Peter felt like cutting and running before Marge had a chance to pressure him into incriminating Tom, but then considered the horrible truth again and knew that his choices were limited. Marge was right: Tom was a murderer. Tom killed people. Tom almost killed him. There needed to be repercussions for his actions. At the same time, Peter hated to be the one to lay everything out on the table.

"Peter, you're doing that thing."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you smile uncomfortably and then drop your jaw. You always do that when you feel awkward."

"Who's feeling awkward?" asked Peter, but then after Marge smirked, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief, he groaned in concession and Marge took his arm.

"You're going to pull my arm out of its socket if you're not careful!" he added, trying to diffuse the tension, but there was no diffusing. Marge's determination resulted in quite a death grip for such a small woman. Peter knew at this point that he couldn't back out.

Marge busted through the doors of the police station with Peter reluctantly in tow. She walked directly up to the man at the desk whose attitude turned from nonchalant to irritated. Arturo Anatole was a rookie but he already had some experience dealing with Marge during her outbursts, when she would take similar trips to the station in the past and to no avail. He glanced over at Peter, however, and was surprised to see that she didn't come alone.

"Signora Sherwood," Officer Anatole said with a sigh.

"Detective Anatole, this is my friend, Peter Smith-Kingsley. He has a few words."

"Wait, do we have to do this here? Now?" asked Peter, almost immediately regretting his decision to get pulled to the police station in the first place.

"Get me Alvin MacCarron," demanded Marge. Anatole called MacCarron and the two spoke at length about whether or not him taking another trip to hear the same story was worth it.

"I understand what you're saying, Arturo, but Marge is probably just going to give us the same cock-and-bull story."

"You don't understand though, Signor, she's got somebody with her this time."

"Ugh. Okay. Fine. Swell. I'll be there soon."

MacCarron hung up the phone, annoyed but curious. Marge and Peter waited at the police station for what seemed like an eternity. He shifted uncomfortably in a metal chair, the smell of mothballs and rotting onions giving him a headache. His eyes darted around the room. If I could just be anywhere but here, anywhere at all...

MacCarron came out of his office. Marge started to get up before MacCarron said, "no, not you. I want to talk to your friend."

Peter pointed at this chest. "Me?" he asked, bewildered.

"Yes. You."

Peter followed MacCarron into his office. He took a seat and pulled out a tape recorder. Peter could feel the beads of sweat accumulating on his forehead but said nothing.

"You've got nothing to be nervous about, Mr. Smith-Kingsley, as long as you tell me the truth."

The truth? How much of the truth? thought Peter, his eyes never leaving the tape recorder.

"Tell me what you know about the murders of Freddie Miles and Dickie Greenleaf. Do you know who killed them?"

"Umm..."

"You seem like a good guy, Smith-Kingsley. I would hate to see you perjure yourself."

You're going to hate me, Tom. You're really going to hate me. Dear God, please get me out of here, he thought.

"Yes, I do."

"And who did?"

"Tom Ripley."

MacCarron smiled awkwardly. He didn't like this any more than Peter did.

"We know he did, Peter. We've got him trapped in Palermo."

"Trapped?"

"Yes, maybe you've heard of a Jack Baker."