Maybe something Chris ate earlier didn’t agree with him—or his stress was getting the better of him, or both—because he had a fine time getting to sleep that night. On the rare occasions when he managed to doze off, he experienced some rather bizarre dreams.

In one dream, he and Allie stood together at the edge of a high cliff, and Allie pointed a large gun at her own head while screaming incoherent obscenities at Chris. Much as Chris tried to stop her, he couldn’t move any part of his body, or make any sound. So he was forced to watch as the trigger was pulled and a blood-spattered Allie plummeted headfirst into the dark abyss. Chris actually woke from this with a sharp yell and such a violent jerk that he almost toppled out of bed. It took a long time for his breathing and heart rate to return to normal, and longer for him to try to sleep again.

In the next dream he could later recall in stark detail, he was performing a concert with his four mates. Unlike most concerts, all five of them were dressed like Michael Jackson for this one; Chris himself was decked out in a black fedora, a black sequin jacket over a white shirt and black pants, and glittering white gloves. They danced in flawless Michael Jackson style all over the flashy stage (Joey was able to pull off a most impressive moonwalk) while “Billie Jean” played at full blast. The whole audience sang along, and even with the blend of a million and a half voices, the lyrics sounded crystal-clear to Chris’s ears:

“People always told me, ‘Be careful of what you do,
Don’t go around breaking young girls’ hearts!
And Mother always told me, ‘Be careful of who you love,
And be careful of what you do ‘cause the lie becomes the truth!”

However, the chorus had a bit of a twist to it:

“Allie Jean is not my lover!
She’s just a girl who claims that I am the one!
But the girl must get her gun!
She says I am the one,
But the girl must get her gun!”

Then, somehow, Allie herself materialized onstage, right in front of Chris. She was clad in a short, swirly, fire-red dress, her hair enveloped her like a golden mane, and she handled a jet-black pistol like a child’s toy. At one point, she grabbed Chris by the neck and forced him to dance wildly with her; as before, he had no control. The next thing Chris knew, he was on his knees in a vivid circle of light. Allie’s lifeless body lay in his arms, in the style of Michelangelo’s Pietà. The pistol was nowhere in sight, though that didn’t stop the all-encompassing tide of hot voices accusing Chris of the “murder.”

The last memorable dream, while a little more pleasant, was no less weird. Chris and Jamie Miller were acting out the iconic “You’re the One That I Want” sequence from Grease; they had the tight black clothes and everything, and Jamie had all the dance moves down to a science. The most noteworthy aspect of this dream was that Allie kept trying to interfere, as if she were supposed to be Chris’s dance partner all along. Yet every time she tried to cut in, Chris and Jamie would sidestep her or push her away, all the while singing and dancing like it was nobody’s business. Once, when Allie tried to grab Jamie from behind, Jamie delivered an offhand kick to the other girl’s face that sent her crashing into a pie booth.

A real-life shout roused Chris from his sporadic sleep. Even after he was fully awake, it took him another two or three seconds to discern that JC was calling for him and everyone else in the condo—and the man’s tone didn’t sound at all promising.

“Guys! Get in here! Now!”

Heart thudding, mouth drier than a stale Triscuit, Chris flung aside his covers and scurried out his door on legs of jelly. He almost collided with Justin and Joey in the hall, and Lance had already beaten them to the living room, which was where a red-faced JC stood, and which proved to be the place of the problem.

Almost every inch of the floor and furniture was covered with what looked like bits of paper—but upon closer observance, Chris realized they were shredded Valentine cards. Whoever had done this certainly hadn’t lacked for stock or creativity; there must have been a thousand cards at least, the designs varying from elaborate and sophisticated to cutesy and cartoony. It hurt Chris a little to see the way one card with an adorable puppy holding a flower in its mouth had been torn up so recklessly.

“Okay,” said JC as soon as they were all assembled, “which of you practical jokers is responsible for this mess?”

“Not me,” Lance protested, looking and sounding thoroughly bewildered.

“Don’t look at me,” Chris added in a small voice.

“My hands are clean,” said Joey, holding out both hands in plain view.

“I didn’t do it,” Justin insisted. “I didn’t even know they still sold Valentines at this time of year.”

“Since when would any of us pull off such a sick joke, JC?” Lance asked.

When at last JC was convinced that no one standing in that room was the culprit, he demanded, “All right, then, who forgot to lock the door last night?”

Justin answered, “I distinctly recall the keys being in your possession last, JC.”

Joey nodded in vigorous agreement. “And if there’s one thing you’re famous for, JC, it’s that you always keep your doors locked, cars and condos alike.”

JC’s lips pressed into a pencil-thin line. “Then that means some psycho must have busted in here last night, while we were sleeping.”

Chris felt a chill crawl down his backbone.

Glancing about the room, Lance commented, “Apart from the mess, nothing else looks wrong to me.”

“Yeah,” said Joey, “doesn’t look like our little guest made off with anything.”

“All the same,” JC said, “we had better search this place from top to bottom, and get started on cleaning this up.” He ended this sentence with an emphatic wave at the living room litter.

“I’ll get a garbage bag,” said Justin as he made a beeline for the kitchen.

While the rest of the guys did their individual inspections of the condo, Chris stayed put. As he examined the ripped puppy Valentine, he noticed something on the back of the card. When he put the pieces together, he saw that, like last night’s torn photograph, they spelled out a message that alluded to a well-known song.

This time, the message read: YOU’VE LOST THAT LOVIN’ FEELIN’.

The writer had gone the extra mile with a drawing of a crude heart skewered on an arrow and a few “drops” falling from the arrow’s point—and red ink for both the writing and artwork, so that those tiny drops gave the clear indication of blood.

Another ruined Valentine bore that same phrase and illustration, and another, and another. In all likelihood, the prankster had gone to the time and trouble of putting the same message on every single Valentine before tearing them up.

Now Chris felt like he would be seriously sick.

Now he knew that this couldn’t be a coincidence.

Whoever sneaked in here last night undoubtedly had him in mind.

Someone was targeting him, and much as he didn’t want to believe it, he had a pretty strong hunch of who that “someone” was.

When Justin came back with the garbage bag, Chris made a tough effort to mask his distress, and set about gathering the debris together…but not before slipping the puppy Valentine into his gym shorts pocket.