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“Hey, Peter? The shredding company found this inside one of the bins—it has your name on it.”
Peter looked up from his desk to find Janice standing in the doorway with a box in her hands. He forced a smile; it was something he found himself doing often these days. Not because he wasn’t happy, but because he felt like everyone always looked for signs pointing to the opposite.
Aside from the fact that it had been several weeks since his return from paternity leave, the new year was around the corner, and he'd grown tired of overcompensating.
Peter relaxed his smile. He was okay, really.
Janice stepped into his office and placed the box on one of the spare chairs. As she did, her eyes caught on his desk.
“Such a cutie! How old is he now?"
Peter glanced down at the frame Elizabeth had given him for their anniversary. It held one of his most prized possessions: a picture of him with Neal in his arms, taken shortly after the three of them had come home from the hospital. She'd managed to capture the candid moment on her phone without Peter any the wiser, hence his surprise when they’d exchanged gifts just a few weeks prior.
He hardly recognized himself with his disheveled hair and stained t-shirt that he’d reworn several times that week. Not to mention the unfamiliar mix of joy and exhaustion, which he now knew all too well. But what Peter cherished the most was the way that Neal looked up at him, his brown eyes wide and full of childlike innocence. It was a truly indescribable feeling, something he still couldn’t put into words.
“Almost four months,” Peter said, coughing slightly to clear his throat. “Hard to believe it.”
"It goes by fast, doesn't it?" Janice smiled as she turned to leave. "Door open or closed?" She paused as the thought came to her. "Actually, you have that meeting at two. I'll go ahead and close it."
Peter nodded his thanks. With the door closed, he was left alone with his current problem.
The box itself wasn’t very large, but it had been far too big to fit inside his standard office trash can. Part of him knew there was a chance the shredding company wouldn’t take it, but it had been worth a shot.
The call came on a Wednesday afternoon.
Peter read the caller ID and cursed loudly enough to draw the attention of everyone gathered in the conference room. They were currently investigating a real estate scam affecting the tri-state area. It would’ve bored Neal to—
Diana looked up from her report. "Boss?”
Peter clenched his jaw. "It's Kramer."
The conference room suddenly erupted into lively discussion between the other agents, all of whom actively disparaged the man whose jaded witch hunt had nearly torn their team apart.
Their new probie, however, looked on in confusion.
Jones shook his head. "I wouldn't bother. Nothing good will come of it."
Peter agreed and let the call go to voicemail, knowing he'd delete it later, and went back to where he’d left off in his file. Though he didn’t join in on the quiet side-conversations, he did crack a smile at the colorful language Diana used to explain to their new probie why the name “Kramer” had drawn such a visceral reaction around the room.
When his phone rang again, Peter immediately silenced it.
The third time, however, he unlocked his phone and blocked the number, hoping that it sent a clear enough message.
He should've known better because not even five minutes later, Janice poked her head into the conference room.
“Peter, you have a call on your office line.”
“Excuse me,” Peter mumbled under his breath. Taking his time, he carefully pushed in his chair before passing through the side door connecting his office to the conference room. Feeling half a dozen eyes watching him through the glass walls, Peter turned to face the window and braced himself for the inevitable.
"Petey!" Kramer shouted into the phone. "I wasn't sure if you'd take my call."
"Neither was I.” Peter did his best to keep his voice even. "To be honest, Phil, you're the last person I'd expect a call from right now."
Kramer scoffed on the other end of the line. "Of course I'd call! After all, it was my protégé who slapped the cuffs on the Pink Panthers. I'm telling you right now, they'll spend a whole week on this at Quantico."
Peter bit his tongue. "Excuse me?"
"You're too humble, Petey. Always have been," Kramer said with his usual wispy cadence, paying no attention to the bitterness in Peter’s own voice. "Anyway, I'm sure you're aware that I spearhead the committee for the Bureau’s annual commendation ceremony.”
“Sure,” Peter said flatly.
“Naturally, then, I’m sure you must know why I’m calling.”
Peter gritted his teeth. “This really isn’t a great time to catch up, Phil.”
"I couldn’t agree more,” Kramer said. “We’ll have to schedule a proper sit-down once you’re in DC.”
“Not sure when I’ll find the time, to be frank. I wouldn’t leave Elizabeth on her own, not when Neal is still so young,” Peter said, stressing the name. He figured if Kramer kept tabs on him after the Degas case, he must know about the baby.
Kramer merely hummed in response. “You interrupted me, Petey. You didn’t give me a chance to explain.”
“Phil, we’re in the middle of a case right now, and I really need to—”
“For Chrissake,” Kramer cut him off. “I’m calling to congratulate you, son! The Director approved it this morning: the Medal for Meritorious Achievement for your work on bringing down the Panthers! There's going to be a whole ceremony with the other recipients in the fall. Fancy hotel, catering—you name it. They spare no expense for these sorts of things."
Peter felt bile rise in his throat. "You know damn well I didn't do it alone."
Kramer sighed. "Right, it's a shame about Caffrey. A huge loss for the Bureau."
"To hell with the Bureau—"
"Look, I understand your frustration. They must've had you working overtime on damage control. But if you ask me, this whole fiasco has left INTERPOL with egg on its face. One of their own errand boys on a killing spree? On American soil? Surely the State Department—"
Peter zoned out for a moment, letting Kramer enjoy the sound of hearing himself speak.
He hadn’t heard from the man since the day of Neal’s commutation hearing, and with good reason. Jeopardizing Neal’s freedom had eliminated any lingering trust between the two of them, leaving Peter to walk away with no desire to reconcile their decade-long friendship.
He’d ignored red flag after red flag because of his loyalties to a man whom he no longer recognized. This wasn’t the same Phillip Kramer who’d brought him up in the Bureau all those years ago. No, this Kramer was a twisted version of his old mentor who'd grown far too comfortable weaponizing the justice system as a means to an end.
But that was just the prologue.
After the baby was born, Peter had spent a fair bit of time reflecting on his life, his career. Elizabeth warned him not to be too critical of himself, but certain choices he’d made for himself, and others, were damming enough.
Peter knew his work suffered for it. These days, he found himself more cautious, more afraid of making the wrong decisions. But that didn’t change the fact that he still had a whole department to take care of.
He talked to someone, once, at Elizabeth’s suggestion, but then immediately came home and removed the next session from his calendar. It didn't help to talk about it. In fact, talking about it made it worse.
Considering the lack of coping mechanisms in his arsenal, Peter decided to employ the one thing he remembered from the pamphlet he'd intentionally left in the therapist's waiting room.
They called it a grounding technique, and it felt incredibly silly.
The first thing he noticed was the warrant law casebook sitting on the window ledge to his left, along with the thin layer of dust coating the binding. Next was his “#1 Agent” mug sitting on his desk, just begging to be filled with something other than stale office coffee.
Not far from his mug was a single, hand-sized ball that held more rubber bands than he’d ever possibly need. He’d taken to using it as a makeshift paperweight after the clerks had warned him against using rubber bands to wrap closed files—something to do with poor record management.
By the time Peter realized his mistake, it was already too late. As he turned to face the bullpen, a switch flipped inside his head, and suddenly he was no longer concerned with what he could see, but rather who he couldn’t.
None of it felt right. The empty desk, with its chair pushed in. The missing hat on Socrates’ bust. The lack of Italian roast in the air.
"—waste of potential. I guess the old saying rings true: no honor amongst thieves."
"I was wrong,” Peter said, picturing the slight curve of Kramer’s mouth as the man reveled in what he believed was a hard-fought victory.
"Wrong about what, Petey?"
"I shouldn't have taken your call."
Over the following weeks, Peter spent most of his time dodging requests from the director's secretary, who was trying to confirm his attendance at the awards banquet.
“Agent Kramer let me know that your wife will be attending, so I have you down for two tickets. Will there be anyone else in your party? Agent Burke? Hello? Are you still there?”
To make matters worse, a production crew had reached out to the Bureau's Office of Public Affairs inquiring about an interview for a documentary on the Panthers.
He declined several times before they finally gave up.
Whether it was for a ceremony or a documentary didn’t matter. He couldn’t go to DC ever, because if he did, no one would be able to stop him from punching Kramer right in the face.
Present day, Peter tossed the box containing his plaque into the small trash can underneath his desk. It sat awkwardly, sticking out of the bin at an upward angle.
He’d set it on fire if he could.
With minutes to spare, Peter minimized his open tabs and logged into Skype. He had to give Hughes credit where credit was due; the man never once complained about having to attend all these supervisory meetings.
Promptly at two o’clock, Peter’s screen changed from a preview of his camera to the full meeting room, where other White Collar division heads had their own cameras turned on. He’d known several of them for a while now, having taken their calls over the years, but it wasn’t until his current role that he'd been able to put names to their faces.
Peter joined in on the obligatory round of greetings but was quickly singled out.
“Burke, you’re on mute.”
Peter sat up straight, quickly moving his mouse to unmute himself. “Can you hear me now?”
“Loud and clear,” Rose said. She was his counterpart in the Albany Field Office and had been with the Bureau for nearly as long as he’d been in New York.
An older agent from the Buffalo office spoke next. “May I suggest that everyone keep themselves on mute, so we avoid speaking over each other?”
Peter nodded in agreement. He supposed that was the more polite way of avoiding a hot mic, something he unfortunately had experience with. In his defense, Neal had been sleeping when he’d signed on.
Their quarterly meeting took its usual course. First, the Finance Division spoke about the new monthly reconciliation form (and promptly sent a copy to everyone’s inbox). Then, HR took over and discussed recruitment goals for the next year, with an added focus on combating attrition.
Peter participated, chiming in here and there, but for the most part, his role was to listen. That normally wasn’t a problem, given the countless stakeouts he'd been on in his career, but there was something unnecessarily exhausting about these meetings that forced time to slow down. And he wasn’t alone; several of the other participants were zoning out, too.
He’d taken to rolling the rubber band ball around on the desk, below the view of the camera. As soon as the meeting was over, Peter planned on rounding up a list of coffee orders for the team, hoping to boost morale for those working over the holidays.
It was nearing the end of the hour when he heard an electronic ping coming from his computer. This time, it wasn’t another email from Finance.
“Oh, shoot, where’s my camera?”
Peter recognized the voice immediately as belonging to Greg Sullivan, Deputy Director of the Criminal Investigative Division. A moment later, he got his confirmation.
“There we go!” Sullivan shouted into his computer after successfully turning on his camera. “Apologies for my tardiness, everyone. Don’t mind me, I’ll let you all continue with the schedule.”
The final bullet point on their agenda was a briefing from the Training Division, whose designee, Marcus, shared updated guidance for the new learning module system. It was one of the more menial tasks he had as ASAC, having to remind everyone to complete their online training, but the Inspection Division would have a field day if they ever fell behind.
Still, after sitting for nearly an hour, Peter’s attention had started to wane. He'd managed to fill his notepad with various scribbles and a to-do list with each task categorized by level of importance. As usual, the list tended to lean more optimistic rather than realistic.
At the end of the presentation, Marcus clapped his hands together, recapturing Peter’s focus.
Several participants unmuted themselves and proceeded to wish everyone a safe and happy new year. Peter joined in, too, giving a brief wave to the camera while he pocketed his phone and wallet; getting coffee took precedent on his to-do list.
However, he didn’t make it far. As Peter stood up, a notification drew him back to his computer.
The Deputy Director was inviting him to a call.
The thought of walking away crossed his mind, but Peter knew that surviving on a single income simply wouldn't be feasible in this economy. The down payment they were required to pay months in advance to secure Neal a spot at daycare was borderline extortion. Peter wasn’t proud of it, but he would've opened a case on the matter if it hadn't been for the waitlists at all the other schools that had turned them away.
“Peter Burke!” Sullivan greeted, this time with his camera already on.
Peter gave a short nod. “Good afternoon, Sir."
“Bear with me while I add a few of my colleagues,” Sullivan said. “My kids already tease me enough when it comes to this technology stuff.”
Never a fan of small talk, Peter began fiddling with one of the rubber bands, pulling it away from the center cluster before releasing it with a satisfying pluck. The tension mimicked the increasing anxiety he felt in his own body.
His computer pinged again, twice, as two new faces joined the call.
“Good afternoon, ya’ll. Vickie Erwin, here. Deputy General Counsel.”
“Nina Adamson, Associate Deputy Director. Pleasure to meet you, Agent Burke."
It was clear that they were introducing themselves for his benefit and not their own. Adamson was Bruce’s boss, and she would’ve been his boss, too, had he taken that promotion in DC.
Peter swallowed hard. He was about to be blindsided by the Bureau’s top brass—and they were going to do it over Skype.
Sullivan unmuted himself. "Peter, I want to start out by saying that you're not in trouble. This isn’t a disciplinary hearing. You've done nothing wrong."
The empty desk in the bullpen said otherwise.
“Nina, did you want to start?”
“Of course," Nina said as she adjusted the microphone on her headset, giving off the appearance of someone who found themselves in a lot of these meetings. "Just as a bit of background, Burke. The director has tasked me with coordinating with each division head on their end-of-year case closure reports. And if we take a look at CID, specifically our New York Field Offices, we noticed a sharp decline in prosecutions coming out of White Collar.
“This isn’t just convictions, but generally, fewer cases from your office are being presented to the AUSA for consideration. We’re not ignorant of the times, mind you. Crime looks a bit different these days than it did when we all walked out of Quantico.”
“That it does!” Sullivan gave off a hearty laugh that made Peter's speakers crackle from the feedback. “If someone tries to explain a bitcoin to me, I swear my eyes just glaze over.”
“I’ll just clarify that we're not looking for frivolous prosecution, here,” Nina said, continuing her train of thought. “We want to send over strong cases, which is something your department has generally excelled at.”
Sullivan nodded in agreement. “I understand there’s a lot to discuss, but we’d like to hear from you first, Peter.”
Peter cleared his throat and unmuted himself. “Well, as I’m sure you all know, this has been a tough year for White Collar. On the personnel side, uh, a few months ago, we tragically lost our—”
“I’ll start off by saying what we're all thinking,” Sullivan cut in, and Peter held his breath. “Thank god that hiring freeze is over!”
Peter felt like he might crumble.
“Since it’s just the four of us, I’ll be candid.” Sullivan held up a hand to the side of his mouth, as if he wasn't alone in his own office. “The director’s been breathing down my neck about diverting funds to Cyber Crimes. I used to be able to go to bat for White Collar because we had the numbers, but lately I've had nothing to woo him with, you know?”
Peter clenched his jaw. “What exactly are you proposing?”
Sullivan spent a moment struggling to read whatever file he held within view of the camera before reaching for his glasses. “I see here that your office is slated to get three new recruits over the next quarter. More agents will help, of course, but we’re thinking about a different approach. Something tried and true.”
"We're mindful of the impact Mr. Cafferty had on your team,” Nina said.
"Caffrey," Peter corrected. "His name is Neal Caffrey."
Nina shuffled around some papers on her desk to confirm, as if Peter could be wrong about his own consultant’s name. "As I was saying, Mr. Caffrey was a valuable member of your division. In his absence, we'd like for you to interview a few pre-screened candidates to fill his role.”
Peter flinched as one of the rubber bands snapped against his finger. They were talking about Neal as if he was on vacation and not—
"What do you think, Peter?” Sullivan nodded enthusiastically. “We thought we’d give you first dibs.”
Nina pursed her lips. “What Greg meant to say was that we’d love for you to take on the responsibility, given your track record with Cafferty. But if you’re not interested, what about that senior agent of yours? Jones, isn’t it?”
Peter took a deep breath and reached deep for whatever strength he could find. “First off, it’s Caffrey, and second, I’m not comfortable revisiting that arrangement. The risk doesn't outweigh the reward.”
Sullivan leaned closer to his camera. "What makes you say that?”
"Well, Neal's dead, for starters," Peter said coolly.
Sullivan did a double-take. "Now, Burke, listen here. The numbers don't lie. As ASAC, we’re hoping you can turn things around. Vickie has already drafted a few contracts for us to review after our meeting.”
Vickie used that as a jumping point to start discussing—in great detail—the improvements she had made to the original contract, to Neal’s contract. Random drug tests. Designated check-ins with the Marshals. A smaller stipend. Requiring secondary employment. A tighter, one-mile radius. Mandatory escorts to and from the Federal Building.
“Additionally,” Vickie continued, “I've proposed a house arrest clause for weekends and federal holidays as those are generally days when the office would be closed.”
From one prison to another.
Peter tossed the rubber band ball in anger, letting it bounce off his desk until it landed somewhere under his bookshelf. “Maybe I wasn’t clear enough," he started. "White Collar isn’t taking on any new CIs, period, and if the director asks why, you can tell him this: Neal was never safe having this constant target on his back, and I’m just not talking about the criminals he helped us put away. He worked his ass off for this department, and how did we repay him? With Phillip Kramer sabotaging any chance he had at commutation.
“Bringing in MacLeish earned him enough brownie points to get back to New York, but now it wasn’t just Kramer who had his eyes on Neal. The director lied to Bruce, lied to all of us. He was never going to ask the Attorney General about commuting Neal’s sentence, not when our stats made him look good on the Hill.”
Peter paused to catch his breath; he was speaking faster than he could form the words, fueled solely by the contempt he’d repressed for months. This was anger. This was grief. And the glass walls weren’t doing him any favors.
His panel of three were talking over each other now, but the noise simply washed over him. He was in free fall, and the accounting degree above his desk was his safety net.
“So," Peter continued, raising his voice. "Neal did what he always does; he looked for another way. The Panthers were dangerous, but so was the Bureau. He was kidnapped, shot at, drugged on this job, and yet he still pushed himself harder than any recruit, any agent. Hell, he had to, right? Because if he didn’t, then we’d just ship him back to maximum security!” Peter felt himself laughing now—a hollow, self-deprecating laugh as he thought back to all the times he’d toss around jokes about orange jumpsuits.
Because if he’d paid closer attention, Peter would’ve noticed the slight fall of Neal’s shoulders, or the way that Neal hid his discomfort with a well-timed eye roll—all signs he’d overlooked at the time because it wasn’t his freedom at stake.
“Neal deserved better,” Peter said slowly, and as he did, the computer screen began to feel more like a mirror. “He earned his freedom, but instead, all he got was a bunch of suits moving the damn goalpost. No one should have to live like that, and for you all to sit here and suggest that we do it all over, condemning some other poor soul, just goes to show how none of you have learned.”
They were trying to get his attention, but all Peter could think about was how eerily quiet morgues were. So quiet, in fact, that he remembered everything from the way his shoes landed on the linoleum tiles to the blood pounding in his ears, all with painful clarity.
The brutal cold had been nothing in comparison to the sound of the ME unzipping the body bag, a sound so distinct, so haunting that the coward in him had desperately wanted to reach out, to grab the man’s arm and stop him. Because this wasn’t one of Peter’s nightmares, this was real life, and that was Neal lying there, stiff and unmoving on the cold metal slab—
Something in Peter snapped.
“Neal was our responsibility, and we failed him!”
He concluded abruptly on a crescendo, his chest rising and falling as though he'd just completed a marathon.
For a moment, no one said anything. Sullivan and Vickie both looked confused, but Nina was a harder read. Peter sat up a little straighter, unsure whether he’d won them over or if he was out of a job.
He didn't have to wait long for an answer.
“Uh,” Sullivan cleared his throat. "Burke, you're on mute.”
Peter’s face went red.
"Ladies, I think his camera is frozen. Peter, can you hear us? I'm not sure where you cut off, but we were just discussing—"
Peter never heard the rest of what Sullivan had to say because his screen suddenly went black. He wasn't an expert, but it likely had something to do with the cable he'd just pulled from the outlet.
Having effectively ended the meeting, Peter darted out of his office to seek refuge. His one-sided shouting match had earned him a small audience in the bullpen.
He quickly turned down the hall to avoid Jones, who had tried to get his attention, and nearly ran into a concerned-looking Blake in front of the copier.
“Everything okay? I know there’s that bug going around.”
Peter gave a short nod but otherwise kept walking. Past the interrogation room, past the evidence locker, and into the stairwell, where he took two steps at a time. He flinched, nearly tripping over his feet as the fire door slammed shut, sending loud echoes bouncing off the building’s concrete walls.
Not for the first time, he’d held it open for someone who wasn’t there.
His chest burned as his lungs begged for him to stop his ascent, but Peter continued his self-inflicted punishment until the final landing several floors up. A sign bolted to the wall warned the reader against proceeding any further, but whatever alarm that was meant to deter him never went off.
Peter recoiled as he stepped onto the rooftop of the Federal Building.
The snow that had been indecisive all day had finally settled into a steady flurry, and Peter's suit jacket was simply no match for the cold. His teeth started to chatter from a combination of the freezing air and the adrenaline crash after running up nearly ten flights of stairs at record speed.
As much as Peter's instincts screamed at him to go back inside, the thought of plugging back in his computer and seeing the contract that Vickie had drawn up made him feel sick. He took a few steps forward, listening to the distinct crunch of untouched snow, and decided to push his chances with frostbite, if only for a few minutes longer.
Peter battled the windchill by taking careful loops around the roofline to keep his blood flowing. He’d hope to avoid any ice lurking beneath the surface; after all, it wasn’t lost on him that one bad fall could have very permanent consequences. And while he had his phone with him, Peter feared his fingers would be far too numb to dial for help.
He knew it was time to call it quits when he started to feel an unwanted dampness in his socks. Following what he believed were his original steps, Peter headed for the door, pausing only when he felt something hard underneath the heel of his shoe. Curious, he kicked away some of the excess snow to uncover whatever it was that he had stepped on. He bent down to retrieve the item, brushing away the rest of the snow with his fingers.
Peter’s hands shook as he held the tie bar in his hands.
It was Neal's, one that he’d lost well over a year ago.
He recalled how Neal had begged to go to a vintage shop just outside his radius so he could find a replacement, as the tie bar had been from Byron’s collection.
It had been shortly after Peter’s release from jail, when things were tense between the two of them, to say the least. Between Siegle’s murder and the missing gold coins, Peter simply had no interest in traversing around the Upper West Side for fashion accessories.
Still, Neal had been relentless with his request.
Peter had viewed it as a chore.
He never made any promises, but rather hinted that if they wrapped up their caseload early on, then there might be some free time to drive over. But weeks passed, and suddenly two million dollars went missing, becoming Peter's top concern. Because Neal never stole without a reason, and Peter feared Summers might have given Neal several.
Then came the job offer in DC and the promise of a fresh start. No more fabled music boxes, U-boats, or destroyed evidence.
Eventually, Neal took the hint and stopped asking.
Peter didn't regain feeling in his hands until he was waiting for the elevator on the 31st floor. He couldn’t risk going back to White Collar, not after most of the office had witnessed his outburst.
As he stepped into the empty elevator car, Peter’s eyes widened in horror as he heard Ruiz call out from a few feet away, asking him to hold the door. While the buttons were next to each other, his finger tapped door close far too many times to be called an accident. He proceeded to ride the elevator all the way down to the parking deck beneath the Federal Building, where he got into his car and drove in silence; no one messed with his presets these days.
Not long after that, Peter found himself standing outside a familiar mansion on Riverside Drive. His shoulders shook from the cold; it’d taken him a while to work up the courage to actually knock.
Peter hadn’t visited since he and Mozzie had cleared out Neal’s belongings upstairs. It’d been one of the hardest things he'd ever done, aside from writing his speech for the funeral service.
June greeted him with a smile far kinder than he deserved.
"I'm sorry," Peter blurted out. "I don't know why I'm here."
June took in his appearance and seemed to know that wasn't the truth. "Don't apologize,” she said, opening the door wide enough for Peter to feel the warmth. Her housekeeper must not be working today, unlike when—
“Sorry,” Peter repeated, despite himself.
June stuck her head out, taking in the grey sky. “The snow's starting to pick up. Why don't you come inside?"
There was tea in front of him now.
Looking at the piano across the room, Peter’s eyes closed on the memory of Neal and June singing together in what felt like a lifetime ago. He remembered how surprised both he and Elizabeth had been to hear Neal’s voice, shocked that he’d kept this talent of his hidden after all these years.
If he tried hard enough, Peter could picture the four of them gathered together, enjoying each other’s company as June brought out her old photobook, filled with pictures from her youth. There was something special about going through someone's memories while they were still living.
It was something else entirely when they were gone.
When Mozzie had found Neal’s scrapbook and the pictures inside, Peter was grateful that they’d started with Neal’s wine collection. Because by the time the first tears fell, neither of them had been sober.
Peter's fingers pressed into the engraving on the tie bar. "I miss him."
“He knows.” June watched him carefully, and Peter tried to hide his discomfort. He didn’t want to appear like he was questioning her faith. "For now, that has to be enough.”
Peter released a breath. “What if it isn’t?” he asked quietly, like a child seeking guidance from a parent.
June reached across the table and gave his arm a gentle squeeze. "He wouldn't want us imposing a life sentence on ourselves.”
Peter wasn't sure if he deserved that kind of freedom.
Still, he remembered his manners and made sure to ask June how she was doing, how her family was. He learned that Samantha was in high school and on her school’s JV soccer team, while Cindy had accepted a fellowship with the Art Institute of Chicago.
Peter raised his head. “There’s a Seurat there, the one with horses—not the women with umbrellas.”
Parasols, Neal would have corrected.
The painting had moved in and out of private collections over the years, and while Peter had always suspected, he’d never been able to prove it was a forgery.
“Why, yes,” June said, nodding slightly. “I believe I saw it the last time I visited.” Her eyes twinkled. “It’s quite a lovely piece, isn’t it?”
Peter found that he didn't have the heart to disagree.
As he finished the last of his tea, Peter knew that he'd delayed the inevitable long enough. It was getting late, and he needed to get home to Elizabeth and Neal.
After thanking June for her company, Peter returned her late husband's tie bar and didn't stay much longer after that.
He made it just over the bridge before the first sob hit him.
The house was only a few blocks away, but once he started, Peter found that he couldn’t stop. He quickly pulled over and threw the car into park, cradling his head in his hands as the first tears rolled in. Leaning against the steering wheel, Peter cried in a way that he’d never let Elizabeth see, harder than the day the baby outgrew his first bib.
Peter knew he wasn’t alone in his grief, but it was different for the others; none of them had Neal's blood on their hands. The anklet had been a noose, and he's the one who had tied the knot.
All he could do now was mourn his best friend and the system that had failed them both. Because it wasn’t that long ago that Peter stood in front of a mob boss and told him that the Bureau didn’t forgive sins.
He wondered when that stopped being true.