Aftermath

"You sure this the right address?" the driver asked in broken English, seeing the building roped off in cheery, yellow police tape. The tape was the only fresh, colorful object on the grey street.

"Yeah, but it looks like I was late for the party."

Gregor was a bit surprised by his own response. Wit was not a word most used to describe him; invisible was a more suitable word – and it kept him out of trouble. Perhaps Peter was right: Gregor was slipping.

As Gregor was handing the taxi driver his MasterCard, he asked for the time, wanting to confirm yet again what time zone he was in.

"15.75", was the reply.

"Put 20 on the card," Gregor responded.

The driver may not have mastered the English language, Gregor thought to himself. He was glad that he did not live in this city. As an afterthought, Gregor almost scoffed to himself, "but he understood what a tip was."

Gregor hears the wheels of the Lincoln Continental throw loose gravel into the street as the cabbie returns to find his next fare.

Gregor initially was going to enter the building – he knew he missed something the other night – but two police officers stepped out from the shadow if the entrance. Gregor immediately sized them up, his eye catching an ear-bud in each officer's right ear. That, combined with shoes too pricey for uniformed officers, signaled that these cops were more than they seemed. CIA, perhaps? Gregor did not want to find out.

So instead of entering through the main entrance, Gregor walks to the end of the apartment building, and nonchalantly ducks into the alley between two 1960's looking flats.

"Great place to get mugged," Gregor says to his most loyal companion, himself.

He knew there would be another way to get into the building, but he also wanted to enter undetected, a more difficult feat. As he scanned for an alternative place of entry, the girl's pleading continued to haunt him, "Help me!"

She had died in this apartment building the other night, and yet her voice was on his phone the following day. It was her voice, he was sure it was.

Moving a crate under the second floor balcony, Gregor balanced himself and gingerly reached for the railing. He judged that the iron railing, forged nearly forty years ago, should hold his weight, and in what his mind would suggest was a leap of faith, he swung and pulled himself up to the outside edge of the balcony. One quick maneuver, and he was over the railing, standing nonchalantly on the neglected balcony.

Gregor took a deep breath, and walked through the windowless sliding glass door. Observing the blown-out window, Gregor began wondering what was awaiting him inside. He needed answers; being in the dark was uncomfortable, and he disliked being uncomfortable.