Rotten Meat Chapter 3.
TW: Ed
Amara knelt before the toilet, fingers pressed lightly against the cool porcelain, and emptied the remnants of lunch into the water. Her body rejecting the food without fuss, as if it had learned its role in this routine. A simple expulsion of unwanted matter. She observed the bile swirling away, the acid having done its work, the muscles contracting just as they should. She wiped her mouth delicately, straightened her posture, and exhaled. Then she stood, smoothing her clothes, used the mouthwash and walked out.
The world beyond the bathroom was stale, thick with the scent of disinfectant and muted voices. She found Mia and Savannah in the recreational room, the air dense with static from the overhead lights. They were on the floor, cross-legged, heads bent over some board game.
Savannah glanced up first. “Oh great, there you are.”
“We were thinking about something,” Mia added, turning slightly toward her. Amara gave a single nod, encouraging her to continue.
“We need codes,” Savannah said. “We don’t know if they’re listening or not.”
Amara tilted her head slightly, interested but unsurprised.
They assigned colors first, mouthing the meanings.
Red for her father.
Green for Savannah’s.
Blue for Will Graham.
Yellow for Chilton.
Then some hand gestures—subtle, easy to fold into natural movement. The flick of a wrist, the tuck of a thumb against the palm, the absent-minded tap of fingers against an arm. Do you have any news? A tug at the earlobe. A casual scratch of the wrist. Small things that would pass unnoticed by those unfamiliar.
Amara watched Mia carefully as they worked through the signals. She was sharp. Too sharp. Her mind moved with a precision that was unsettlingly familiar. Strategic, methodical. This wasn’t just intelligence—this was learned behavior. A mirror of something inherited. Amara recognized it because she carried the same affliction. She knows too much. The thought nestled into the corners of her mind.
After recreation time, they moved outside, taking their usual places in the sun. The warmth stretched over her skin, dulling the sharp edges of her thoughts. It was almost pleasant.
Amara didn’t flinch as Nurse Kelly approached.
“Come with me.”
Her pulse didn’t shift, her expression didn’t betray the tension curling low in her ribs. She rose fluidly, neither slow nor hurried. The girls were watching. Savannah’s brows drawn together, Mia’s gaze slightly narrowed, concerned.
She didn’t offer them reassurance. She just followed.
The walk to the first floor was silent, the hallways unnervingly clean. She had already deduced what this was—likely a meeting, maybe legal, maybe clinical. The door opened, and she was led inside.
Byron Metcalf sat at the table, his briefcase at his side, suit crisp despite the dull setting.
“Amara, hi.”
She slid into the chair across from him. “Any development on the case?”
“Nothing new,” he said. “Chilton’s still agreed to contribute to the plea. But I do have good news for you.”
Her brows lifted, not eager, but attentive.
“I was able to get an authorization for visitations.”
She froze—not visibly, but internally. She had to contain it, the sharp rush of anticipation, the flood of something dangerously close to relief.
“When can I go?” she asked, voice measured.
“Soon. Not today, but tomorrow, perhaps. I came to get Chilton’s signature on it, actually.”
Her lips parted slightly, a question forming, but then—of course.
“Chilton’s…” she began, then exhaled. “He’s the jailor, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Right.”
She tapped a finger against her knee beneath the table, grounding herself.
“Yeah, about that…” the lawyer started.
She cut him off, her tone smooth. “Don’t worry. I’ll be mindful of what I say.”
“I’m sure you will.” He nodded, satisfied. “Don’t talk about the case or charges.”
“I won’t,” she said, attentive, controlled.
With that, they parted, and Amara walked away with the weight of something both exhilarating and dreadful pressing against her ribs. She was going to see him. After so long, after so much distance carved between them, she would finally sit across from him. She had missed him—terribly. But a tight knot of nerves curled in her stomach. The unknown of it. The strangeness of the circumstances.
She found the girls still outside, their anxiety tangible even before they spoke.
“So? Everything okay?” Savannah asked immediately.
“It’s fine. I might get to see my dad tomorrow.”
Savannah’s mouth fell open.
“What? Are you serious?” Mia’s brows lifted, exasperated.
“Yellow approved it under the pretense of analyzing me psychologically,” she explained.
The girls exchanged looks, absorbing this.
“They probably think interactions with him might provide further insights into your psychological state,” Mia said, expression unreadable.
Amara smiled faintly and nodded.
“So they think you’re stupid?” Savannah asked flatly.
“They’ll monitor the visits, most likely,” Mia added.
“Oh, I’m sure.” Amara’s voice was light. It didn’t matter. She just wanted to see him.
The thought settled into her chest, warm and consuming. She was picturing it now—the way he would greet her, the way his voice would wrap around her name like it always had. But before she could slip too far into it, Mia’s voice cut through the haze.
“You should prepare yourself.”
Amara blinked, subtly shaking her head, refocusing. “Prepare?”
“You do realize you won’t see your dad as… the dad you’re used to, right?”
The words slowed her breath.
Mia’s voice was calm, careful. “He’ll be in a prison suit. Hair cut off. Maybe even in chains. And he will be behind bars.”
A sharp ache bloomed in Amara’s chest, unexpected and vicious. Trapped. Powerless. The words struck something deep, twisting her stomach. Nausea flickered at the edges of her consciousness, exacerbated by her already weakened state. She sat down, pressing her fingers against her temple.
Savannah shifted, uneasy. “Damn.”
Mia settled beside her on the bench, rubbing her back in slow, grounding motions.
Amara swallowed hard. “I’m sure he will be just as graceful and elegant as he always is,” she said, but the words felt thin.
Mia watched her carefully. “Still… you seem attached to him. It won’t be easy to see him like that.”
Trapped. Powerless. The words echoed, nauseating.
Amara exhaled shakily, forcing composure.
Mia softened. “Sorry. I just… wanted you to be prepared.”
Amara turned to her, still fighting against the heat behind her eyes. Forcing the tension from her face, she gave a small, practiced smile.
“Yeah, no, it’s—” She inhaled. “Thank you, Mia.”
•
She couldn’t help the tang of jealousy she felt from Amara. She would get to see her dad. But then also, a quiet relief—because Hannibal was locked up and her dad was still free. That was some consolation. She wondered how long the separation would take before she actually preferred him to get caught. She stored the thought away.
They ate breakfast in silence. The anxiety sat between them like an extra chair at the table. The confirmation hadn’t come yet, but Mia knew Amara would get it. She was good at hiding her emotions, but Mia could see it boiling under her skin.
Nurse Kelly approached. Amara was already standing up before her name was even called.
“Mia.”
They all froze.
She pointed at herself. The nurse nodded impatiently.
She followed.
The first floor. A stale room. Jack Crawford sat inside. Mia strode in, the anger already stirring under her ribs.
“Jack.”
“Mia.” He held out a hand. She sat across from him instead. He stared, then smiled bitterly, sat down too.
“Don’t worry. We haven’t caught him.” His eyes flicked to her restless fingers tapping on the table. She forced herself to stop and exhaled. Thank god.
“We have a proposition.”
Her brow lifted. Skeptical.
“Tell us where to find Will, and we will work a deal for him if he helps us catch Francis Dolarhyde.”
The corner of her lips curled.
“I don’t know where he is.”
“You know where he could be.”
“I don’t.”
“Mia. Families are getting brutally slaughtered—”
“I know. I share a room with his daughter, whom you exposed to the horrific crime scene pictures, by the way.” She leaned forward, smiling bitterly.
Jack sighed. “I do what I have to. Traumatizing one person with pictures is fine by me if I get to save many others.”
Mia scoffed.
“Oh yeah, no, I’m familiar with your moral compass, Jack. I know how much you don’t give a shit about individuals.”
Jack sighed again. Smiled back, forcefully.
“Mia, I am begging you.”
“Jack.” She interrupted. “I don’t know anything.”
His eyes squinted slightly. He wanted to yell but held back.
“How’s therapy?”
“With Chilton?” She scoffed.
“That ain’t therapy, and we both know it, Jack. He’s picking my dad’s brain through mine.”
Jack studied her.
“You talk about my moral compass, that I don’t care about individuals, but you’re the same. You’re allowing people to die for—”
“I’m not allowing anything, Jack.” She cut him off calmly. “You are. It’s your job to stop him, and you’re failing.” She smiled.
He sighed, loudly this time.
“Are we done?”
He nodded, looking away. Annoyed.
She stood and left.
Back in the room, she told the girls what had happened.
Savannah looked concerned. “The case is getting worse by the day.”
Mia nodded. “They’re likely going to push for the death sentence unless he gets an insanity plea.”
Savannah hesitated. “What does that mean exactly?”
“It’s a legal strategy that allows a defendant to claim that he isn’t guilty of a crime due to mental illness. It’s an affirmative defense, meaning the defendant admits to having committed the crime but claims he wasn’t mentally responsible,” Amara explained.
“Your dad’s trying for that, right?”
She nodded.
“How does it work?”
“The defendant has to prove insanity by a preponderance of evidence. A jury decides whether he’s proven his claim. If found guilty but insane, the judge may commit him to a mental hospital,” Mia explained.
The weight of it settled.
Amara’s voice was calm. “Do you want him to try for the plea?”
Savannah looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know.”
“You’re not very close to him, then.” Amara’s voice was even.
“Amara.” Mia’s tone was sharp.
“I am. Was. I…” Savannah trailed off.
“You don’t have to answer.” Mia cut in.
“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.“ Amara exhaled lightly. "To me, it’s not a plausible thought to desire justice on my father. I know he hurt people, but…” She inhaled, smile thin, eyes distant. “I simply cannot desire for him to be dead.”
Mia understood.
Savannah probably did too but didn’t know how to process it.
Almost five in the afternoon, Amara’s name was finally called. She moved calmly, but Mia could feel the tension thrumming under her skin.
“Good luck,” Savannah said, soft smile.
Mia motioned the code for mind what you say.
Amara nodded, inhaled deep, left.
Savannah exhaled dramatically. “Great. Now we’ll melt away from anxiety until she gets back.” She flopped onto the bed.
“It will be fine,” Mia said, mechanical. Mind already elsewhere.
Savannah hesitated. “Do you think he’ll get it? The plea, I mean.”
Mia turned to her.
“Didn’t wanna ask in front of her.”
“Right.” She nodded. “Yeah. I think he will. Chilton’s writing it. He’s interested in Hannibal. He’ll do what he can to keep him.”
She lay down. Closed her eyes.
Behind her eyelids, in the darkness, in the silence, there was only her father. Filling every empty space.
She tried sending something. A futile attempt at telepathy.
I got you, Daddy. Stay safe.