elrhiarhodan

Title: A Forever Kind of Family - Part One of Three
Author:

eldorah
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Diana Berrigan, Clinton Jones, Reese Hughes, Kyle Bancroft, Original Male Characters, Original Female Characters; Peter/Elizabeth
Word Count: ~16,500
Spoilers: All of Season 6, Especially Au Revoir
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Brief scene of animal neglect
Beta Credit:

sinfulslasher
Summary: The year between his "death" and the final sentencing of the Pink Panthers brought a lot of changes in Neal's life, and in Peter's, too. Families are made - by birth and by choice - and both men learn that the bonds of friendship can never really be broken.

Author’s Note: Written as a pinch hit for

eldorah's artwork for Round 2 of the

wc_reverse_bb.

__________________

Neal never thought of himself as a man who'd be alone forever, but that had become the sad, inexorable truth in his life.

Kate was dead.

Sara was as out of his reach as the moon.

Rebecca never existed and even if he could stomach a relationship with a murderous psychopath, Rachel's well-staged "death" on a New York City street made that impossible. Once, when he was very drunk and very depressed by his own "death", he'd thought about trying to find her. It wouldn't be too hard – he'd just follow the trail of dead bodies she couldn't help leave in her wake.

Maybe it was better this way. One night stands with pretty girls that sometimes lasted for a week or two, or even a month. That was all he seemed capable of these days. Love 'em and let 'em go.

Why did he ever think that faking his death would be a good thing? At the time, it seemed like the most selfless thing he could do. Except he knew that Elizabeth would tell him that, once again, he did the wrong thing for the right reason. He thought at the time that his reasons were above reproach – keeping Peter and El and their unborn son safe, keeping everyone he loved safe, ensuring that Moz had enough wealth to buy that private island, and then some.

Neal kept telling himself that his "death" was a selfless act. Sometimes, he even believed it.

But he couldn't stop wondering what his friends were doing, how they were getting on without him. June's updates were sporadic, which is how he wanted them - just the essentials. Elizabeth's pregnancy was going well. She was over her morning sickness and – if the pictures June had sent were any indication – Elizabeth was glowing with happiness. The photo of Peter was heartbreaking – he was clearly delighted by his impending fatherhood, but Neal could see the shadows there. The shadows he had created.

He couldn't help but keep track of the time – El was three months along when he "died", so right about now, she and Peter would be going to childbirth classes, learning how to breathe, when to push, all that fun stuff. Neal ached from the thought of everything he was going to miss – he wouldn't be there, waiting with Peter because as much as he tried, he couldn't see Big Bad Peter Burke in the delivery room with Elizabeth.

Or maybe he could. Peter wasn't squeamish, he wasn't some wilting flower of a man who'd pass out at the sight of blood. No, Peter Burke met life head-on, and he absolutely would be with Elizabeth. Holding her hand, telling her to breathe, telling her that everything would be all right.

That she'd be fine.

And that's when the camera of his imagination had to stop, because Neal couldn't bear the memories of Peter, holding his hand, telling him he'd be all right. He couldn't bear the memory of the shock and grief and pain in his friend's eyes, how his voice broke.

Neal wondered if Peter would ever forgive him for what he did.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Two Months Post Mortem - Saint Peter

The doorbell rang. That would be his latest amour. Christine was one of the beautiful people, slumming in Paris for Fashion Week. He'd met her on his flight to Paris and they'd hit it off quite well. She was something of an airhead, but she was rich, beautiful and there was nothing about her that would ever touch his heart.

When Christine suggested they get together, Neal programmed one of his many cellphone numbers into her mobile. At the time, it seemed like a good idea, but at the time, he was drunk. Mixing single-malt Scotch and premium vodka on an airplane was never a wise choice. Now he regretted accepting her offer.

The problem was that Christine was not just an airhead. She was thoughtless and cruel and if it wasn't for the fact that he really, really wanted to get into the opening night exhibit of Cartier's latest collection (for research purposes only), he'd have dumped her like last week's leftovers.

So he put on his best con man's smile, straightened his bow tie and answered the door.

Christine waltzed in on a cloud of … canine.

"Here, take this." She handed him a leash and made a beeline for the powder room.

Neal looked down. At the business end of the leash was a rather startlingly large ball of white and brown fur with very serious dark eyes - a Saint Bernard. Not the usual choice for a socialite, since this creature was at least fifteen times the size of the average purse pet.

Neal murmured, "You have got to be kidding me."

Apparently, the creature wasn't. It barked once, a very stern sound, and sat down. It wasn't exactly staring at Neal, but there was an intensity to its gaze that left him feeling summed up and found wanting. He had never been this up-close-and-personal with a Saint Bernard before.

Christine emerged from the powder room, all smiles and very, very bright eyes. She rubbed her nose, sniffed, and licked her fingers before telling him, "We'll leave Pietro here. He's very well behaved." Then she giggled.

"Pietro?" Peter, of course.

"Yes. He was a gift."

"Okay." Neal wasn't sure that information was relevant. "How old is he?"

Christine shrugged, and the gesture – like everything else about the woman – irritated him. "I don't know – maybe five, six months old."

Neal blinked and looked back at Pietro. "He's just a puppy?"

"I guess. He doesn't poop inside, if that's what you're worried about. Now, we're going to be late. My driver's waiting for us."

Neal didn't like the idea of leaving the dog behind. It was a puppy and his apartment wasn't puppy-proof.

"Umm, can't we leave him with your driver?"

"No, Georges doesn't like dogs."

Neal wanted to tell Christine that Georges was her employee and was probably paid very well to look after all manner of animals, human or otherwise.

"Come. Pietro will be just fine. He's mostly …" Christine snapped her fingers as she searched for the word, "obedient."

"Mostly?"

"He doesn't like when men try to kiss me. He gets … difficult. But you're safe."

"As long as I don't kiss you, right?"

Christine smirked, tucked her arm in his and dragged him out the door.

The showing was everything he'd expected. Crowded with beautiful people wearing exquisite jewels and couture clothes, sipping vintage Champagne, looking bored and avaricious at the same time. Once, he might have felt right at home, he might have helped himself to a few baubles, left a few women (and maybe a few men) a little lighter in the pocketbook, but extremely happy, nonetheless.

Tonight, however, he was there to check the security and provide a report. Cartier wasn't his client, yet. But if all went well, it would be. It was somewhat amusing to wear the white hat, and it did pay well. He was still working on the contract with the Louvre – and if that came through, it would be his biggest score, but he still needed the smaller jobs. If to prove to himself that he could earn a living and stay on the straight and narrow. The situation with the Louvre was really just a matter of luck –anyone with keen observation should have seen that the security at the world's greatest museum was filled with as many holes as the average wheel of Swiss cheese. The Cartier exhibit was leagues beyond that – except that it reminded him of his very last con. Same security system, same flaws, same endgame.

No, not the same endgame. He wasn't going to show up in some abandoned shipyard in Red Hook to meet with a bunch of psychos. He was going to present an unsolicited report to some very wealthy, very powerful businessmen. Who, come to think of it, might not be all that different from Woodford and his crew.

Except that Matthew Keller wouldn't be there. He was dead, thanks to his own foolish choices and Peter's gun. Keller had no family to grieve for his misbegotten life and the city did what they did with all unclaimed corpses, they buried him in an unmarked grave in Potter's Field on Hart Island, a place no one ever visited.

"Darling, you're not paying much attention to me." When they'd arrived, Christine had drifted off. Now she wrapped herself around him, and Neal bit his tongue – those were the first words she'd spoken to him since they walked in the door. Although tonight would be the last time he saw Christine, he played the adoring lover.

"I should be shot for ignoring such a beautiful woman."

"Yes, you should." Christine preened and dragged him over to one of the central displays. "I want that."

Neal glanced at the Art Deco-inspired diamond, pearl and sapphire collar. "It would suit you."

"Buy it for me."

He stared at Christine, not bothering to mask his incredulity. "I don't have a small kingdom to mortgage for your whims."

"If you don't buy it for me, then we're through!" She actually stamped her foot.

Neal's lips twitched and he had to wonder who was benefiting from this performance. He glanced around the room, and if he wasn't mistaken, there was a Russian oligarch looking daggers at him. So he bowed over his erstwhile lover's hand and bade her farewell.

She sniffed and flounced off – in the direction of the Russian oligarch.

As scenes went, he'd been in the center of far more dreadful ones, and since he'd learned what he needed, it was time to leave.

Neal was halfway home – if his apartment in the shadow of Notre Dame could ever truly be called "home" – when he remembered what Christine had left behind. If he was lucky, she and her new paramour would show up in the morning to demand possession of Pietro and he'd never need to lay eyes on her again.

Pietro was – as Christine had promised – very well behaved. Neal had feared the worst when he opened the door to his apartment. He imagined chaos everywhere, shoes chewed, furniture and rugs and clothing destroyed. Pee and poop everywhere.

But all he found was Pietro sleeping in front of the radiator and everything just the way he had left it.

The dog looked up when Neal walked in. "I'm sorry, boy, but you're stuck with me for tonight."

Pietro sighed and rested his already massive head on those oversized paws, as if this was just what he was expecting.

"Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

Pietro woofed quietly, as if that was possible.

"Hmm, I wonder what I've got for you." Neal went to the kitchen and Pietro followed, sitting at his feet like a very patient guardian. "Let's start with some water." He found an aluminum bowl and filled it.

Pietro drank and Neal was actually relieved when the dog slobbered water all over the place. It was really kind of freakish how well-behaved the animal was.

"Food, food. What would you like to eat?"

Neal may never have owned a dog, but he'd spent plenty of time in Bugsy Ellington and Satchmo Burke's company to know what not to give a dog. Things like cooked broccoli or cauliflower. Not if he didn't want to suffocate from the resulting gaseous emissions. Pity that June hadn't learned that lesson. Bugsy's favorite foods contained vast amounts of sulphur.

The fridge contained half a roast chicken from the corner brasserie and some blanched haricots verts. It didn't take too long to debone the chicken and chop up the greens. This probably wouldn't be enough for a growing puppy, but it should keep him until the morning, when Christine came to pick him up.

Neal watched with a smile as Pietro just about inhaled the meal.

"I guess you're going to need to go out in a little while."

Pietro licked his chops and panted. It looked, for all the world, like the dog was smiling at him.

"Okay – give me a few minutes to get out of this monkey suit and we'll take a little stroll."

Neal swapped the tuxedo for a pair of chinos and a turtleneck sweater. It was mid-October and the nights were definitely getting cooler. The patent leather oxfords were exchanged for a comfortable pair of sneakers – perfect for an evening walk. Neal located a couple of plastic bags to use for Pietro's leave-behinds, he snapped the dog's leash on, and away they went.

Pietro did his business, Neal held his breath and cleaned up after him, and they were home just as the church bells rang the midnight hour.

Neal looked at the dog, the dog looked at him, and both man and dog sighed. Neal smiled. There was something about Pietro that reminded him of Peter. Like the thousand other times that Neal thought about the friend he had left behind, it hurt, but maybe not so much. The pain was still there, it would always be there, but tonight, it didn't send him running for the scotch.

"Where do you want to sleep?" Why was he even asking the dog that question?

Except that Pietro answered in the most emphatic way possible. He padded over to the bedroom and pushed his way in. Neal shook his head and followed his temporary houseguest.

As he climbed into bed, Pietro let out a little whimper. Neal knew he was a soft touch – he always was when it came to small children and helpless animals. So he patted the covers and the puppy, which was already close to the size of a full grown Lab, leaped onto the bed, circled around a few times and made himself comfortable against the small of Neal's back.

Neal had to laugh. This is what he was reduced to, spooning with a Saint Bernard.

Christine didn't come back for her dog, not the next day nor the day after. Neal called and texted until he got a message that the cellphone number was no longer in service. So he bought bags of premium, all natural dog food, supplemented with lots of good-for-dog fresh veggies, and tried not to get too attached to Pietro.

As much as he loved them, Neal never planned on owning a dog. Let alone a puppy. A Saint Bernard puppy. Puppies were babies who needed constant attention and love and care and regular feedings. Just like human babies. Puppies needed to be paper trained. They had sharp teeth that didn't care about fine silk-wool blends.

They cried at night.

And sometimes during the day, too.

Besides, con men didn't own dogs, because con men couldn't afford to be tied down to long term responsibilities. They might have a dog for a while, because there's nothing more unremarkable than the sight of a man walking a dog in the pre-dawn hours, eyes at half-mast, poop bag hanging out of his back pocket, waiting to be deployed. Neal had used that scam a dozen different times, scoping out a mark's residence, checking routines, watching the servants come and go.

Dogs were useful like that, and Neal was always careful to return the animal to its rightful owner when he no longer had a use for the creature.

You couldn't do that with puppies. Besides the fact that puppies couldn't go out on a leash until they were a few months old, they were rambunctious and yappy when you least wanted to call attention to yourself. And people tended to stop and coo and ask, "How old is she?" And everyone had an opinion about purebred versus shelter versus rescue.

When he was casing a mark, the last thing he wanted to do was engage in conversation of any sort.

But he wasn't casing marks these days and his efforts at keeping a little detached from Pietro were an absolute failure. After two weeks of trying to track Christine down through a half-dozen mutual acquaintances, he finally got a message from her.

Keep the dog or drown him. I don't care. We're through, so stop bothering me.

Well, the second option was never an option. He thought about putting the beast up for adoption, but that thought lasted all of five seconds. Pietro wasn't yappy or rambunctious; he ate and slept in concert with Neal's own schedule. He was well-behaved, quiet most of the time, and if he shed, well, that's what those sticky brushes were for. As for the drooling so common to the breed, Neal had lived with Bugsy the Fart Machine for the better part of four years. Mopping up was a lot easier than living with a tiny dog's outsized flatulence.

It didn't take much for Neal to resign himself to pet ownership and all the responsibilities that came along with that. Because the benefits far outweighed the detriments. As the days grew cooler, it was like having his own personal heater whenever he stopped at a cafe. He'd sit outside with his cappuccino and croissant and the day's newspaper, with Pietro curled up against his feet. There were plenty of restaurants and bars that welcomed them inside, too, and they soon became a familiar sight along the Seine.

Most important of all, Pietro was good company. He didn't complain, he didn't argue, he didn't try to push Neal into things he'd rather not do. And if, on occasion, he looked a little judgmental, Neal felt a spark of a connection back to the world and the people he'd left behind.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Two months after Neal's death

Peter sighed and opened his checkbook. He didn't write many checks these days - maybe a half-dozen all year. In fact, the page on the check register listed entries for the last four years. At the top was one made out to Cardello & Sons Memorials. He'd paid for Kate's headstone, even though it was going over an empty grave. It was the least he could do for Neal after he'd witnessed her terrible death.

Now, he was making out another check to the same company, only this time it was for Neal's headstone.

His hand shook as he wrote out the figures, and then they blurred. He couldn't stop the tears. In the quiet of the night, after El had gone to bed, when he was alone with his thoughts, the grief overwhelmed him.

Neal should have been free - he should have been swanning around London or Paris or even here in New York. He should have been happy and smiling and sending him emails, teasing him about his impending fatherhood, about his separation anxiety. Neal should have been showing up, unannounced, for Sunday dinner or just because he missed him.

Neal shouldn't be in a box of ashes set into a cold grave in a cemetery plot in Brooklyn.

Satchmo lumbered over and rested his head on Peter's knee. He stroked the smooth fur, the floppy ears, and thought about that first morning when he came downstairs to find Neal on his couch, having coffee with El, petting his dog, like he had every right to be there.

If he'd known what the next four years would bring, the satisfaction and the anger, the joy and the soul-wrenching grief, would he have done anything differently? Would Neal still be alive if he hadn't listened to his gut and taken that deal? Maybe. Or maybe he would have been killed in prison - gotten caught up in something that he couldn't charm his way out of.

Peter wiped the tears away, like he had so many times in the past two months. There was no point in wishing that he'd made different choices.

His best friend was dead and nothing would ever change that.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Four Months Post Mortem – The Goddess of the Hunt

Pietro rarely took notice of other dogs, especially after Neal had taken him in for his little operation. The Saint (or as Neal sometimes thought of him, Saint Peter) was remarkably self-contained, nothing seemed to faze him. He looked at Neal like the sun rose and set in his eyes, but he managed Neal, too.

Neal didn't mind, since he often missed Peter's managing ways.

But today, Pietro took rather intent notice of a large gray dog tied up outside of his favorite wine shop. He didn't bark at her, but he sniffed her with great thoroughness. The other dog, which might have been a greyhound, was thin to the point of emaciation, and didn't seem to have the strength to object to Pietro's investigation. Her condition and the fact that he'd seen her tied up here for two days worried Neal.

At first, he figured that she belonged to one of the shop's frequent patrons, but this was the third time today that he'd passed by and she was still here. It was getting dark and the cold rain held the promise of impending winter – not the weather for anyone, let alone an underfed dog, to be outside.

He didn't bother tying Pietro up. The dog knew better than to run.

Even the command, "Stay", was pointless, since the Saint could be as immovable an object as the Eiffel Tower. And right now, Pietro was leaning against the greyhound and wouldn't move until he was damn well ready to.

Neal ducked into the wine shop and greeted the proprietor. "Robert, good evening."

"Ah, Monsieur Moreau, how are you this evening? And where is your companion?"

Neal smiled. Robert had taken quite a shine to Pietro, and Neal had a difficult time preventing the shopkeeper from giving the dog treats every time they visited.

"He's outside, keeping a lady company."

"Pardon?"

"The dog that's been tied up outside your shop. Pietro's taken an interest in her."

"Ahh, yes. That poor bitch." Robert shook his head. "I've fed her and given her a little water, but I don't know what to do with her."

"Do you know her owner?"

"No – that is the problem. Yesterday morning, when I arrived, she was there – all tangled in her leash. I got her straightened out, and have been keeping an eye on her, but no one has come to take her home. Last night, I thought about bringing her home with me, but I didn't. I left her some food and a fresh bowl of water and I hoped she'd be gone when I came in this morning."

"So, you don't know who left her?"

"No, and I'm afraid that no one will come to get her and I'll need to call the police. They'll probably send someone to pick her up and take her away. And you know what happens then."

Neal did. It was a sad and terrible fact that few animals in shelters were adopted – especially grown ones. He turned to look at Pietro and the greyhound – his Saint was doing just what the breed was meant to do, provide body heat to the cold and injured traveler. In that moment, Neal made up his mind. "I'm taking her home with me."

Robert smiled. "You are a very good man, Monsieur Moreau." He reached into the cabinet behind the counter and pulled out a bottle of wine. "Such goodness should be rewarded."

Neal eyebrows went up when he read the label – it was a Bordeaux, not from '82, but a fine bottle nonetheless. "Robert, please – this is too much."

"No, I insist. Drink it with someone special."

Neal nodded his head in gracious acceptance. "Thank you, my friend."

Robert bagged the wine and Neal added it to the small tote bag he used for the day's groceries. He didn't have anyone special to share the wine with – at least not yet, and maybe not for a very long while. That thought didn't disturb him so much. He was alone, but not lonely. He had Saint Peter, after all.

Outside, Neal struggled to untie the poor dog's leash, the rain pouring down the back of his collar. His teeth were chattering by the time he got her free and his heart was breaking when she took two steps and collapsed. Pietro nosed at her and the greyhound whimpered.

Neal handed the tote bag to Pietro to carry and picked the dog up. It wasn't far to his apartment and she wasn't that heavy, but with her long legs, she was awkward.

Fifteen minutes later and soaked to the skin, Neal put the dog down to unlock the door to his apartment. She shook herself and once again, collapsed.

Neal carried her into his apartment and set her down on Pietro's bed. "You don't mind, boy? Do you?"

Pietro let go of the grocery bag and woofed at him, clearly stating his approval of Neal's actions.

Without bothering to get out of his wet clothes, Neal examined the dog and was surprised to find, when he took off her leash and collar, there was a name plate on it. Artemis .

"Artemis? Is that your name?"

The greyhound let out a pitiful bark of recognition.

"What happened to you?"

Of course the dog didn't answer.

Neal fetched a large towel and began to dry her off, taking note of the sagging in her belly and the signs the she'd nursed some puppies not too long ago. There was also a long, lateral scar on her belly – it looked recently healed and thankfully, there were no signs of infection.

"All right – let's get you some food and water, okay?"

Unlike his first night with Pietro, Neal had the appropriate food for Artemis. He wanted to fill a bowl to the brim, but he knew that if she was starving, she'd gorge and make herself sick. So he set out a small portion of food and a half filled bowl of water and watched. She ate with grace and speed, and drank until the bowl was dry. He refilled it and again, Artemis drank until she was licking the last drops out.

Neal debated giving her more, but worried that she'd end up throwing everything up. Suddenly, he realized that he was cold and wet and he smelled like dirty dog.

As he passed Pietro, who'd shaken off the water that had beaded up on his heavy coat, he asked, "Keep an eye on her, please?"

Neal took a quick hot shower, changed into a pair of paint-stained khakis and an equally stained sweatshirt and went back to check on the dogs. Artemis was still curled up in Pietro's bed, her long legs spilling out. Pietro, for his part, had his chin resting on the edge, guarding the other dog as she slept.

"You hungry, boy?"

The Saint twitched an ear, and Neal translated that as "yes", since he'd never turned down a meal yet.

After feeding Pietro, Neal called the vet and left a message, asking for an emergency appointment tomorrow. Even if the only thing wrong with Artemis was dehydration and malnourishment, she still needed to be checked out. If Neal was lucky, she might even have a microchip. Not that he wanted to give her back – at least not to the people who had so cruelly abandoned her. She might have been stolen and there could be people looking for her.

He put the bottle of wine in the rack, the meat and cheese in the fridge and flopped down on the couch with a sadly crushed pain chocolate. He was too tired to fuss and if he didn't eat this, he probably wouldn't eat anything.

A wave of loneliness swamped him. The feeling that hadn't manifested this afternoon when Robert gave him the wine with the direction to share it with someone special hit him full force. It wasn't the longing for a companion – that he could have any time. No, what he missed were the friends he'd left behind, the ones who wept over his body, the ones who spoke so movingly at his funeral and planted flowers at his grave.

He missed Peter – the human Peter. The one who protected him and refused to let him fall. The friend who sacrificed everything for him.

He missed Elizabeth and her no-nonsense approach to life. Her warm acceptance of his presence and her deep love for her husband.

He missed Mozzie. The crazy schemes and the desperate need for love. The odd quotations and the profound wisdom. Mozzie never judged, he was just there – when he could be. Neal thought about sending the message – the one that would bring his oldest friend to his side. He could trust that Moz would keep quiet, but he couldn't trust himself.

There was too much at risk. Woodford was still waiting for trial and his lawyers were challenging every aspect of the government's case. Until he knew for certain that the Panthers were going to stay locked up for a very long time, it was still too risky.

Six months, maybe a little longer, and this would all be done.

Like a child, Neal wiped his greasy fingers on his pants and let out a shuddering sigh. It wasn't supposed to be this hard.

The unfamiliar sound of toenails on the hardwood distracted Neal from his self-indulgent fugue. Artemis was sitting in front of him, her dark liquid eyes staring at him. He reached out and scratched her floppy ears, and in exchange for his caress, she licked his wrist.

Pietro was standing behind her, clearly approving of this overture of friendship.

At that moment, something occurred to Neal and he laughed in pure joy. Artemis was the Greek goddess of the hunt. The Romans called her Diana.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Four months after Neal's death

Peter looked up when someone knocked. It was Diana. "Hey, Peter – I have some updates on the Mortensen fraud case." She held out the folder.

He took it and carefully placed it on his desk. Other than the Panthers, this was the last of the cases that he and Neal had worked on. Once they wrapped this up, it would be like a final door closing.

"You're not going to read it?"

Peter shrugged. "I'll get to it."

"You doing okay?" Diana shut the door and sat down. "No, scratch that. You're not doing okay."

Peter shrugged again, unable to summon any energy to muster any pretense. "I'll be all right, I guess."

Diana offered, her voice filled with empathy, "I can promise you it does get better. It just takes time."

Peter looked at her, not quite sure where this advice was coming from.

"Charlie, my bodyguard. I was sixteen when he took a bullet meant for me. I watched him bleed out."

"Right. I knew that." Peter fiddled with his pen, unable to meet Diana's eyes. "It all feels wrong. Like I'd missed something – some clue about what Neal was planning. I should have never left him alone with Keller."

"It's not your fault, Peter. Whatever Neal was doing, it was his choice. You worked with him for almost four years; you know that you couldn't stop him when he was intent on something. That was the nature of your relationship."

"I know – but he was so close to having his freedom. Why did he take that risk?"

Diana shook her head. "I don't know. Keller's dead. And unless you can track down Mozzie, you'll never know."

"And somehow, even if I could find Mozzie, I don't think he'd tell me – even if he knew."

"I never thought I'd say it, but I miss the little guy."

Peter smiled, but the expression felt wrong. "Yeah, I do, too."

GO TO PART TWO