Tom searched for his suitcase before he realized that he left it at Peter's flat after they returned from Athens. In the meantime, he gathered odds-and-ends into a backpack and briefcase, easily shoving 10 pounds into a five pound sack. He worked with such alacrity that he didn't even notice his rapidly beating heart or the beads of sweat forming on his forehead. This was a new start, and he always looked forward to new start with the misplaced optimism of a young boy. He became so engrossed in his task, however, that he didn't notice a rhythmic rapping on his door. After he returned to reality, he opened the door. It was Peter with two large boxes.

"I'm sorry to show up unannounced, Tom, but I was on my way home from rehearsal and I thought I'd stop by. I picked up pizza. I didn't know what kind you liked so I got one with plain cheese and one with all the fixings."

Tom invited Peter in and Peter scanned the place while setting down the pizza on a table and placing his coat on the back of a chair. His eyes fixed on several overstuffed bags.

"Are you going somewhere? asked Peter, "or are you just doing a bit of cleaning?"

Tom once again gritted his teeth. What an impossible man, he thought, but he made efforts to meet Peter's level of composure.

"Yes, actually, do you know a Jack Baker?"

"The realtor from Florida? Barely, but yes."

"Well, he has a place in Palermo that Mr. Greenleaf thought I would love to check out."

Peter smiled.

"That sounds like a fun holiday. When do you think you might be back?"

"I don't know. A week or so."

"You're packed for a long journey," noted Peter, his voice dripping with doubt.

Tom bit the inside of his lower lip, a nervous habit he acquired once he first set foot on Italian soil. He never considered Peter in agreeing to move to Palermo. He took several deep breaths. Peter, nonchalant as ever, rummaged through Tom's kitchen drawers until he founded some glasses and a bottle of Shiraz.

"I think I gave this to you for your birthday back in October," said Peter. "I'm surprised you haven't tried it yet."

"I was saving it for a special occasion."

There's that affable smile again, thought Tom. Damn him. Damn him for making it so hard to leave.

"And what occasion is that, Tom?"

Tom looked away, looked at Peter, looked at his luggage, and looked at Peter again.

"The truth is, Peter. I'm not going to be gone for a week. I might not be coming back."

"Oh," responded Peter, his smile vanishing in an instant.

"Oh? That's all you have to say?"

Peter set the dishware on the table and sat.

"I thought after our row the other night that you might be wanting out," said Peter with a baritone full of solemnity. "I understand, Tom. I don't like it, but I understand."

Peter poured Tom a glass and handed it to him. Tom waved a refusing hand and Peter drank some of it himself. Usually a wine connoisseur, the dry notes sat in his throat like sandpaper as he gazed at the man he loved who, for whatever reason, seemed to fall out of love with him. He nearly choked swallowing one of his favorite bouquets.

"I just wish you didn't feel like you had to move to get away from me."

Tom laughed in spite of himself. Peter was taken aback.

"I'm glad you find this so amusing," said Peter drily. Tom could not recall a time when Peter got angry, but he could feel Peter teetering on the edge. Tom put a hand on Peter's shoulder to clarify.

"I'm laughing because you have nothing to do with it. Peter, I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at myself."

Tom sat in the chair next to Peter, taking the bottle of Shiraz and pouring a glass for himself. He laughed again, this laugh more incredulous.

"Peter, I trust you, so I'm going to open up, if for no reason than the fact that I might never see you again."

Peter closed his eyes to stop the tears he could feel brimming his eyes. So many of the "stiff-upper-lip, Keep Calm and Carry On" Britishisms were instilled it him that crying seemed most unbecoming, even when he could feel his heart breaking. Tom continued.

"I'm moving to get away from Marge."

"Marge? Tom, I know the two of you aren't exactly friends, but this is hardly the way to settle your differences."

"Peter, you don't read the newspaper, do you?"

"Not often."

Tom walked toward an old desk and pulled out the newspaper that Herbert Greenleaf gave him that morning. He gave it to Peter, pointing to the news story. Peter read the article, stunned at Marge's accusations. How could she say such a thing about Tom? thought Peter at first, but after reading on, he grew less and less defensive of his lover. The argument was well formed. Tom matched the descriptions given. His behavior, at times, was erratic to say the least. He seemed almost a serial liar. Could it be possible? Did he do any of the abominable things described in that article.

"Christ, Tom," said Peter finally.

"See what a mess I'm in, Peter? Herbert Greenleaf told Jack Baker that I could stay at his place for a while, but I might not want to come back. I might not be able to come back. With Marge on her quest to take me down, I don't know what else I can do."

"I can try to talk to her," attempted Peter, but Tom physically waved away Peter's request the way he waved away the offering of wine. "Please tell me what I can do, Tom."

"You can try to talk me out of it. It won't work, but you can try."

Peter started to stand up, but Tom sat him back down. "Don't get up," said Tom.

Peter sighed. The was not the first time he had to placate Tom, nor, he wagered, would it be the last. However, he knew the amount of comfort positivity gave him, even if the positivity was superficial.

"Talk you out of it? Well, I can certainly try. You adore Rome. You adore Venice. Each region gives you so much joy. You love the culture. The music, the food. Palermo is lovely but despite its size it just doesn't have the same energy. You can't get this energy anywhere else."

Tom rummaged through the kitchen drawer until he saw his reflection, and then Peter's, shining in the blade of a knife. The memory of Dickie and Freddie's deaths came flooding back to him. He picked up the knife and looked at Peter. Was he really about to do this again?

"Tom loves the opera. Of course I'm biased, but I doubt the opera is better anywhere but here. He loves the cafes. He loves the boats. And he loves...me. God, I'm sorry, Tom, that probably sounded very selfish. This is supposed to be about you, not me."

"Keep going," said Tom as he walked in slow motion back to his chair, hiding his knife under his sleeve.

"Tom has someone to love him," said Peter, echoing the "good things about Tom Ripley" conversation from the past.

Tom felt the coolness of the blade between his fingers. Peter then noticed that Tom was focused on something else entirely.

"Tom, what's that in your sleeve?" Peter asked.

"My what?"

"Your sleeve. You keep fiddling with it."

Tom set the knife on the table. Peter's eyes grew very wide.

"And...what...were you planning on doing with that?"

"What do you think, Peter?"

Peter's voice grew more and more urgent.

"Tom, did you kill Dickie and Freddie?"

"Peter, I..."

"For God's sake, Tom, for once in your life tell me the truth!" exclaimed Peter.

"Yes. Yes, Peter, I did."