Marge took a nap on Peter's sofa while he sat trying and failing to study the libretto for Faust. He laughed at the coincidence of beginning work on an opera about a man who sells his soul to the devil, as Peter was sure he had almost done the same thing, but for unconditional love rather than glory. It was still for nothing, he thought as he drank his now too-cold coffee. His thoughts were soon interrupted by a telephone ring, which woke Marge with a start.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is this Peter Smith-Kinglsey?" asked an Italian voice.

"Yes, speaking."

"Mr. Smith-Kingsley, this is Dr. Russo. Your friend never showed up to his appointment. I waited for an hour. Would you like to ask him to reschedule?"

Peter clenched his jaw slightly.

"No, thank you, Dr. Russo. A reschedule will not be necessary at this time. Good day."

Peter shook his head and muttered I knew it under his breath. Marge looked over at him, concerned.

"What is it?"

Peter sat down on the couch.

"Tom never made it to the appointment."

"Well, why don't we head to his flat to see what the situation is?"

"Oh, I know what the situation is!" Peter responded in an uncharacteristically harsh manner. "I'm sorry, Marge. I don't mean to shout at you. I'm just frustrated. I ask one thing, just one thing of him, and he can't even do that. I'm on my last nerve right now, and I don't like it."

Marge put her hand sympathetically on her friends' shoulder.

"I understand."

"He's not going to be there, anyway."

Marge's expressed changed from concerned to confused.

"What do you mean he's not going to be there? Where is he?"

Peter contemplated telling Marge. It almost felt like a secret, and breaking the confidence seemed like a betrayal. However, Marge was one of his oldest and dearest friends and he felt she deserved to know.

"Uh...Palermo."

"Palermo? He fled to Sicily?"

"Yes. He's staying with Jack Baker."

"Does Herbert Greenleaf know about this?"

"Herbert Greenleaf set it up."

"Excuse me," said Marge, and she picked up the phone with a fervor. Peter dreaded what would come next.

"Hello, Natalia, could you leave a message for Signor Greenleaf, please? Tell him that I know where Tom is and the authorities soon will too. And that Peter Smith-Kingsley can back me up."

Peter opened his mouth to interject, but then closed it.

"Yes, if you could have him call this number we'd both appreciate it. Ciao."

"What was that about?" asked Peter.

"We've got him, Peter. We've got the bastard."

The cold sense of dread increased tenfold and suddenly Peter felt as though he was carrying 100 pounds on his shoulders. He feared that this plan would backfire significantly.

"Are you sure we should be doing this?"

"Yes. He killed people. He killed Dickie and Freddie. He's dangerous. He cornered me once. Remember that one day when he cut his hand and I was hysterical? I thought he was going to kill me. You must know how terrifying he can be."

"Yes, Marge, I do."

"You do?"

Fuck it, thought Peter. He was already in deep.

"He tried to kill me twice."

"What?!"

"Once with a tie to a bathrobe, and another time with a knife."

You idiot, he thought to himself. Marge smirked. This was all the proof she needed. She grabbed Peter's hand rather forcefully and dragged him toward the door.

"Woah! Wait! What are you doing?"

"We're heading to the police station. Now."

"Marge-"

"It's bad enough he killed the love of my life. But I might have lost you too. I can't have that, Peter. I'm hanging on by a thread. You're the only thing that's keeping me from taking my dad's Sig and aiming it at my head. I know you still having feelings for Tom, for some reason, but..."

Peter sighed again.

"You're right," he finally conceded.