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Lumen Obscura	By : PinkSiamese Category: -Misc TV Shows > Crossovers Views: 1077 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Hannibal or Dexter in any of their incarnations (TV shows, movies, books). I am making no money off this story.

Chapter List
- 15
- 16
- 17
Will takes the seat closest to the window.
The scents of the place, their complexity, the way they’re held aloft upon silken waves of orange blossoms, makes him restless. Beyond the glass, the city skyline is subtracted from its light, rendered into something hard. Facets of light chip off the darkness, send brief dazzling flashes across his vision. He can see the sea; from here it exists as negative space, a vast stretch of black unadorned by even the reflection of the moon. It looks soft, a swatch of deep velvet spread out beneath a rosy, wine-stained, ashen sky.
“Get a load of this place.” Beverly leans over to him, goes sotto voce, “I don’t know what I was expecting? But this was not it.”
“We’re here at Dr. Lecter’s recommendation.” Will faces her. “What else could you expect?”
“Something less, I don’t know…and it’s going to sound terrible, and I apologize for that, but something a little less…ethnic. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to be into something that’s not French. Isn’t everything that guy eats French?”
“Morocco was once occupied by the French.” Will straightens his cuffs, glances at the pale peach napkin folded across his place setting. His eyes wander from votive to votive, to the fairy lights strung overhead. He glances at the long folds of orange drapes behind him. “From what I can see, the food here retains at least a touch of that influence.”
“The owner is a friend of Dr. Lecter’s.” Jack Crawford picks up his water glass, takes a sip. “Apparently, they have known each other since childhood.”
“I know.” Will looks out the window. “I’ve heard the story.”
“I haven’t,” says Beverly. “Spill.”
“The owner is originally from Rabat and he met and married his wife, an American woman, while she was studying in France. She, being a native of the area, brought their children here summers to vacation and to spend time with her family. The daughter, Yasmina,” he goes on, hand opening into a flowerlike gesture, “she drowned in a boating accident. In the bay of Biscayne, I think. So he and his wife named the restaurant after her.”
Bev makes a slight face. “That’s a weird tribute.” She looks around. “Don’t you think so?”
Jack shrugs. “Maybe. I understand that she loved Miami, and that she loved to cook and was going to work here; she had studied at Johnson Wales, I think, or was in the middle of her studies when she died.”
“Sorry we’re late.” Debra strides up to the table, moving faster than the hostess escorting her. She’s wrapped tight in a black strapless dress, shod in simple black heels with a single strand of small black pearls encircling her throat. Her straight hair falls in a smooth sheaf down her back. She grins. “The traffic was hell.”
Jack stands. “No problem.” He grins. “I’m glad you could make it.” He turns, holds out a hand. “You’ve met Will Graham.”
Will nods. “Lieutenant.”
“Please, it’s just Deb.” She grins, shakes her hair out of her face. She nods. “Nice to see you again, sir.”
“Oh, don’t do that. Please.” His face turns red. “If you’re Deb, I’m Will.”
“Okay, then. Will.” Deb turns, points at Dexter’s chest. “This is my brother Dexter.”
Will nods. “Hello.”
“So I didn’t actually have the time to look up all those words you used today while giving the profile.” Dexter grins, holds out his hand. “I did write them down, though.”
Will takes his hand, shakes it. He lets go. “I’m so glad.” His mouth quirks, doesn’t quite smile. “Perhaps I’ll add footnotes next time.”
“And this is Beverly Katz, crime scene analyst,” says Jack. “She’s our fiber specialist.”
Bev smiles, turns, holds out her hand. “Hi. Shall I call you Deb as well?”
Deb nods, smoothing her skirt, glancing at both sides of her thighs as she sits. Jack pushes in her chair. “Totally,” she says, reaching over the table to take Bev’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too. I’ve heard so much about you.” Bev grins. “Don’t worry, it’s all the good stuff.”
“I have a reputation at the FBI?” Deb starts to laugh. “Shit. Should I be flattered or afraid?”
Will looks at her. His smile comes, is hesitant, it flickers in and out. He lowers his voice. “Frank Lundy was a friend.”
Deb looks as though she’s been slapped. “Oh. Huh.” She shakes her head, starts to smile, doesn’t quite make it. “Yeah, I guess he would be, huh?”
“I’m sorry,” says Bev, leaning over the table. She starts to touch Deb’s hand, changes her mind. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No, it’s okay.” She shakes her head, picks the napkin up off the table. “I’m…I should’ve thought of that, that you might’ve known him.”
“He was a great man,” says Jack. “And a kind one.” He rests a hand on her bare shoulder, leaves it for a bare breath of seconds. “His death is a terrible loss to all who knew him.”
“Thank you, I appreciate it. I just…” Deb picks up her water goblet, takes a swig. She looks at Jack. “I don’t talk about it much, you know? I don’t get the chance to. Most people around here didn’t know him like I did.”
“Well,” says Jack, flashing her a warm smile, “I don’t think any of us knew him quite the way you did.”
Deb blushes. “Okay, okay.” She turns away from him. “Enough about me. Okay? Sheesh.” She elbows Dexter. “You’re supposed to protect me from this stuff.”
Dexter looks up from his menu. “Huh?”
Beverly giggles, takes a drink of water.
Will looks out the window. The glittering of the light finds its way inside him, calms the stride of his blood. He seeks the darkness of the sea. Faint reflections come and go: blurred movement of servers, their bodies just shapes in the din and mired in ever-changing light of the dining room, adrift upon it, tolerated by the complexity of its layers.
Conversation happens around him; he watches the sea and finds himself in familiar territory—words are reduced to currents, fluttering cross-hatched marks carved into a surface of water. Voices, waves that come and go, tones become the minute shift of sand at the bottom of the sea, sand at a shallow beach, grains that drift, that tumble. They draw familiar shapes, come together, they follow predictable patterns; he reads the surface of the water, knows from the flash of sunlight in his eyes how the sand is going to move. Currents unseen, but felt tugging on the bones; the hollow groan of the sea caving in on itself. A rush of foam.
…no one knows everyone knows alcohol is true comfort food is I like your dress like yours too what is this thing I don’t know how is the work you know it’s the work I’m tired I wonder so much trace left flight out of here in the morning and then there’s a smile, another smile, the same the same the same smile, so much of it, flashes of teeth traded like light from shard to shard to shard to shard of a broken mirror, the facets of a window, or a jewel
Scent of orange blossom. Sweet, heavy, smooth, there’s a richness, a translation of long hot hours and the sunlight itself so close to the girdle of the world; it’s soft on his skin, gentle in his nose, it comes over him like memories of heat, the hot salty breath blown in a long harsh exhale off the milky warm back of the Gulf
(it’s deep to go here, to sink down back into the Gulf that lives in his body still, those waters of his growth, misty light reflected off fractured turquoise, those tides still a pull on his blood his lymph his saliva, all the waters of his body obedient)
“What do you think, Will?”
He turns away from the window and is startled by the clarity of their faces: Jack, eyes dark but still warm, his mouth cautious; Debra, she is foreign to him but beautiful, her long face a queen’s, her eyes ferocious, her mouth cracked; Dexter, who isn’t looking at him, his big chin heavy jaw, dirty-penny sideburn pointing to the slight bulge in his jaw muscles; Bev, her smooth skin, her half-smile a familiar harbor, her eyes unafraid.
He plunges his fingers into the waters at the back of his mind, stirs them until the whispers come.
Will glances from face to face, smiles. “I’m okay with the tasting menu.”
“Okay, then.” Bev turns her attention to Jack. She lifts her eyebrows. “I guess everyone agrees.”
Jack folds his hands on the table. “Dr. Lecter says that it is out of this world.”
His eyes return to the sea. Smooth, dark. Through the glass a hint of cobalt at the horizon line, empty space where stars should be but they cannot claw their way through a shroud of pink city light.
Daddy said to never turn my back on the sea but I did it anyway.
Will’s mind wills the sun into this skin; a memory of its ponderous weight presses the sensation of sweat up out of it. His head hums around the ache of a brightness that isn’t there.
A long steady breeze comes off the water, cooled by offshore depths, and carries it away.
He shades his eyes, his calves caught by the water. He throws off the sun so he can watch the wound she makes in the landscape, her sinister curves sliced into the earth’s skin; currents tug the sand out from beneath his feet, implore him, but she steals his attention. The sight of her is wet on him, torn open to show its soft sweet blood. His gaze clings tight to the shape of her body and she pauses, picks her sandals up off the sand.
She looks over her shoulder. She looks at him.
“I’ll just have water.” Will glances at the server. “With lemon is fine.”
“Ground control to Graham,” whispers Bev, poking him in the shoulder.
He glances at her, his smile flickering. “Does Houston have a problem?”
She chuckles. “Not really. Not yet. You were…” She flaps her hands like wings. “Off.”
“Sorry.” He shifts his body toward the rest of the table. “I was thinking.”
“Don’t let me stop you, by all means,” says Bev. “The first course will be here soon.”
“Okay.” He glances around the table. “What is it?”
“Some kind of soup.” She shrugs. “It has argan oil in it.” She watches his face. “What the hell is argan oil?”
“It’s a nut endemic to Morocco,” Will murmurs. He sets his napkin on his lap, unfolds it across his legs. “It’s like an olive tree, in some ways.”
Bev grins. She rolls her eyes. “Of course you would know that.”
“Yeah, I guess.” He chuckles, looks at her. He smiles. “I guess I would.”
The first course arrives. The bowls are plain, white, they are made of heavy porcelain with a woven texture worked into the rims. They’re shallow but wide; the soup is gold, creamy, it casts off billows of steam. The server sets the bowl in front of him. He smells leek, nutmeg, hazelnut, a hint of pepper adrift in a savory trace of chicken broth. Shimmering beads of orange oil scatter across its surface.
Will dips his spoon, brings the edge of it to his lips. He blows off the steam. He takes a sip. Cardamom, cumin, cinnamon and ginger floods his tongue. It is a scintillating bouquet tuned down to a dull roar, layered into the flavors of cauliflower, leek, and dark chicken meat.
“Do you like it?”
Will looks up, sees Jack’s face. His smile shows the gap in his front teeth.
“I don’t know,” says Will, tugging his collar away from sudden scratchy heat. “I’m not sure. Some of these flavors seem somewhat…contradictory, to me.”
“You’re not used to it.” Jack grins, gestures to Will’s bowl with his spoon. “Eat some more. The flavors of it start to harmonize.”
Will takes another spoonful. The second taste strengthens the chicken flavor, the rich nutty taste of the argan oil strangled by the hazelnut. He puts the spoon down. “I don’t like it.”
Bev looks at him. “Really?”
“Yeah, it’s too much…” Will takes a long drink of water. “I don’t know.” He shrugs. “It tastes all jumbled up to me.”
“I think it’s delicious.” Deb ladles another spoonful into her mouth. She swallows. “And it smells completely fucking amazing.”
“That it does.” Jack smiles at her.
Will pushes the bowl away.
*             *             *
Lumen pushes the bowl away.
Hannibal glances at the bowl. He looks at her and smiles. “I see the soup is to your taste.”
She shifts her weight, eases one leg down off the other. She sighs, rotates her ankles. “Yeah.” She picks up her napkin, dabs the corners of her mouth. “That’s why there’s none left.” She smiles. “It was delicious.”
Hannibal watches her place the napkin on the table. “I presume you are heading to the ladies’ room?”
“Yeah.” She extracts herself from the plush seating. “Excuse me.”
“Of course.”
Lumen pushes through the beaded curtain, follows the hallway back down to where it merges with the big dining room. The silk drapes have been tied back and she parts the beads with one hand, steps through.
It’s brighter out here than it is in the alcove. She looks around, squinting as her eyes adjust to the flood of pale light.
A server passes by. Lumen reaches out, touches her elbow. Her steps slow. She looks at Lumen over her shoulder.
“Where are the bathrooms?”
The server leans back, points.
“Thank you.”
Lumen steps down. She lifts her hem off the floor. The big dining room is sunken, the floors blonde wood and smooth; the whole atmosphere glows, golden, it is like the light of a full harvest moon falling on the warm sands of a desert, crisp. The cut-tin lanterns veil everything in soft light. The tall windows slice the skyline, frame it in sections; the tables next to the windows are closed in by the tangerine drapes, just a little, the illusion is that of sitting at the opening of a tent, surveying the sparkling nightscape beyond the glass, the purple sky, those purples deepening.
The distant sea would shimmer beneath the sky until the last of the light had fled beneath the horizon. Civil twilight, she thinks, taking the last step down. Nautical twilight. She walks among the tables. Astronomical twilight.
It is a voice that makes her look. It’s laughing, raucous; it rings out over all others, like the strong tones of a bell calling all attention to itself. The voice is familiar. She can’t place it until she’s approaching the table. That’s when she looks, sees Deb with a big grin on her face. She’s in a little black dress, she’s looking at a big black man in a suit, she has a wine glass in her hand, her head is thrown back. Deb laughs fit to rouse the world.
Lumen slows in her steps. She glimpses Dexter, all of his attention is on Deb; Lumen can see by the set of his mouth that he doesn’t like the way all of her attention is on Jack, and…
Will.
He’s by the window; Lumen looks at him, she sees him all at once, the dark gray blazer with the red plaid seersucker shirt, black tie, his dark hair made unruly by constant humidity. The ski-jump, prep-school slope of his nose, the glint of his eyes moving back and forth, his long trembling lashes, how the corners of his mouth restrain a smile.
Her breath stops. The aggression of her blood backs up, floods her face.
The Asian woman from the parking lot, Beverly, sits beside him. She’s wearing a deep blue sleeveless cocktail dress with black lace and a high neck; her hair is pulled up, her big chandelier earrings sparkle in the warm light.
Will looks over Beverly’s shoulder. Blinks. There is a quick second, a widening of the eyes, it’s slight. He leans back. His lips part.
Beverly turns, looks over her shoulder.
Lumen watches Will close his mouth, put his hands on the table. Her cheeks hot, she looks at the floor, watches her feet and listens for the click of the shoes over the din, breath coming faster. There is a slight burn of panic in her chest, a tightening. She heads for the other side of the room, fixes her eyes on the signs that point the way to the bathrooms. She waits for a voice. Dexter, calling out to her. Maybe Debra; she would not forget a face.
Will would not use her name, would not speak to her; she’s sure he wouldn’t but she succumbs to the fantasy of it anyway: Will, calling out to her, he would follow her with this voice at first, that voice, soft but always so frayed in his throat, threadbare, like raw silk worn roughshod.
He would follow her with his eyes.
Lumen slows, glances over her shoulder. The noise of the room, the clink of silverware, voices, glasses meeting the edges of plates, all of it crashes into her ears and fills them with restless murmuring; it wrestles with the thud of her heart.
Will is talking with Beverly. His brows draw together and he glances over, double-takes. Lumen’s heartbeat doubles, triples. He straightens up, turns, looks her over. The crease in his forehead disappears, flickers back; Lumen forgets herself. She halts, takes a step, starts to turn. He looks into her eyes. His mouth opens.
Lumen spins around, strides toward the other side of the room. She squeezes through a pair of oncoming servers, almost knocks them aside. The frantic boom of her heart drowns out all sound.
*             *             *
“Excuse me.” Will tosses his napkin onto the table. He flashes Bev a brief, tense smile and pushes the chair back from the table. “Bathroom.”
Beverly glances toward the end of the dining room. She looks him over. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” He straightens his tie. “I’m all right.”
“Will?” Jack watches him push aside the drapes, shuffle around the table. “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah, guys. Look. I’m okay.” He looks around the table. “Just gotta use the bathroom.” He holds up his hands. “It’s not a crisis.”
The look on Bev’s face reflects his sharp tone. He winces a little. He holds her gaze for a handful of fidgety seconds, gives her a soft smile. She returns it, looks at the table. She shifts in the seat.
Will leaves the table, he walks. His eyes jump from chairs to lamps, from curtains to crystal bowls, there are servers everywhere, the lights of Miami are distracting. It closes around him, the din of people talking, eating, shifting in their chairs, of phones buzzing, all the noise of bodies in close proximity; it tightens in his belly. The invasiveness of it, of noise, the sudden strength of the light kindles a dull ache behind his eyes.
He steps up his pace, steps out of the dining room; at the arch that separates the big dining room, he begins to run.
The corridor that leads up to the bathrooms is dimmer, the light kinder, it moves like firelight, flickers down from the big lamps that hang high overhead. Lumen is not quite to the door. The light takes hold of her dress, elevates it beyond simple silks and crystalline flecks; it is a gown wrought cut and sewn out of a long winter’s night, the glints of light sharp, glittering both cold and wild.
He grabs her arm, yanks her back from the bathroom door. Her shoes scrape on the stone floor, it’s loud, it echoes.
He lowers his voice. Her breath comes fast, erratic; it makes him think of butterflies. “Did you follow me here?”
“No!” Lumen twists around, wrenches her arm back. “I’m here on a date, not that it’s any of your business.” She yanks again, stumbles. Patches of red flame high on her cheeks. She glares at him, gleaming eyes narrowed into razors. Her mouth trembles. “Let go of me.”
Will loosens his grip. He looks down, breathes hard, the tension in him hums, clenches in his guts; he’s overcome by a primitive urge to grab her and fling her against the wall, hold her there with his body, to breathe into her breath. His mouth goes dry. He blinks, glances at her startled eyes, the abrupt slack in her flat red mouth. He opens his fingers. His hand trembles. He takes a step back.
“I’m sorry.”
She folds her arms, keeps her eyes on him. She backs herself into the wall. “I told you I wouldn’t follow you anymore.”
He blinks, runs an agitated hand through his hair. He does it again with the other hand, shifts his weight. He rubs his beard. “I know. I’m sorry. I…I-I…uh…” He wipes his mouth. “I overreacted.” He lowers his voice, peers into her eyes. “I’m sorry. It…it won’t happen again.”
“Okay.” The rapid rise and fall of her collarbones distracts him. He watches the skin with its light sheen of sweat as she slides a hand over them, fills their gap with her thumb. “Okay.”
Will looks at her. She breathes through her mouth, he watches her gaze crawl over his face; the sensation of her scrutiny is like a soft voice pressed into him, a burning fingertip following the sharp edge of his jaw before burying itself in his hair. He takes a step closer.
“I’ve got to go,” she murmurs.
“Yeah.” He back away, looks around. He nods. “Yeah.”
Lumen watches him walk to the men’s room, take hold of the door knob. He turns it, pushes the door open. It’s a single-stall. He closes the door, twists the deadbolt, leans his back up against it. He closes his eyes, catches his breath.
You’re losing it. It’s going, Graham. Fuck that, never mind: you’ve lost it. That’s it. Your mind is gone.
Will straightens up, walks over to the sink. He looks at himself. He’s surrounded by blue votives set into the walls, blue light is everywhere; tin lanterns hang from a black ceiling. The ceiling itself is embedded with tiny lights designed to look like stars.
He turns on the cold water. He glances at the livid patches in his cheeks. He looks in his eyes and yearns to haul back, make a fist, and punch his reflection right smack in its quivering mouth.
Will cups his hands beneath the faucet. Splashes his face. He turns off the water, gropes for a folded towel. He dries his face, flings the towel onto a corner.
The toilet is separated from the washroom by a pair of curtains. He pushes through them. The light on the other side is lurid, it’s filtered through blue and purple glass and flooded with silver. Will unbuttons his jacket. Unzips.
An image unfolds in his mind: Hannibal, he occupies a space that should be hers, that is hers, the territory of her exclusive dominion, the zone of heat between her skin and the outside world. Hannibal, his hand hovering over the base of her spine.
“Bullshit,” he murmurs. “You can’t know. There’s no way.”
The thought of Hannibal’s eyes on her in that dress, of his gaze anywhere near her body, makes his hands curl into fists.
How was it? It was boring. These conferences usually are, you know, and it might’ve been a total loss but for my good fortune and a beautiful blonde.
The way he chuckled, slumped and exhausted on the plane, watching a burning red horizon flee into the west, sickens him. So they include those at conferences now?
No, I’m afraid not, and it was not the way you would expect. She was not there to promote any event; she was just…there. Now, of course, not all blondes are beautiful, and not all beautiful women have a razor-sharp mind. It is a rare delight to find both, and one to be savored.
He shakes his head but the thought won’t leave him: Hannibal’s hand, its fingers spread. Hannibal’s hand hovering between him, Will Graham, and the soft white river of her spine. A barrier. A fortification. The image, its aggressive clarity, makes his scalp hot and prickly. It makes his skin feel too tight.
Will sighs, takes out his cock. Urine splashes into the bowl.
He used the word savor. You know what that means.
The rage is sudden. It lands on him, comes down, hauls on his muscles like guy-wires. Breath explodes out of him. Hot sparks of pain flare in his knuckles. On the backside of a ragged inhale comes full knowledge, its speed is the speed of a synapse, of the thrown punch. The momentum of it spirals all the way up past his elbow, digs soft claws into the ball-and-socket joint in his shoulder. Pain sings in skin that is raw, peeled back, split open. He shakes out his hand, his numb wrist. The spent taste of adrenaline smolders in his mouth.
Will winces. He inspects the scraped skin. “Great.” He glances down. His eyebrows go up. “There’s piss everywhere. Lovely.”
It’s on the toilet seat, the tiled floor; a handful of stray drops darken his pants but they are tiny, already soaking into the dark blue cloth.
He zips up. Flushes the toilet. He pulls off wads of toilet paper and drops to one knee, uses the paper to soak up the mess.
It could be worse. I didn’t piss all over my shoes.
Will tosses the paper into the bowl, flushes.
*             *             *
Lumen stands, lets her skirt drop. She flushes.
She pushes the curtains aside; tiny lanterns hang from the ceiling. She glimpses them in the mirror. Her shoes click and scrape against the stone floor.
She turns on the water. When it’s cold enough she puts her hot hands beneath it, relishes the way it sinks into her fingertips, numbs them. She looks at herself, puts her fingers on her cheeks. The skin there is red, it creeps in patches down her neck, spreads like roses on her chest. She takes a towel and soaks it with cold water, dabs her chest, she presses the wet fabric tight against the heat but it’s no match. It burns through the water, restores warmth to her fingers.
Lumen takes out her lipstick. She looks at her mouth; her hand trembles as she brings the tip to her lips. She concentrates on her hand. The tremor worsens. She squeezes her eyes shut, tosses the lipstick onto the counter. She lets out a harsh sigh.
In the redness behind her closed lids she thinks of Will’s hand, the savagery of it, his face, the look on it as though the sight of her was like a bullet to the guts; the moment of his mouth opening, his eyes too bright, the lines in his face surfacing, a quick pained revelation. There and gone, in the space of a breath. The sound of his voice carried her away from the sight of his trapped eyes, their constant yielding, their piteous struggle to look away.
She opens her eyes. Leans into the counter. Looks at herself. She wets her fingers, wipes smudges of mascara off the skin beneath her bottom lashes. She uses the wet towel to remove all of her lipstick.
That’s good. That’s good, Lumen. Keep on doing this thing you’re doing. Put your face back together.
Her hand steadies enough to reapply the lipstick. The color looks different in here; this light makes it lush, vibrant, it makes her think of rubies and rose petals, red berries, wine. She takes out her tube of mascara, makes a face in order to put it on; she looks startled in the mirror, her mouth open, it’s such an exaggerated mockery of her true feelings that it almost makes her laugh.
Lumen washes her hands, dries them. She moves out into the hallway, walks as fast as she can in the shoes, those high narrow heels wobbling.
She takes a breath. Looks around. She scans every table by the windows until she sees Jack; he’s seated at the outside of the table, facing her, he’s dressed in a dark blue suit. The fabric has some sort of sheen, it may be silk; it catches the light and gives back a lighter shade, a blue that’s almost silver, like the sea beneath the moon.
I have to cross this room again.
Lumen steps down. She pays attention to her feet, holds up the sheer overskirt and curses it as she moves between the tables, purse in one hand, her eyes on the big double doors.
“Lumen?”
It’s Dexter. She ignores him. She doesn’t speed up, doesn’t turn; she nods and smiles to a passing server, halts, turns sideways so he can move past her.
“Lumen!”
I can’t ignore him a second time.
She turns, pretends to scan the dining room. Dexter waves. He’s in a pearl gray blazer, very light in color, and a mint green shirt. He catches her eye and smiles. He beckons.
“Dex, why are you doing this to me,” she mutters, circling around another table. She looks up, waves to him.
“Lumen, I thought that was you,” Dexter says as she approaches the table. “You look fantastic, by the way.”
“Yeah, we’re over…” She gestures. “There. In the private dining rooms.” Lumen smiles, looks around the table. “Thanks. So, uh, this is your dinner thing.”
Jack stands. “Dexter, please. Will you introduce us?”
“Oh, God, you don’t need to stand.” Lumen puts a hand on her neck. “Not on my account. Please.” She smiles. “Sit.”
“Jack,” says Dexter, “this is Lumen Pierce, a good friend of mine.” He looks at her, a slight smile on his face. “Lumen, this is Jack Crawford. He’s head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit at the FBI.”
Lumen lets go of her skirt, offers her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Crawford.”
He takes it. “The pleasure is mine, Ms. Pierce.”
“Lumen, please.” She shakes her head. “Just Lumen.”
“Very well, Just Lumen.” He inclines his head with a smile. “I’m just Jack.” He nods to Deb. “I take it you already know Lieutenant Morgan.”
“Hi, Deb.” Lumen nods. “It’s been awhile.”
“Yeah. Someone,” says Deb, elbowing Dexter, “ahem, someone didn’t tell me you were back in town.” She gives a half-smile, lifts her eyebrows. “Welcome back to Miami.”
“Thanks.” Lumen glances at Will. “I haven’t been back very long. So don’t be too hard on him, okay?”
“This is Beverly Katz, our fiber expert.”
Bev turns in the chair, holds out her hand. “Hey.” She flashes a brief smile. “He’s right, you know. That’s a really great dress.”
“Thank you so much.” Lumen takes her hand, gives it a firm shake. “I got a great deal on it, and I never get to wear it, so tonight is a real treat.”
“And this, over here in the corner, is Will Graham.”
Will turns away from the window. He shifts his body in the seat. He looks her over.
“He’s our profiler.”
Lumen takes a step forward. “Mr. Graham.” She tilts her head, holds out her hand. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
He takes it. “Oh?”
“Most of it’s good.” She looks into his eyes, starts to smile. “Most of it.”
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Lumen Obscura