March 24th, 2005

"...What?"

For some unexplained reason, there was a kitten rubbing itself on his ankles. Perplexed, Leon knelt and reached out to the feline with the intention of reading the tag upon its blue collar. The little animal made a playful swat at his fingers, leaving a deep scratch. Blood began to well along the injury and he withdrew his hand in surprise. The cat meowed good-naturedly and drew close to his ankles once again, purring with the volume of a lawnmower. He reached down for the second time—but he had learned his lesson. Now he held the diminutive creature's forepaws down so that he might have a second to examine the tiny writing upon the tag.

Bump

555-1624

414 Aldrid St.

ask for Lynn

The kitten was carried into the house, his newspaper left on the stoop. He attempted to dial the phone number with one hand and hold the animal in the other, but the purring ball of black and gray fuzz proved quite hard to handle and he was eventually forced to set it down, though not before suffering several more scratches.

One ring...

Two rings...

He gave a sigh as the answering machine picked up after the fifth ring.

"Hey, it's Lynn. Sorry, but I'm not here now. Leave me a message; I'll get back to you." There was a beep, and so he began to speak.

"Hey... I think I found your... uh... cat, and—NO! Don't touch that!" he shouted as he noticed the kitten reaching for a plate precariously balanced atop an end table. But he was too late; the plate fell on top of the startled feline, who bounded away and gave a tiny hiss in response. "Damn it!" he swore as he quickly placed the phone back into the cradle. As he approached the kitten bolted to hide under the couch.

The damage wasn't awful; the plate hadn't broken but there was now leftover spaghetti—his previous night's dinner—all over the white carpet of his living room. With a sigh and a few muttered obscenities, he went for a paper towel to clean the mess as best he could. The noodles were relatively easy, but the sauce...

It's going to have to wait. Right now I have to find a place where that thing won't be able to ruin the house until she comes to pick it up, he thought. But there was a problem, he realized. He hadn't left her his number. Not even his name. He mentally kicked himself as the fact dawned on him that he had, in effect, hung up on her—a girl he didn't even know who was probably, after hearing his message, worried sick that her cat had found its way to some psycho ailurophobe's house.

"I guess I'll just bring you over there," he said with a sigh to the kitten, now chewing the corner of a pillow on his couch. He grabbed a black sweatshirt from a nearby recliner and pulled it over his head. This would have to do for the still-chilly spring weather; he hadn't yet found a suitable replacement for the brown leather jacket he'd lost in Europe the previous fall.

He found the ordeal that followed rather trying. For a man who had killed countless monsters intent on ending his life violently, catching a kitten proved an exhausting task. Man looked at Cat, sitting oh-so-innocently on the sofa. Cat looked back to Man, blinking and giving a twitch of its tail. There was a moment of still silence before Man advanced, though as soon as he moved, Cat raced off, bouncing from couch to end table and atop the bookcase in a matter of seconds. But Cat was still young, and its next leap took it straight into a lamp. Man followed, attempting to catch the light but failing as the feline ran through the spaghetti sauce on the floor and down the hallway into the bathroom.

At last the cat was bagged, so to speak—or at least boxed. Leon poked a few air holes in a shoebox sitting near his bed and used the container for a makeshift cat-carrier. However, his living room ended up even more cluttered: spaghetti sauce paw prints adorned the carpet and his standing lamp lay on the floor. The kitten had also attempted to climb the shower curtain to escape him, shredding the thin cloth with its claws. But he had managed to corner her and the cat was put in the box, which was taped firmly shut, and he was able to leave.

The morning was crisp and cool, and a fresh breeze lifted the dark blond hair from his forehead as he started down the steps with a box of subdued cat under his arm. Despite the fact that his apartment was a mess and he would most likely have to answer for the new stains on the floor, he was in the best mood he had been in all week. He was getting used to the idea of being home, even if there were certain limitations.

Home, he mused. That was a word he was still getting used to saying. He had, of course, always had a home; however after leaving at the age of eighteen nothing ever seemed to go right. He was always either enrolled in some sort of grueling, months-long training, being chased around by monsters, or playing agent for the government, and rarely had a chance to sleep in his own bed.

And of course, after Raccoon City his life hadn't quite been normal again, but that was to be expected. There had been his second trial by fire in Europe. Fresh out of a special training course, off to Spain, save the President's daughter, play host to a disgusting parasite for a day or two... he hadn't expected anyone to be sympathetic with him; after all, he was dealing with the government now. And indeed, at first they had grilled him—relentlessly—calling the interviews in an empty room under a single bright light "therapy." But as far as he could tell, he had nothing to hide... except, of course, his connection to Ada. And the fact that she was alive. And Krauser's mention of Umbrella. That was what disturbed him most of all about the ordeal; those two lines uttered by his former comrade.

"All for Umbrella's sake..."

"Umbrella!"

"Oops, almost let it slip..."

But dwelling on this got him nowhere. He had told the President's men what they wanted to hear, and the President let him off for a few months. In fact, he had actually given Leon the news himself. He had plenty of agents, he said. It had been a trying ordeal, obviously; though there wasn't anyone quite as good as he for the job of guarding Ashley, he could go home for a few months and collect himself. Ashley was thankful. He was thankful. You had done your country good. Now get your ass on home and pull it together for when we really need you, cause we don't need an agent with a fucked up mind.

Well, the President hadn't actually said the last part. But that was the distinct feeling given off. Of course there were restrictions; they didn't want him leaking government information to anyone. He was pretty sure his phone lines were bugged, and some fellow agents had installed a camera near his front door, which freaked him out to no end. There was also the bracelet.

Around his ankle was a silver chain with a strange clasp. Inside the chunky closure was a tiny computer chip. He had no idea how the whole setup worked, aside from the fact that the jewelry monitored his movements just like the less-discrete versions given to some felons in lieu of jail time. He was allowed to leave his home, but if he went anywhere considered suspicious by his betters he would find himself on the ground with a gun to his head faster than he would care to think. But this was unfortunately easy to believe—he wasn't blind or stupid. To his trained eyes the agents posted in several areas in the immediate vicinity of his home, as well as the ones that followed him everywhere from a block or so behind screamed obvious.

"Cut that thing off and we'll send a squad of armed men to your house. And they won't care who gets in their way," the man who fitted the bracelet on him had said. However, his situation wasn't so bad as long as he followed the rules. He was slowly regaining his composure as the days went by—and he hadn't even realized at first how much the whole mission had disturbed him. He figured that out when "the dream" began itself anew, but with several new characters.

In this nightmare he had been having since escaping Raccoon City, he and Claire Redfield were racing through the streets of the ruined town together, Sherry having been lost somewhere along the way. But they were being followed by something. A monster that was unlike any other they had seen thus far...

And there was the door! A door of wood, held together by rusted nails and bits of metal; looking as though the whole thing would fall from the frame if touched. There was a keyhole, but no knob. And he had the key. So he went to the door, knowing fully well that it led out of the city. Claire was right behind him, she had been the whole way... but he didn't hear her anymore. So he turned around.

Claire was there, standing several yards away. Staring... just staring at him. He yelled, "Claire! What are you doing? This is the door, let's go!" And she would shake her head, her blue eyes wide in dread as she began to back slowly away, slowly towards whatever was coming for them.

He looked down at his shaking hands, only to notice something. They were a sort of pale color, much paler than was normal. The veins stuck out grotesquely, a sickly black color. And they itched. God, they itched. So he began to scratch them, realizing suddenly that his whole body itched burningly. But as he scratched, the skin began to peel away in chunks, exposing the dead veins and sickly red muscle beneath. Thick blood oozed slowly from the wounds, drying almost as soon as the air hit the red liquid. He was one of them, and Claire knew.

"Claire! No! I'll be fine, just come on..." he took a lurching step forward, reaching to her, but she screamed and backed away. The monster was closer; both of them could see the shadow upon the walls as the fiend came nearer to the small alley. Torn, Claire looked from Leon to the approaching shadowy menace before taking a tentative step forward. She let him take her by the wrist. He could feel the warmth in her flesh underneath his deathly cold fingers. He could feel the pulse that beat a rapid flutter against the smooth skin of her wrist. Could hear her shallow breaths... the frightened gasp as he took her arm and attempted to pull her along. Could see the sheer terror in her eyes. And suddenly, he wanted her. Wanted to taste her. It began as just a tiny trickle of a thought across his mind before becoming a full-fledged roar. He had to try. Had to have her. Not to hurt her, just to make the feeling go away, that odd pain in his stomach that somehow had moved up to his head as well.

The alley was small, and he didn't have to move much to pin her to the wall by both wrists.

"Leon! What are you doing? Let... me... go!" She kicked him—hard—in the groin, and under normal circumstances he would have dropped to the ground screaming. But he felt nothing aside from the pain in his stomach and head. That feeling was smoldering into his mind, making him crazy...

Claire let out a scream and tried to push his body away, but to no avail. He leaned slowly forward as if to kiss her, fleetingly hesitant, however as soon as he could smell her fear he was gone. He sank his teeth into her neck just below the ear, causing her to cry out in pain. The taste of blood excited him, instantly alleviating some of the pain in his head. He needed to fix his stomach now. So he repositioned his mouth just below her chin, where there was more flesh, and bit down hard.

Blood sprayed into his face, getting in his eyes and making his hair stick to his forehead. Claire let out a noise that was a cross between a frantic cry and the sound made when someone blows bubbles through a drinking straw. Messy, for sure, but he didn't care. He continued biting, tearing away tender strips of flesh as she began to bleed to death.

Finally. The pains were gone. He felt normal again, though by glancing at his rotting arms he knew he was not better yet. But Claire was still standing against the wall. He figured she was alright, maybe just shocked. He couldn't quite remember just how hard he had bitten her.

"Claire! Let's go." He started for the door. But she did not move, and he turned in time to see her slump to the ground. Her eyes were open, shining with tears and pain unimaginable. Only then did he realize what exactly had happened. "Oh Claire... oh God..."

He went to her and knelt at her side. Blood still spurted from her broken jugular in weak trickles, and her eyes roamed back and forth hysterically as her mouth worked to form words that came out as no more than sickening bubbles of blood.

"Claire..." he attempted to push a strand of her hair from her forehead in an apologetic gesture, but she batted his hand away weakly.

"...trusted you..." she mouthed. With this her eyes closed.

The full force of the situation hit him like a slap across the face. She had trusted him. He had killed her. What was more, he was a zombie and if he made it through that door, he would not be able to go far before being shot. He had to try though, and he would be damned if he left Claire behind. So he lifted her up, cradling the dead girl in his arms. She was limp and he was weakening quickly, making her dead weight nearly impossible to hold up. He couldn't bear to look at the damage he had done: her throat hung open in ragged, bloody flaps. She was very obviously dead; he was doubtful that with that much blood loss even the virus could bring her back. But he still had to get to that door, it was so close...

Normally, this was the end of the dream. He woke up, screaming and sweating, tears streaming down his cheeks. He wouldn't sleep for the rest of the night, and would be tired and ornery the next day. However, after he had returned from his little expedition to Spain, the dream had changed.

"Leon!" his name was being called from down the alley. He instantly recognized the voice; the accent was a dead giveaway. Slowly, painfully, still with Claire's body held tight to his chest, he turned.

Luis staggered down the alley, using the wall to his right to support himself. His vest and shirt were open, exposing the horrid wound that had ended his life. Although, he sounded excited, and gave a small smile.

"I've got it! I..." he paused, and then grimaced as he realized what Leon held. "Leon... I don't understand..." At that moment, Saddler strode around the corner and, using a knife that Leon easily recognized as Krauser's, stabbed the Spaniard in the back. The evil cultist turned and abruptly left, though his laughter filled the alleyway, bouncing off the walls and sending pounding waves of pain through Leon's mind long after he was gone. Luis sank to his knees.

"And now you're going to let me die... again..." the man said with a mocking smile before falling face-forward. Leon could only stare in shock.

This new nightmare posed quite a problem for a few weeks. However, part of the criteria he had to meet for simply being at home was seeing a certain psychologist. She was a pleasant woman, very intelligent, and after a week of seeing her, the nightmare came less frequently. He was sure that she was working for the government and that everything he said was being carefully reported, but this was alright with him. He was embarrassed; he thought he had gotten over everything long ago and would be able to handle anything now. But at least his sessions meant that for a few hours a week he wouldn't feel so lonely.

The box he held had thus far been quiet, and now a sudden movement from inside jolted him from his thoughts. He realized he was on Aldrid Street already. Apartments lined both sides of the road, and he noticed this area was much like his own. The distance between his street and this one wasn't too great, which was most likely why the kitten had been able to make its own way over. He began to scan the addresses, looking for 414.

At last! A three-story apartment that looked a bit old, but well-kept. 414 was on the second floor. The front door was bright green, which somehow clashed pleasantly with the deep red bricks around the doorframe. He went inside and climbed a flight of stairs, listening to the familiar muffled sounds of families eating breakfast, music, and televisions as he walked. The corridor he was now faced with had four doors before one arrived at another flight of stairs. 414 was the second on the right.

He could hear music from behind the door, and thus knocked loudly to compensate. A male voice shouted something incoherent and after the music ceased the door was opened to reveal a man, tall and slender though not abnormally so, with dark blue eyes and short red hair. He wore a plain green tee-shirt with faded blue jeans, and looked Leon over for a minute before saying anything. A broad grin came to his face after noticing the box the agent held and the scratches on his hand.

"That cat must've got out again, right? Wait here, I'll go get Lynnie." He turned and shouted, "Gracelynn Boudette! Get your ass out here! Your cat's been ruining people's lives again!" He turned back to Leon. "Don't mind it, that thing gets out all the time. She's not supposed to even have it in here but no one seems to care."

A tall girl appeared, obviously having just gotten out of bed. She was wearing a giant sweatshirt over a pair of plaid shorts; her short, curly brown hair was sticking up oddly all over her head. Under a pair of small, square-framed glasses her brown-green eyes grew wide and she blushed with embarrassment at having been caught in such a state. She moved quickly to the door and took the box from him.

"Thanks... sorry. I'll make sure she doesn't get out again," she said quickly, kneeling to pick the tape off of one side of the lid. The kitten bounced out, obviously happy to be home, and into her waiting arms. She jumped from the girl's arms to her shoulder and began nuzzling her face. The girl, giggling, stood up.

"Bump, you need to stop being silly. Stay in the house," she said, giving the cat a quick pat on the head. The animal then leapt to the floor and dashed away into the hall the girl had emerged from. "Thanks," she said again. "I hope she wasn't too much trouble—oh no!" she said with a small gasp. "Look what she did to your hand!"

"Huh? Oh, that's nothing, I'll be fine."

"No, no, I'm so sorry. Let me at least get you a Band-Aid." With that she whisked away down the hall, reappearing a moment later with a wrapped bandage, which she deftly unwrapped before sticking it on his hand. "There," she said with a smile. "You're not going to sue me or anything, right?" He smiled back and shook his head.

"Name's Leon," he said, extending his hand. "Leon Kennedy. I live nearby." She took his hand and gave a quick shake.

"Lynn Boudette," she said, a slight dash of color still lighting up her cheeks. They stood for a moment, staring at each other, before she let his hand go. "Well, I don't want to keep you all day. Thanks for my cat. And it was nice to meet you."

"You too. Maybe I'll see you around again."

"Yeah," she said with a smile.

"Well, see you later." She gave him a small wave as he walked away, smiling slightly to himself. Lynn was kind of cute, he mused, as he walked down the short hallway. She looked a little like Ingrid Hunnigan, with nearly the same color hair and deep olive skin. She even had glasses, though hers made her look young and a bit artsy, whereas Ingrid's made her look professional. And then the way she had appeared at the door, disheveled and flustered, especially after catching sight of him... he shook his head. Cute... and there was a man in the house with her. And now he was going to go home and clean. Maybe he would see her again. Maybe, but most likely not.

Lynn stood in the door for a while, watching the man walk down the hall, before her friend said anything.

"You are so staring at his ass!"

"Erik!" she said, jumping at the sound of his voice. She slammed the door shut. "I was not!"

"It's okay, if you weren't hogging the door I'd be staring too. He probably has a nice ass. And the rest of him is really hot. I checked," Erik said, turning to go back to his breakfast. Lynn rolled her eyes at him.

"Sometimes I think you're too gay to function." This earned her a pillow, thrown from the couch. She laughed and threw the pillow back. "Yeah, I was staring at his ass," she said as she headed back to her bedroom.

"I knew it!"

"I love you too, Erik!" she called from her room. "I'm going to get in the shower. Don't bother me. And can you go grab the mail? It's like, eleven-thirty. Should be here."

"Sure," Erik said, grabbing the remote and turning on the TV.

Becca Coen was going down the stairs of her dormitory at a leisurely pace. She was headed for the first floor to check her mail. The morning was still relatively early, and the day thus far was pleasantly sunny but cool, although rain was in the forecast later on. She planned to sit outside and soak up the sun as long as possible before the showers began, during which she wanted to continue her class paper.

"Let's see," she said with a sigh as she opened her box. "Bill, bill, junk, ad, bill... huh? What are these?" There was something unusual about the two envelopes she was now studying. One was made of heavy paper, gold in color, with an official-looking wax seal. The handwriting on the front was far too fancy to read easily, full of unnecessary loops and swirls. The other puzzling envelope was plain, completely blank save one word written on the front: Becca. Someone had obviously placed that one in there themselves. Shoving the bills and junk back into the box for later, she headed out the front door to sit on a bench in the sunshine and read her mail.

She first opened the fancy envelope, carefully sliding her finger under the seal to break it. The paper inside was obviously just as expensive as the envelope had been: thick and white, with gold trim and a monogram on the top of the letter "C." The letter was handwritten in dark blue ink, but impossible to simply skim due to the fact that the writing was nearly the same as that on the outside of the envelope.

But something in the first line caught her eye and made her feel as though her stomach had fallen out and been replaced by a cold chunk of metal.

"Dear Miss Chambers," the letter read. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself.

It's alright... no it's not... how did they know? Who wrote this? How did they find me? Thoughts raced through her head faster than she could process them, and she put a hand to her forehead. She was very cold; the hand was unsteady. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath before reading the rest of the letter.

Dear Miss Chambers,

You are cordially invited to attend the twenty-fifth annual charity ball at the home of Mr. Jonathon P. Chayliss, president of Chayliss&Rathers Industries, leading supplier of medical equipment to hospitals around the world. You have shown interest in the field of medicine, and we believe it would be beneficial for you to meet some of the leading men and women of the occupation.

The event is free, but donations are given to Mr. Chayliss's charity, which benefits the development of medical programs in less fortunate countries. Donations can be given by attendees in the form of checks made out to ChaylissCharity. However, the major donations come from other, similar companies who make bets upon how many will attend. This annual event is a wonderful way to meet aspiring doctors and stir up friendly rivalry between fellow companies.

By attending this event, Miss Chambers, you will not only be helping our company but yourself and the world as well. Background checks have shown that you posses an interest in third-world medical developments and that you spent time working as a field medic for a specialized police force and are currently studying medicine at a highly accredited university. This is an impressive résumé and we look forward to seeing you on the night of April 17th, 2005 at 6 o'clock sharp. A first-class, two-way plane ticket to Maryland will be booked in your name and sent to you within two days of your scheduled departure, and a limousine will be waiting to pick you up upon arrival the day before the ball. A hotel room for the night of your arrival will also be reserved in your name, though you will only spend one night there. The event itself is in Mr. Chayliss's private mansion, (limousine transportation to the event will be provided) and you will spend the night of the ball there in one of his many lavish rooms before leaving the next day.

Remember, this occasion is extremely formal and should be dressed for accordingly. Mr. Chayliss will be very disappointed if you do not attend—but we expect a complete turnout; he has many connections and is sure he can convince even the most stubborn to grace us with their presence. Your cooperation will be appreciated.

Sincerely, Allen Grenholm

(Secretary and Personal Assistant to J.P. Chayliss)

R.S.V.P. (833) 555-1101 no later than April 1st of 2005. Action will be taken to contact you if your prompt response is not received. Present this invitation at the door for admission.

She took another deep breath. Obviously whoever wrote the letter was serious. And background checks... she shuddered at the thought. This was no hoax. The hair on the back of her neck stood up and she put a hand to her mouth. What if they knew? What if this Chayliss man, whoever he was, knew where her family was? But... what if there was no reason to be worried; her background information simply wasn't as secure as Chris had told her he made it? Well, that much was obvious, at least. Somehow they had found her out, no matter how well her fellow S.T.A.R.S. member claimed to have covered her tracks. So maybe they were honest. But still, something was not right. A feeling stood out in the back of her mind, like the dim ping of radar that had honed in on something still unclear but certainly there at the same time. She had a week to think things over, at least.

Rebecca took a moment to calm herself by gently massaging the back of her neck before putting the letter neatly away in the envelope. Besides, there was still the other note sitting in her lap, so plain compared to the one she had just read. Nonetheless, she opened it.

Her chills began anew as she read the paper's contents. Would the day's wonders never cease?

Rebecca- meet me in the basement café of the student center at 10:30.

A single line, written in a man's rough handwriting. Not signed at all. She looked at her watch: 10:17. Just enough time to make her way over and meet...

Who? Just who was she expecting to be sitting there in the darkened corner of the basement eatery? The Blue Eye was a popular meeting spot for the stereotypical poet types of the school, but she knew the writer of the note would be none of them. She let her thoughts drift back to last week and the flash of blue eyes, the feeling of being watched...

Why did these things always happen to her? She let out an exasperated sigh and started on her way. She might as well face him. There was no going back once she had, however, and the wickedly realistic side of her consciousness gleefully reminded her of all the memories this meeting would bring back.

The walk to the brick building that was the Student Service Center seemed to take an eternity. Clouds were already beginning to envelop the sky, but she took no notice as she pushed the red door open and stepped inside. The stairs were to her left, and as she descended them every noise seemed to fade away until all she could hear was her own rough breathing and pounding heart. She checked her watch again: 10:32. Eyes the color of fog scanned the dim area, dreading and hoping at the same time—and there he was. A man was hunched over a table in the farthest corner, his back to her, though as she entered the room he threw a quick glance over his shoulder. She swallowed thickly and started across the relatively crowded space. No one seemed to pay her any notice, for which she was grateful.

"You can sit with me," he said as she approached his table. "I don't bite... much." So she took the seat across from him.

His appearance had changed little, though his brown hair was now long enough to be pulled back into a small ponytail, a few wayward strands hanging over his forehead. He wore a fitted, long-sleeved black shirt that seemed to hug the curves of his powerful arms and shoulders. Around his neck was a silver chain, though what was on its end she could not see, for he wore the necklace under his shirt. Seeing this made her feel as though the dog tag—his dog tag—she wore under her own clothes was burning, and she blushed. She reddened further as she realized he was studying her just as intently as she studied him.

"Miss me, doll face?" he crooned in that deep, cocky tone that was so distinctly his. Raspy and delightfully rough around the edges, just as she remembered. A smile slipped into place on his lips, though rather than smug, the expression seemed truly happy.

"You're died, remember Billy? I got over it," she replied. He let out a small chuckle.

"Nah. Name's Aaron Arnison. And I'm quite alive, as you can see for yourself, Miss Medic.

"Billy, I..."

I what? she thought. There was a giant blank, and she found she had nothing to say, though such thoughts as I've been thinking of you every day since you left, I've missed you so much that I wake up crying, I want you to know how safe I felt when you had my back, I really felt helpless without you and that's why I hated you so much at first, all passed through her mind and were quickly rejected.

He was watching her closely again, his deep blue eyes full of concern.

"...I don't know if meeting like this is safe. I got a letter today. With my real name on it."

"Let me see." She pulled the letter out of her purse and handed it to him. He examined the envelope. "No return address," he commented before taking out the invitation and reading through it with surprising speed. Finally, he shook his head. "Something's not right about this. Don't go," he said simply.

"But I'm worried what they might do. Not for myself, though. I think that if they know my real name, there's no way they'd have a hard time finding my family." Billy paused for a moment, thinking.

"My advice is not to worry about it now. You have a week. I'll think of something in that time. Meanwhile, come back to this table around the same time tomorrow. I won't be here, but I'll leave another note." Rebecca nodded, and there was more silence between them.

"I have a question for you," Billy finally said, though what he was about to ask clearly made him somewhat uncomfortable. She knew what was coming and her mouth went dry. "Why... Rebecca, what made you choose my name? Why are you Becca Coen now?"

Oh God, what do I say? she thought. Rather than answer, she merely stared at him before shaking her head. "I have to go. This is too risky." She got up from the table and began to leave.

"Becca!" he said in a harsh whisper, reaching for her arm. She was already too far out of reach for him to do any more than brush her fingertips with his own. The tiny bit of contact sent shivers racing up both of their spines. Then she was gone, rushing up the stairs. He watched her leave before turning back to the table and the letter she had left upon it. Letting out a frustrated sigh, he cupped his face in his hands for a moment before running them over his hair. This was going to take some effort, though he was sure she would show up for his note tomorrow. After all, one couldn't blame her for being careful.

Standing, Billy took the letter from the table and his denim jacket from the back of his chair and left.

Next Chapter: A grieving sister... the second meeting... the day of the ball draws nearer. Suspicions and hurt feelings.