It had begun to rain, the cold water droplets beating hard against Clark's bright red windbreaker as he hurried from the warm, dryness of his pickup truck to the cover of Pete's porch.
He knocked on the door, and it was answered almost immediately by his friend, who hurried him inside.
"Could you set up the food table?" Pete asked once Clark had hung up his coat and kicked off his rain-soaked shoes. "I gotta hide my mom's china."
Clark reluctantly made his way over to the fold-up table propped against the far wall, and began setting it up.
"I can't believe you're throwing a party on the night of a girl's murder." He commented, eyeing Pete warily, awaiting his reaction.
Surprisingly, Pete wasn't mad. Instead, he smiled, piling a set of antique teacups into his arms.
"Clark, don't think of it as a party." He reasoned. "Think of it as homage, a tribute." He raised a teacup as if it was a champagne glass. "To Meg Stevens. And the helluva party she would have thrown."
"Yeah." Clark remarked bitterly. "If she wasn't dead."
"Aw, come on, man." Pete picked up a pot plant on top of a big wooden cabinet and took the key that was hidden underneath. He stooped and unlocked the cabinet, stashing the china inside. "Why do you do that? You're such a wet blanket." He straightened up again and crossed the room for the teapot. "You need to have a little fun once in a while. Quit worrying about everyone else for once."
"Pete, there's a mass murderer in Smallville." Clark stated the obvious, beginning to worry more and more about his friend's lack of concern. "So far three people have been killed. Lana's in hospital because of this! How can you not be worried?"
"This is Smallville, Clark!" Pete added the teapot to the cupboard. "Remember? Home of the strange, land of the weird and all that. It's just something you've gotta get used to."
"I don't want to get used to it." Clark muttered as he exited the room to get the food from the kitchen. "I want it to stop."
"Yeah. We all do." Pete said. "But there's nothing any of us can do about it." Clark opened his mouth to respond, but Pete cut him off. "No, not even you. No one even knows who this guy is, Clark."
Clark mumbled a muffled disagreement, but said nothing more.
It wasn't long before a few people started to arrive. Most of them were quiet and somber, but a few seemed to have started the celebrations early, and were in a rather good mood, bringing half-finished six-packs with them.
"You see?" Pete nudged his friend. "I told you they'd come."
Clark didn't reply. Instead, he grabbed a soda, and plopped down in a large armchair. He didn't feel comfortable being here, but Pete would never forgive him if he left now.
Clark stayed seated for a good forty-five minutes, and in that time, Pete's living room had filled with teenagers displaying moods from tearful to flirtatious. His now-empty soda can had become somewhat of a diversion for him, repeatedly squeezing the tin then smoothing out the dents with that satisfying 'pop' sound. He couldn't help resorting to such pathetic levels of entertainment - he refused to enjoy himself. Sure, Clark was just as unlikely to turn down an opportunity for a party as the next guy, but this wasn't right. He was here solely by professional courtesy to Pete - that, and if there was another murder tonight, him leaving the party alone wouldn't be helpful for his case.
Clark was jolted from his thoughts when a young red-head lurched over and collapsed into his lap. In surprise, he jumped, attempting to extract himself from the girl-chair sandwich without any feats of superhuman strength. He failed. Apparently, this would require a much more traditional response.
"Uh... excuse me?" He tried, gently prodding the girl's shoulder. Although it was still early in the party, it was clear that she had already had one too many.
She looked up at Clark in annoyance, as if only just realizing he was there. "What?"
"You're, um..." His level of awkwardness showed through in his voice. "You're lying on me."
The girl's tone suddenly turned seductive, and she snaked an arm behind Clark's head and weaved her fingers through his damp hair. "Mmmm... so I am."
Clark was considering simply rolling her off his lap and onto the ground when an angry voice cut through the dull buzz of the party.
"Kent!" Clark recognized the tall senior from school who was striding towards him, but couldn't have put a name to the face. "You making moves on my girl?"
With the slender red-head draped over him, attempting to unbutton his shirt, and Clark looking completely baffled and uncomfortable, it was beyond him how this guy managed to come to the conclusion that Clark was the one making the moves.
"Me?" Clark wasn't sure what else to say, although it was clear that he was the intended target for the verbal tornado which was to follow.
"Yeah, you, pretty-boy. Do you see anyone else?" Clark didn't point out that there was in fact an entire room of people. "Now why don't you stand up so I can beat your pansy ass to a-"
"Look, I'm not "making moves" on anyone, okay?" It was unusual for Clark to retort in situations like this, but recent events were getting to him, and he didn't need to deal with minor annoyances such as this one on top of everything else. "And I would stand up, if "your girl" wasn't practically straddling me." At Clark's annoyed tone, the girl loosened her grip, allowing herself to slip drunkenly to the floor. Finally able to stand, Clark pushed himself up, and shot a pointed glance at the couple, a muttered 'thank you' and stalked off to find Pete, re-fastening the several shirt buttons the red-head had managed to clumsily get undone.
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Chloe was finally thankful for the fact that she had never been much of a party-girl. She had been shocked when she heard Pete was supplying a 'replacement get-together' - or 'tribute' as he would shamelessly refer to it as. It wasn't like Pete at all to blatantly undermine something as important as a death with something as social and insignificant as a party. That being said, Pete hadn't been himself for most of the day. But she didn't blame him. The rising number of murders in Smallville was beginning to get to everyone.
Herself included. Now, seated in front of her laptop just after 10pm, she had never been more grateful for the pool of light on the carpet outside her open door, indicating that her dad was still reading under the glow of his bedside lamp. She was beyond the age of sleeping in her dad's bed when she had a nightmare, sure, maybe if only by several years, but it was comforting to know that someone else was awake. That she wasn't entirely alone.
The cursor blinked, taunting her from the screen - not blank as it had been only five or so minutes ago, but now filled with words, almost a whole page.
She wanted answers. The murders, all the signs pointed to Clark, but she knew that he couldn't be behind it. She knew he would never hurt anyone. Call it friend instinct. Call it something more.
That being said, she knew she had to get this down. She had to let her journalistic intuition assess the situation - even just for five minutes - before her 'friend mode' kicked in and wiped it clean from her mind. She scrolled back to the top of the page, reading what she had just written.
Tell me I'm crazy. Please.
Insanity would be a welcome reprise from what else I'm feeling. Do I dare even write it? It's like putting it down in words will confirm everything I've been thinking... or at least confirm I've been thinking it at all. I can't stand myself for this, but what I'm feeling is suspicion.
There's no way I can ignore the signs. Every single murder victim has been linked to Clark, all in a similar way. Namely, they got on his bad side. Even down to something as insignificant as short-change, the signs are still all there. And not to mention Lana... that fight was definitely out of the ordinary. When I found her, I was too shocked to get a good look at the attacker, but I know I would have recognized Clark.
The one thing I can hold on to through all of this, is that these signs seem a little TOO obvious. Every murder is so perfectly linked to Clark, it could almost certainly be a set-up. Someone framing him. Either that, or just all a crazy coincidence.
I hope for the latter. In my experience, the Smallville sheriff's department has never found it's forte in spotting an innocent man.
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In the room next door, Gabe Sullivan reached the end of the chapter, and marked the page, placing the half-finished novel on his beside table and settled down into bed. And on the carpet outside Chloe's open door, the pool of light went out.