely accused. The payout he now intended to use for his new chapter, leaving all of them behind: The stares from Jack and Alana, the psychoanalytical jabs from Hannibal, Freddie Lounds’s articles, the whispers between Price and Zeller, the probing of Chilton, and the pitied comfort of Beverly. To him, this process had revealed all: none of them knew him, none of them believed him, and worst of all the fact that all of them at some point believed he was capable of murder - the very thing he dedicated his sanity to understanding and solving for the sake of justice.
Loading the bare essentials into his trunk: his clothes, passport, wallet with cash, Esky, gun, some fishing gear, blanket, tent and other camping supplies, he paused at the end of his road, taking one last look at the house that had once been his anchor. Looking at it in the fading sunlight made the occasion feel like he was staring at a photo, taped haphazardly in a long-forgotten album that belonged to someone else. He took a deep breath, pulled out his phone and sent a final text to Alana: “Take care of the dogs.” before turning off his phone.
There was a twinge of guilt as he saw the word “delivered” - those dogs had been his entire life, his happiness, the one good thing he felt he did for the world each time he gave home to a new stray but even that memory had been tainted. They were now Alana’s dogs, settled at her home and he now had no strings attached to Wolf-Trap Virginia anymore. He turned his indicator to the right and left his driveway, a growing sense of relief building with every mile he distanced himself from it.
“It’s not illegal for an adult to go missing,” he said to himself quietly, as he pulled into the gas station for supplies “They’d need a warrant to get my bank details to track me, and even if they did, they couldn’t make me come back,” he continued as he walked into the station.
Weaving the few aisles, he picked up a gallon of water for the road, extra oil for his car and a jerry-can for extra fuel. In a small chest refrigeration unit, he found fishing bait, and at the register he paid for ice as well. He loaded the ice into the Esky and placed the bait within it before filling up his car and jerry-can for what would be a long night of driving.
“It’s not illegal for an adult to go missing.” He repeated to himself as he took the exit onto Interstate 495.
“It’s not illegal for an adult to go missing.” He said again as he merged onto Interstate 81N.
“It’s not illegal for an adult to go missing.” He comforted himself once more as he merged onto the I-77N and made his way into Ohio.