The next day held excitement that Pete wasn't ready for. The moment he woke up, the whole building was swarmed with police cars, loudly alerting him to their presence.

He was awake at 5AM, which was a rarity. It was strange for him to be awake before 11AM, so six hours ahead of schedule didn't do much good. It was still dark out, for Christ's sake!

Almost immediately, a knock came from Pete's door. He quickly struggled to find his pajama pants, which he had kicked off during the night, and pulled the Star Wars pants up over his legs. He left his shirt off, letting his tattoos show on the light.

He opened the door and was greeted with two police officers. The first was a bit taller than Pete, with tanned skin and dark brown hair, with eyes the same color. The silver stitching on his navy uniform read G. Saporta, Chief Of Police. Officer Saporta looked at the man before him and asked: "Are you Peter Wentz?"

Pete nodded, swallowing hard.

"There's no need to worry, Mr. Wentz," Officer Saporta assured him. "We just need to ask you a few questions about last night. Can we come in?"

"Oh, sure," Pete said, opening the door wider to admit the two officers. "Sorry for the mess, I just moved in yesterday."

"It's alright," Officer Saporta said, chuckling. Pete gestured to the couch, and the two officers sat down, leaving Pete to pull a chair away from his dining table to in front of the officers.

He could finally get a good look at the second. He seemed about the same height as Saporta, with short, light brown hair, warm hazel eyes, and a sprinkling of a beard. His stitching read D. Boyd, Officer.

"So, Mr. Wentz," Saporta said. "Did you hear or see anything strange last night? An exact time frame would have been 7PM to 9:45PM."

Pete thought back to the night before. "Yeah, I did," he said. "A few floors above me, I heard this... Sound. Kinda like metal on metal. I thought it was someone had dropped a coin behind one of the radiators. But then I heard a shout. That's it."

"What apartment do you suspect it came from?" Officer Boyd asked.

"It was right above me, so it was a B apartment," Pete thought quickly. "I'd guess 6 or 7."

Saporta nodded grimly. "Not to alarm you, Mr. Wentz, but someone passed away last night in Apartment 7B."

Pete's eyes widened in shock. He said nothing.

"Are you familiar with the Disappearances?" Saporta then asked, and Pete nodded silently. "The young man who passed was reported missing about a month ago by his family. His name was George Ross— Ryan, to his close friends. Ryan was only 19."

"Jesus," Pete mumbled. How had he managed to move into the one apartment where someone would die the first day? "Have there been other deaths around this area?" Pete asked. Even though Saporta referred to Ryan's death as a passing, Pete knew— just because Ryan had been reported missing— it was a murder.

"Not this particular area of Belleville, no," Boyd answered. "Out of curiosity, what made you want to move to Belleville?"

Pete could only bring himself to answer with: "I wanted variety."

"Well," Saporta said. "You got your variety."

---

Pete, not surprisingly, didn't sleep easy that night. He had set his bed up finally, but George Ryan Ross stuck in his head. He wondered what the young man looked like, before and after death took him into its embrace. He knew that the body was drained of all blood, just like every other corpse connected to the killing spree.

Pete turned in his bed to face the wall, where he had hung up his calendar. A big, red circle was around a date two days from then, with the words 28th birthday! emblazoned on it. July 15th was bound to be a depressing day. Pete never liked growing older, but, this year, none of his friends would be there with him to celebrate.

Pete wondered what his friends back in Chicago were up to. Patrick was probably spending time with his wife and their new child, happy as ever but missing his best friend; Joe was most likely with his daughter as well, watching little Ruby play with the dog Joe loved so; and Andy... Well, nobody quite knew what Andy did in his free time, besides Cross Fit.

Only three other friends. Pete was determined to make more than three friends in Belleville. And he planned on starting with the blond man he had seen earlier than morning.

He had been watching the commotion from his balcony about an hour after Saporta and Boyd left when Pete noticed him. Tall and slender, with pale skin and dyed-blond hair, his dark brown roots peeking out. He was too far away to tell his eye color, but they were hidden behind sunglasses anyway. The man seemed to have dressed in a hurry— black and gray striped sweater, dark jeans, and what was obviously a Dawn Of The Dead shirt, all of which seemed wrinkled. He was talking to one of the navy suited men, a man with curly, dark brown hair.

Pete didn't know his name. He called him Sweet Little Dude.

Notes

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