Jack Baker did not return that evening, nor the next day, nor the next. Tom, house-ridden and disheveled, desperate to figure out Jack's aim, decided to root through his things. Unable to digest a full meal, Tom settled on a bowl of oatmeal. He reached into the pantry of the kitchen and noticed a hanging file basket attached to the wall, containing various mail and letters. Tom found nothing incriminating until a folded up telegram caught his eye. He unfolded it and his eyes devoured the contents. The heading read "Jack Michael Baker, Polizia di Stato".

He was an informant for the police. A plant. Tom could feel the bile rising in his throat again as feelings of grief and rage overcame him. They lured me into their little trap, he thought, disgusted with himself for having let too many things slip. He continued to read the telegram as it described exactly what Jack's mission was. Should Jack had failed, Tom would become a matter of the Arma dei Carabinier. He crumpled up the sheet of paper in anger and let it fall to the floor.

His initial thought was to wait until Jack got home and immediately kill him. But if Jack were to die, the cold arm of the Carabinieri would take him away. Murdering a cop would never give him any leverage or any chance to reinvent himself. He couldn't leave. There was a glorified hit on him and he was, essentially, a walking target. Tom was at a loss.

Several hours passed and he heard a knock on the door. Shit, he thought. He was sure it was Jack. He looked around the room in terror. Would this be the day Jack decided to apprehend Tom?

As the knocking grew louder and louder Tom's curiosity overtook him and he opened the door.

"Jack, sorry it took me a while, I was - Peter?"

Peter gave a pained expression.

"Hello, Tom."

"Peter, what the hell are you doing here?"

Peter dropped his voice to a whisper.

"I've come to take you home."

Home, he thought bitterly. What's home anymore?

"No."

"No?"

"Peter, I said when I was going to Palermo that I wouldn't be coming back. And I'm a man of my word."

"Since when?!" snapped Peter, incredulously. Tom was taken aback.

"That little outburst is a little...uncharacteristic of you, Peter."

"I'm sorry if being put in an impossible position makes me a bit hostile."

"And what position is that?"

"Bait," Peter said quietly, his eyes downcast.

They got Peter involved?! Tom's thoughts roared at him. Tom began to flare his nostrils. Peter recoiled a bit but tried desperately to stand his ground.

"They know you're here, Tom."

"How?"

"Marge called in MacCollum. He got me to talk."

Tom, with no hesitation, punched Peter in the face with every ounce of his strength and Peter fell to the floor, clutching his bloodied nose. Tom seethed.

"You Judas! You gutless little bastard! How could you?" Tom shouted. Peter winced. The words hurt more than his nose did.

"You think I liked being in this position, Tom? It's been eating me up inside! If I kept quiet, they would have arrested me too!"

"What?"

"Marge kind of...let slip that I was gay."

"What?" Tom repeated.

"I had no choice, Tom."

"So you're doing this to save your own hide."

"With all due respect, Tom, when have you ever done anything for anyone besides yourself?"

Peter was right, and Tom hated him for it.

"Tom, if we get out of here right now, we can both make a run for it. We don't have to keep tiptoeing around. I could take you back to England. You could see my old stomping grounds."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't trust you, Peter."

Peter noticed Tom encroaching upon him and stood up slowly. Tom, in a desire to tear Peter limb from limb, grabbed his wrist, and twisted until it broke. Peter's scream of pain as well as the sound of his bones cracking rang through Tom's ears. Peter was once again reduced to a scared child in Tom's presence. Tom backed up and saw the former love of his life clutching his wrist, and fell to the floor. He wanted to cry, but no tears came. Just an overwhelming feeling of regret.

He heard urging knocking on the door, and then a familiar voice.

"Tom Ripley, this is Jack. In the name of the law, open the door."

"Or what?!" demanded Tom.

"Peter, are you locked and loaded?"

Peter gasped for air before replying "yes."

"Tom, open the door."

"NO!"

"Peter, take the gun out."

Peter took his Colt out of his inner coat pocket with his one uninjured hand and, with all the strength he had in him, aimed it at Tom. Tom laughed.

"What are you going to do with that, Peter?"

"Tom, DON'T MAKE ME DO THIS!" begged Peter.

"I'll ask you one more time, Tom...open the door."

"You'll have to kill me first."

"I won't. He will. Peter...shoot."

Peter, quaking with fear, shot the gun but misfired. Tom wrestled the gun out of Peter's hand. Jack took his own gun while the two fought, shot the lock off the door, and stepped in.

"Peter, get out of the way," instructed Jack. Peter complied and Jack shot his gun at Tom. He was a perfect shot. It went right through Tom's shriveled heart. Tom collapsed. Peter's face fell in horror and agony as he watched the blood gush out of Tom's chest. Tom was dead and Peter was part of it. He became a hero that night, and he felt like the cruelest villain.

"Peter, you did the right thing," said Jack.

"I really wish people would stop saying that," Peter remarked, his voice dark and bitter. Peter looked so grieved that Jack decided to leave him alone for a few moments. As soon as the door closed, he broke into horrified, confused, pained sobs. He sat on the floor crying for quite some time, but stopped once he had the realization that he would never have to cry over Tom Ripley again. He closed Tom's eyelids and gave him a kiss on the forehead before stepping outside, clutching his hand, walking toward Marge's father's boat. Marge hugged him.

"Aah! Careful!"

"What happened?"

"He broke my wrist. And my nose. And...my heart."

"Is he…" she couldn't even say the word dead.

"Yes."

"Oh," she said, equal parts despondent, relieved, and guilty for the relief.

"Oh," Peter agreed.

"I really am sorry for telling them about you and Tom's affair-"

"It's okay. Really. It doesn't make much difference now, anyway."

"No, I suppose not."

The two sat in silence for quite some time, watching the sun set. Tom Ripley's last day on earth was about to draw to a close. Marge rested her head on Peter's shoulder and they both took in a deep breath. The barrage of madness was over. They were free of Tom. And freedom never felt so empty.

"You still love him, don't you?" she asked, echoing their earlier conversation.

Peter didn't miss a beat.

"Besotted."