Fic: The End and the Beginning (1/9)
Title: The End and the Beginning (1/9)
Author: reve_silencieux
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Neal, Peter, Sara, Mozzie, Jones, Elizabeth, OFC (N/S)
Spoilers: Season Five
Warnings: Spoilery (highlight to read) Permanent Injury - Paralysis
Word Count: 49,000 (This chapter: 5324)
Beta: sapphire2309
Summary: Five years after the events of The Last Con, Peter and Jones stumble across a case that opens up old wounds.
Author's Note: Sorry for the delay, but real life has made getting this fic ready to post a little hard. My beta and I are still working on the later chapters, but the fic is complete. I'm posting now because otherwise I would probably drag my heels 'til the new year and this will help spur us on to finish. Posting will be once a week.
A03
Chapter One
Five Years Later
Clinton Jones smiled as he watched a harried teacher herd a large group of students into the museum. He remembered being that age and dragging his feet when they took them on field trips. He liked getting out of school for the day, but he’d never been one for art. The science museum had been more up his alley.
He couldn’t blame the kids for their grumbling, especially seeing them all bundled up because of the cold. It had snowed the day before, and it was a mess outside. He’d been lucky that his flight had made it in, despite several delays, and that he and Agent Thompson had made it to the hotel in one piece, even though the roads had been bad. The plows had done their job overnight though, so their drive to the Denver Art Museum that morning had been easier.
Clinton caught the eye of the teacher as she passed by him, the kids trailing behind her listlessly and gave her a smile as he waited to speak with the curator.
They could have let the Denver Field Office handle the case, but seeing as the suspected forgery had just arrived from New York City’s Metropolitan Museum of Art, the White Collar unit had taken point. This was the fourth forgery discovered of late in New York and the surrounding areas.
“Agent Jones?”
He turned around and spotted two women walking towards him, one in her late thirties and the other in her fifties, her hair already silver and pulled back in an elegant twist. They stopped in front of him and gave him warm, if hesitant, smiles.
“Special Agent Clinton Jones,” he said, and showed them his badge.
“I’m Julia Collins, Chief Curator here at the museum, and this is Amanda Nichols, curator for the Painting and Sculpture department.”
He nodded and shook their hands. “Thank you for meeting me.”
“Oh, we’re happy to help. I’m still in shock, though,” Julia replied. “We’ve never had something like this happen before.”
“I’ve spoken briefly with your head of security, but I was hoping you could walk me through the movement of the art once it arrived,” he said, pulling out his notepad from his coat pocket.
“Of course, but even though I have no idea how this could have happened, I’m almost positive we must have received the forgery. I doubt it could have been stolen in such a short time frame.”
Jones smiled. He’d already come to the same conclusion, given the number of forgeries that had popped up lately. “It’s likely, but we have to entertain all possibilities. Now, who was aware of the painting’s loan and shipment?”
Amanda spoke up. “Aside from Julia, the entire staff of the European Art department knew about it. The Met sent us several paintings for an Impressionist exhibition that opens next month. We’ve been preparing for their arrival for months. The exhibition’s been advertised for almost two months now.”
Jotting down in his notepad, Jones nodded. “Who handled the actual shipment?”
“Our security department is always present when we receive a shipment. The shipment is carefully inventoried against the shipping manifest. No more than a few people handle the art itself,” Julia explained.
“I oversaw the delivery, and I noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Everything was packaged securely and I wouldn’t even have suspected anything was wrong,” Amanda continued.
He raised an eyebrow at this. “But you looked at the paintings, correct?”
“Yes, of course, but only for the sake of visual confirmation. They were stored away, and I didn’t start working with them until the next day.”
“And then an intern discovered the forgery, correct? A John Cameron,” he read from the notes that he had taken earlier while speaking to the Head of Security. “Did you find that unusual? I mean, he’s a college student.”
“Yes, and normally I would be surprised, but he’s probably one of our best interns. In fact, we extended his internship from one semester to two. Everybody loves him-he’s worked with several departments. Quite frankly, of all the people here, he’s probably the only one who could spot a forgery.”
Jones looked up from his notes surprised. “Really? Why is that?”
“Because he’s worked a lot with Impressionism and we have a very small collection of Impressionist art. Most of us have studied and worked all over the country, but not many can top his background and experience,” Amanda explained.
“But he's a college student,” Jones repeated, feeling confused.
Julia sighed. “Agent Jones, you have to understand, our interns comes from varied backgrounds. Yes, most of them are young college students, but many are artists themselves, and have studied abroad. Mr. Cameron used to live and work in France. He’s worked with several museums there for over a decade.”
“He's very good. We actually offered him a job, but he’s hoping to teach once he graduates this spring,” Amanda added.
Jones rested a hand on his hip, glancing between the two women. “So you're telling me that a guy who used to work in France, possibly one of the best places to work in the field of art, decided to come back to the States and go to college?” That sounded fishy to him.
Julia and Amanda shared a look. Clearing her throat, Julia gave him a tight smile. “Agent Jones, did you always want to be an FBI agent?”
Jones shifted and crossed his arms. “I was in the Navy first.”
She nodded. “Exactly. Many people change careers. It’s not easy to find work as an artist. More often than not, they turn to teaching for stability.”
“So he needed money?” That didn't make him any less suspicious.
Amanda shrugged. “They're called starving artists for a reason, Agent.”
“Right.” Jones made a note to check out his financials. “Do you think he or anyone else here would have a reason to steal the painting? Any financial problems?”
Amanda shook her head. “Not that I can think of, but why do I feel like you suspect him? He is the one who pointed out that it was a forgery.”
“News of a theft increases the value. It also allows a thief to prove to a buyer that it’s real,” Jones explained.
“I just don't see him doing it, Agent Jones. And I don't think he had the opportunity, did he?” Julia glanced at Amanda, who shook her head.
“No, the painting arrived on a Monday, and he only works Tuesdays and Thursdays. He only came by to see it while I had it out for inventory. Aside from two other people working on the exhibition, no one else has access, either.”
That made his job easier, even though he still suspected it had been stolen in New York. He smiled and nodded at the women. “Thank you for your help. I'll need to talk to everyone who did have access, though.”
“Of course, but like I said, Neal only works Tuesdays and Thursdays. You'll have to wait until tomorrow to talk with him,” Amanda replied.
Jones froze. He hadn't heard that name in years. The coincidence was too startling to ignore. “Neal?”
Amanda blinked. It took her a second to understand his confusion. “Oh, sorry. John. He goes by his middle name, Neal.”
A chill ran down his back. Jones didn't know whether to hope it was just a coincidence or not. Neal was dead, had been for over five years now. He couldn’t be the only ‘Neal’ in the art world.
“I'd like to see his employee records, and for everyone else too,” he managed to get out, his heart beating fast.
Julia nodded, unaware of the tension they had unknowingly created. “I can get those for you. In the meantime, Amanda can introduce you to the rest of the staff.”
Jones smiled, feeling a little numb, and tried to shake himself out of it. This was just another case, another witness to interview.
An hour later, after speaking to the other employees, he met Julia and picked up the files. Thanking her and taking them back to the small conference room he'd been set up with, he finally opened the file on John Cameron. The other employees had talked highly of him, and agreed with Julia and Amanda's assessment that he had no reason to steal it.
Unfortunately, as the smiling face of Neal Caffrey stared back at him, he had to wonder who was fooling whom.
Jones pulled out his cell phone. His thumb hovered over the button to call Peter. This would wreck his boss. But he had to tell him.
Tapping the screen, he waited as the call went through.
“Peter? It's Jones. I need you to fly out tonight. There's been a development. I'll explain when you get here.”
Hanging up, he stared at Neal's photo. He didn't look any different, maybe just a little older. He still had the charming smile and bright blue eyes that could make any woman fall at his feet. It was just hard to believe the man had faked his own death, had allowed Peter and everyone else to mourn him. There had been no reason to doubt it, his body had been identified, police reports filed on the car accident.
And what about Sara? Had she really died? Was Neal so broken that he had to start over?
He skimmed the file on Neal, but found nothing to answer any of his questions. On paper, he was a regular college intern. 3.9 GPA. Glowing recommendations. Jones knew he had to dig deeper, but he was afraid to raise any flags. Part of him felt he owed that to Neal. He had to have a reason for hiding, and this time, he knew he should follow his wishes.
But that didn't mean Jones wasn't going to track him down. No, he had questions, and Peter would want to see him. He would just have to be careful.
*~*~*~*
Peter got off the tram at Denver International Airport carrying his laptop bag and pulling his carry-on behind him. He walked towards the baggage claim, where Jones would be waiting for him. His curiosity was piqued because of Jones' vague phone call, but he didn't doubt the agent, and had booked a flight out that evening. As ASAC, he had the purview to work on any case. All he had to do was get his assistant to reschedule a few meetings. It had to be something big for Jones to call him out.
Scanning the crowd of people, he spotted Jones by the windows and walked over to him.
“Hey Jones, I hope you're not trying to get a vacation out of this trip.”
The younger agent shook his head and smiled grimly. “I wish that were the case. We've had an unexpected development that I know you'll want to see.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “This must be pretty important. What happened?”
Jones hesitated, then nodded towards the parking garage. “I'll explain in the car.”
Nodding, Peter followed him out and they walked to Jones' rental in silence. Once he'd thrown his stuff into the backseat, he looked over at Jones expectantly. “What's up?”
Turning in his seat, Jones pulled out the case folder from his briefcase in the backseat. Handing it over, he took a deep breath. “The forgery was discovered by an intern.”
Peter opened the folder, pausing to look up at the other agent. “An intern? Guess he's going to get an A.” He skimmed the first couple of pages with the regular case notes then flipped until he saw the employee files.
His heart plummeted and he blinked, trying to clear his eyes as he stared at the face smiling back at him.
“Neal?”
Jones nodded.
“I...I don't get it. How can this be?” Peter's stomach clenched, and expected to feel the familiar heartbreak that overcame him whenever he thought about his friend. But now he was just confused. A long time ago it wouldn't have surprised him that Neal had faked his death-he'd done it before. Peter had no reason to even think that he would do it again. Not after his anklet was off.
“I can't answer that, Peter. But he's here, and has been for the past five years. I don't think he's the one that stole the painting, but I figured you'd want to talk to him.”
Peter nearly growled as the anger started to set in. “You bet your ass I want to talk to him. Where is he?”
Jones held up a hand. “Whoa, come on Peter, I know you're upset, but don't you think it's a little late? It's eleven. We can talk to him tomorrow at the museum.”
“My best friend faked his death and made me grieve for him, so no, I won't wait until morning. He can lose a little of his beauty sleep.”
Jones' eyes widened and settled back in his seat, pulling his seat belt across. “Okay, then.” Starting the car, he entered Neal's address in the GPS unit then backed out.
As they drove out of the airport, Peter started skimming Neal's file. “What did you find on him?”
Glancing over, Jones frowned. “I didn't want to dig too deep, just in case there’s a good reason for everything, but I ran his name like I did everyone else’s, and he's clean. He's going by the name John Neal Cameron.”
Peter stared at the photo of his friend, feeling unsettled. “He's still using Neal. That's a first.”
“I know. And Boulder, Colorado isn’t exactly a tropical island. A lot of it is surprising,” he replied and slowed down at the toll booth. Once they passed, he continued. “A Colorado driver’s license was issued to him in May, almost five years ago. His last known address is listed in Paris. According to the curator, he worked there for several years. At least, that's the story he gave them.”
Peter closed the file and looked out into the night. None of it made sense. Why did Neal run here? To go to college? “And he's just been here, going to school?” he asked.
Jones nodded. “Yep. He enrolled at the University of Colorado Boulder that fall in an accelerated Bachelors and Master’s program in Art History. He's set to graduate this spring. The curator said he wants to teach.”
“Well, he does like to show off his knowledge,” Peter conceded, rolling his eyes. He'd had the entire class eating out of his hand that one time. He could only imagine what he'd be like teaching art history to a lecture hall full of young college kids. The girls would be falling all over him. Neal would be the most popular professor on campus, if Peter had to guess.
“That's definitely true,” Jones agreed, chuckling. “What I don't get is why he had to run away to do it.”
It was the million dollar question. Neal finally had a good life, had settled down with Sara... Peter's eyes widened in alarm and he sat up straight, looking over at Jones.
“What about Sara?”
Jones nodded towards the file. “I found her listed as his emergency contact. They're married.”
Peter let out a breath. She was alive too. He was happy to hear that. If Neal had lost Sara too...
He wouldn't have been surprised at the fact that Neal had run if Sara had died. Neal had lost way too many people those last few years. Starting over fresh, where his past couldn't haunt him, would have been very tempting to him.
“They got married a year after moving to Colorado. She's a lawyer at a firm in Denver. I looked at their website and she's listed as working in Art & Culture and Intellectual Property law.”
Tapping his fingers on the middle console, Peter nodded absently. Even Sara had started over. He vaguely remembered that she had a law degree, but had never given it a second thought. Apparently she had found a new avenue to work art crimes. “Did you check their financials?”
“I did, and nothing stood out. They have credit card bills, car payments, even a mortgage. I don’t think he ran away to start his criminal career again, not while going to school,” Jones pointed out.
Peter sighed and shook his head. “No, you’re right. I don’t think he did.” He paused then glanced at Jones. “How are they paying for his tuition?”
“Well, that’s the only weird thing I could find. The only record I see of them paying the school is the current year. So I called the school, but without a warrant they couldn’t give me his records. All the lady could tell me is that he had no outstanding payments.”
“So someone else paid for it,” Peter thought out loud.
Jones shrugged. “Maybe. I figured it was a loan or something.”
“Or a fake scholarship,” he muttered and slapped the console. Neal just couldn’t get away from it, could he? He wanted to start over, but he’d either had to use his old resources to pay for it or else he’d rigged the scholarship somehow.
“Hey, Peter, we don’t know that,” Jones said, glancing over and looking worried. “Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
Peter laughed bitterly. “It’s Neal. I can’t help it.” He sighed. “I just can’t help it,” he repeated softly, looking out the window at the passing landscape. It was dark, darker than he’d seen in a long time, not since he’d been home to upstate New York, away from all the city lights.
He turned back. “Why would they only pay this year though?”
“Well, if it is a scholarship or a loan, they’re usually only for four years.”
Nodding, Peter understood. “But he’s in a five year program.”
And he had to give Neal credit for that. He was getting a degree, going straight. He had a wife, a house, was going after a good job… everything he’d always wanted. Everything he saw in Peter’s relationship with Elizabeth.
The rest of their drive was spent in silence, with only more questions circling through Peter’s head. Jones pulled off the highway forty minutes later and followed the GPS to a quiet neighborhood. It was a world of difference from the townhomes in Brooklyn. It had homes separated by several feet, well-manicured lawns and driveways. Greenbelts with walking trails and low wooden fences sprawled through the subdivision.
Jones whistled as he caught sight of the homes. They weren’t mansions, but they weren’t the small track homes that dotted most of America’s suburbs. “Wow, these are pretty nice. I guess that’s what you get when you leave the city.”
When they slowed down near Neal’s house, Peter couldn’t help but shake his head. “Three car garage? I don’t even have one. Are we sure he didn’t steal the painting?”
Jones chuckled. “Peter, you live in New York. No one has a garage. That’s the price you have to pay to live in commuting distance.” He pulled into the driveway and cut off the headlights quickly. “It is hard though, to picture Neal here-living in the suburbs, going to school, having a mortgage. He was always so slick, so metropolitan. I never imagined him settling down, not really.”
“I did,” Peter murmured as he looked at the house where Neal’s dreams had come true. He’d always wanted this for Neal. Knew he could have it if he just worked for it, if he set his mind to it, and ignored temptation (and Mozzie).
“Well, I guess it’s time to get some answers.” Jones opened his door. “This is going to be interesting.”
“No kidding,” Peter muttered under his breath. As much as he wanted to hug his friend, he knew the questions would come spilling out, along with the anger and resentment that had been building for the past hour. It had taken him months to move on from Neal’s death. Every Christmas was a reminder that he was gone, and just two months ago Peter had visited his grave, amazed that five years had already passed.
Five years that Neal had been living a quiet life in Colorado. He couldn’t deny that Neal deserved it, but it wasn’t fair that he’d had to lie and they’d had to mourn his death in order for him to get it.
He got out and followed Jones up the sidewalk to the front door. There was a light on high up in the porch, but the house was dark. His hand froze over the doorbell, and for a second he felt bad about waking them up, but then remembered how many times Neal had come over unannounced at all times of day and night. No, he felt no remorse for this. He wanted answers.
Quickly he pressed the button.
It took a couple minutes before a light came on in the entryway. Peter shared a look with Jones and took a deep breath. This was it.
They heard the deadbolt flip, then the door opened slowly before it was pushed wide open. Peter’s eyes dropped from the empty doorway down until he caught sight of Neal’s tousled head. His jaw went slack as he took in the ex-con, clad in a t-shirt and sweats, and sitting in a sleek black wheelchair, his feet haphazardly situated on the footrest.
Neal didn’t seem as surprised to see him. He seemed resigned to the fact that Peter and Jones were on his doorstep at midnight. He sighed. “Peter.” With one quick move, he backed away and spun around, leaving the door to swing shut behind him.
Peter’s arm shot out quickly to keep it from closing and glanced back at Jones. The younger agent appeared as stunned as Peter felt. They said nothing and followed Neal inside.
*~*~*~*
Five years earlier
Sara woke up to a dull throbbing throughout her body. It took several moments for her to realize that she was not in her own bed. The sounds of a hospital filled the air and the pain amplified as she slowly came to her senses. Wearily, she opened her eyes, and nearly closed them a second later, wanting to curl into a ball and fall back unconscious as everything screamed in pain. The bright lights made her head pound, and the smallest movement sent a sharp pain through her abdomen and up her left arm.
She shifted slightly and felt something holding her shoulders back, which only sent a new wave of pain through her chest.
“Hey there, don't move, Sara,” a soft voice commanded her.
She blinked and turned her head slightly. Reena stood up from a chair at her bedside and walked over.
“What...” she croaked and stopped, swallowing and wincing at the feel of her dry throat. “What happened?”
Reena picked up a water glass from her bedside table and held it out for her to sip from. The angle was awkward, but Sara greedily drank.
“You were in a car accident. Do you remember?”
Sara paused and tried to ignore the pounding in her head as she thought back.
They had gone to the market. A man was following them. The taxi.
Her eyes widened. “Neal!”
Reena softly touched her hand. “Shhh... he's here. Don't worry.” She pulled the chair up to the bed and sat down.
She shook her head then cried out as the pain shot through her shoulder. Clenching her jaw, she closed her eyes and breathed in and out for a few seconds. “How is he?”
“He's pretty banged up. You both were,” she replied, then asked again, “Do you remember anything?”
“We were being followed. Neal tried to lose them. We finally caught a cab and were headed to Scotland Yard,” Sara recounted, and Reena nodded.
“I figured as much. The driver had jotted that down in his book.” She paused. “He died on the scene.”
Sara closed her eyes. The man lost his life because of them.
“The car that hit you was stolen and dumped later, wiped down. We don't have any clear video of the driver, but we suspect one of Gregory's men.”
Neal had been right, all along. Gregory was not to be messed with. Most days it was hard to think of Neal as a criminal when there were men like Keller and Gregory out there. He never hurt anyone, but guys like them had no compunctions about killing someone if they got in their way.
“Sara, I need you to listen carefully.”
Opening her eyes, she looked at Reena worried.
Her friend's face was drawn tight, and there were heavy bags under her eyes. “I've done my best to protect you two. You're here under the names of Alec and Jessica Miller, and there are plainclothes officers on the floor. But we have to talk about what comes next.”
She gave her a slight nod, and Reena squeezed her hand softly. “First, I should let you know that you'll be out of here in a couple of days. You broke your collarbone and your arm in two places. They’ve scheduled surgery tomorrow to align the bones after the swelling has gone down.”
That explained the sling holding her shoulders back and the splint on her left arm, Sara realized somewhat belatedly. It was obvious she wasn’t thinking clearly, still disoriented and a little fuzzy.
“You also hit your head pretty hard. The doctors are pretty sure you have a concussion. They'll want to observe you for a while to make sure there aren't any complications from that. Your spleen ruptured and they had to repair that, but they were able to save most of it, so again, they're just going to monitor you to make sure there's no further bleeding or infection. Other than that, your whole left side is just one big bruise, I suspect, so you're probably going to be miserable for a few days.”
Sara was already feeling pretty miserable, but knew she had to be on some good drugs. She wasn't looking forward to when they wore off.
“You'll be put into protective custody when you leave, but Neal's going to be here for a while longer.”
Her head jerked, and she didn't care about the resulting pain. “What happened?” Sara exclaimed, and her heart hammered in her chest. She couldn't lose him now.
Reena took a deep breath and squeezed her hand again. “He's going to be fine, Sara, but the car hit his side of the taxi. His spinal cord was severed.”
“No...” she whispered in horror, tears spilling from her eyes. Not Neal, no, this couldn't be right.
“He was pretty lucky though, it's a low break. He'll have full use of his arms and upper body. They have him sedated right now as they wait for the swelling to go down. He'll have surgery later to stabilize the spinal cord,” Reena carefully explained, her eyes suspiciously wet as well.
Sara nodded numbly, the news still sinking in. She couldn't imagine Neal not dancing around, laughing, so carefree and happy. The memory of the two of them climbing the steps up the Arc de Triomphe, holding onto each other, gasping for breath when they reached the top, just weeks ago.
But at least he still had his hands. If he couldn't paint... couldn't touch her...
She closed her eyes and pushed that thought away. That didn't happen.
“I'm sorry, Sara.”
Taking a shuddering breath, Sara tried not to cry, but the tears kept coming. All because of a painting. A stupid painting.
“Sara, I know this is hard, but we have to discuss what happens now. You two aren't safe. At present, Gregory doesn't know you survived, but if he finds out...” she trailed off and looked at Sara apologetically.
“He'll come after us again,” Sara filled in, wiping tears from her eyes.
Reena nodded. “We can keep you in protective custody until the trial, but I'm not sure that will stop him. He has connections everywhere. Not only does he have his own people in Europe, and contacts around the world, but the criminal world knows Neal.”
“And they know he worked for the FBI, so they won't mind giving him up,” Sara said, the realization hitting her hard.
“Exactly. And Neal's not in a position to go anywhere. The doctors say he could be here for a few weeks, and then he'll have to go to rehab. After that, well… ” She paused, hesitating slightly. “He won't be able to slip into the crowds anymore.”
There was no winning, Sara thought. He couldn't run from his past even if he wanted to. For all the good he'd done, he'd never be able to move on, not without a target on his back. It wasn’t fair.
“So what are you thinking?” she asked, her voice shaking, looking to her friend for answers-for what amounted to a miracle.
“I think,” Reena replied slowly, “the only way for you to be safe is to for Gregory to believe you two died today.”
Understanding dawned in Sara’s eyes and she frowned. “You mean, go into hiding.”
“Witness Protection.” Reena smiled sadly and leaned back in her chair. “You can start new lives. No one will be looking for Neal.”
“But we’ll have to give everything up, everyone we know.”
She nodded. “I know it’s a lot to ask of you, Sara, and normally faking you death isn’t required, but-”
“…it’s the only way,” Sara interrupted her.
“Yes.”
Sara grabbed a fistful of the blanket with her good arm, clenching it tight, and looked out the window. She couldn’t believe that just this morning they had set out to go to the market like any other weekend. Their whole lives had changed in an instant. Neal would never walk again. They would never see Peter or Elizabeth, or even Mozzie ever again. Their friends would think them dead.
“Sara,” Reena called out softly. “I can’t force you. It’s Neal that’s at risk. If you don’t want to do it, just say the word. But we can’t guarantee your safety.”
“Because he might come after me, use me as bait if he suspects that Neal’s still alive.” Sara closed her eyes. It wasn’t a question of whether she’d go with Neal. She loved him, and she wasn’t leaving him to do this alone. He had more to lose than she did. She had no family and only a few friends. For so long, her job had been her life. Then she’d learned that she needed to find a life outside of it, and had found it in Neal.
She’d find a new job, but she couldn’t replace Neal.
Her life had just shattered into a million pieces, but she felt a fire light up inside her, determined to not let this get the better of her. Sara knew they would come out of this stronger than before. She wouldn't let Gregory win.
“I’ll do it,” she said quietly, opening her eyes to look up at Reena.
Sara would lose her too. She’d have to make new friends, and then lie to their faces. Her whole life would become one big lie. Would it get easier as time passed?
Her friend smiled knowingly. “I’m sorry I’m putting this on you. We’ll still ask Neal, of course, but I think it’ll be easier for him if he knows you’re okay with it.”
She was making the decision for him, wasn’t she? He’d let her go to London so she’d be happy, but this time, she had to think about him, and what he needed. He had a long road to recovery, and maybe this was a chance for him to have that life he’d always wanted. It wasn’t what they had planned, but life was always full of surprises.
She certainly had never planned on falling in love with Neal Caffrey.
Chapter Two
Author's Note: I want to thank Kanarek13 for the gorgeous cover art!
Author: reve_silencieux
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Neal, Peter, Sara, Mozzie, Jones, Elizabeth, OFC (N/S)
Spoilers: Season Five
Warnings: Spoilery (highlight to read) Permanent Injury - Paralysis
Word Count: 49,000 (This chapter: 5324)
Beta: sapphire2309
Summary: Five years after the events of The Last Con, Peter and Jones stumble across a case that opens up old wounds.
Author's Note: Sorry for the delay, but real life has made getting this fic ready to post a little hard. My beta and I are still working on the later chapters, but the fic is complete. I'm posting now because otherwise I would probably drag my heels 'til the new year and this will help spur us on to finish. Posting will be once a week.
A03
Chapter One
Five Years Later
Clinton Jones smiled as he watched a harried teacher herd a large group of students into the museum. He remembered being that age and dragging his feet when they took them on field trips. He liked getting out of school for the day, but he’d never been one for art. The science museum had been more up his alley.
He couldn’t blame the kids for their grumbling, especially seeing them all bundled up because of the cold. It had snowed the day before, and it was a mess outside. He’d been lucky that his flight had made it in, despite several delays, and that he and Agent Thompson had made it to the hotel in one piece, even though the roads had been bad. The plows had done their job overnight though, so their drive to the Denver Art Museum that morning had been easier.
Clinton caught the eye of the teacher as she passed by him, the kids trailing behind her listlessly and gave her a smile as he waited to speak with the curator.
They could have let the Denver Field Office handle the case, but seeing as the suspected forgery had just arrived from New York City’s Metropolitan Museum of Art, the White Collar unit had taken point. This was the fourth forgery discovered of late in New York and the surrounding areas.
“Agent Jones?”
He turned around and spotted two women walking towards him, one in her late thirties and the other in her fifties, her hair already silver and pulled back in an elegant twist. They stopped in front of him and gave him warm, if hesitant, smiles.
“Special Agent Clinton Jones,” he said, and showed them his badge.
“I’m Julia Collins, Chief Curator here at the museum, and this is Amanda Nichols, curator for the Painting and Sculpture department.”
He nodded and shook their hands. “Thank you for meeting me.”
“Oh, we’re happy to help. I’m still in shock, though,” Julia replied. “We’ve never had something like this happen before.”
“I’ve spoken briefly with your head of security, but I was hoping you could walk me through the movement of the art once it arrived,” he said, pulling out his notepad from his coat pocket.
“Of course, but even though I have no idea how this could have happened, I’m almost positive we must have received the forgery. I doubt it could have been stolen in such a short time frame.”
Jones smiled. He’d already come to the same conclusion, given the number of forgeries that had popped up lately. “It’s likely, but we have to entertain all possibilities. Now, who was aware of the painting’s loan and shipment?”
Amanda spoke up. “Aside from Julia, the entire staff of the European Art department knew about it. The Met sent us several paintings for an Impressionist exhibition that opens next month. We’ve been preparing for their arrival for months. The exhibition’s been advertised for almost two months now.”
Jotting down in his notepad, Jones nodded. “Who handled the actual shipment?”
“Our security department is always present when we receive a shipment. The shipment is carefully inventoried against the shipping manifest. No more than a few people handle the art itself,” Julia explained.
“I oversaw the delivery, and I noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Everything was packaged securely and I wouldn’t even have suspected anything was wrong,” Amanda continued.
He raised an eyebrow at this. “But you looked at the paintings, correct?”
“Yes, of course, but only for the sake of visual confirmation. They were stored away, and I didn’t start working with them until the next day.”
“And then an intern discovered the forgery, correct? A John Cameron,” he read from the notes that he had taken earlier while speaking to the Head of Security. “Did you find that unusual? I mean, he’s a college student.”
“Yes, and normally I would be surprised, but he’s probably one of our best interns. In fact, we extended his internship from one semester to two. Everybody loves him-he’s worked with several departments. Quite frankly, of all the people here, he’s probably the only one who could spot a forgery.”
Jones looked up from his notes surprised. “Really? Why is that?”
“Because he’s worked a lot with Impressionism and we have a very small collection of Impressionist art. Most of us have studied and worked all over the country, but not many can top his background and experience,” Amanda explained.
“But he's a college student,” Jones repeated, feeling confused.
Julia sighed. “Agent Jones, you have to understand, our interns comes from varied backgrounds. Yes, most of them are young college students, but many are artists themselves, and have studied abroad. Mr. Cameron used to live and work in France. He’s worked with several museums there for over a decade.”
“He's very good. We actually offered him a job, but he’s hoping to teach once he graduates this spring,” Amanda added.
Jones rested a hand on his hip, glancing between the two women. “So you're telling me that a guy who used to work in France, possibly one of the best places to work in the field of art, decided to come back to the States and go to college?” That sounded fishy to him.
Julia and Amanda shared a look. Clearing her throat, Julia gave him a tight smile. “Agent Jones, did you always want to be an FBI agent?”
Jones shifted and crossed his arms. “I was in the Navy first.”
She nodded. “Exactly. Many people change careers. It’s not easy to find work as an artist. More often than not, they turn to teaching for stability.”
“So he needed money?” That didn't make him any less suspicious.
Amanda shrugged. “They're called starving artists for a reason, Agent.”
“Right.” Jones made a note to check out his financials. “Do you think he or anyone else here would have a reason to steal the painting? Any financial problems?”
Amanda shook her head. “Not that I can think of, but why do I feel like you suspect him? He is the one who pointed out that it was a forgery.”
“News of a theft increases the value. It also allows a thief to prove to a buyer that it’s real,” Jones explained.
“I just don't see him doing it, Agent Jones. And I don't think he had the opportunity, did he?” Julia glanced at Amanda, who shook her head.
“No, the painting arrived on a Monday, and he only works Tuesdays and Thursdays. He only came by to see it while I had it out for inventory. Aside from two other people working on the exhibition, no one else has access, either.”
That made his job easier, even though he still suspected it had been stolen in New York. He smiled and nodded at the women. “Thank you for your help. I'll need to talk to everyone who did have access, though.”
“Of course, but like I said, Neal only works Tuesdays and Thursdays. You'll have to wait until tomorrow to talk with him,” Amanda replied.
Jones froze. He hadn't heard that name in years. The coincidence was too startling to ignore. “Neal?”
Amanda blinked. It took her a second to understand his confusion. “Oh, sorry. John. He goes by his middle name, Neal.”
A chill ran down his back. Jones didn't know whether to hope it was just a coincidence or not. Neal was dead, had been for over five years now. He couldn’t be the only ‘Neal’ in the art world.
“I'd like to see his employee records, and for everyone else too,” he managed to get out, his heart beating fast.
Julia nodded, unaware of the tension they had unknowingly created. “I can get those for you. In the meantime, Amanda can introduce you to the rest of the staff.”
Jones smiled, feeling a little numb, and tried to shake himself out of it. This was just another case, another witness to interview.
An hour later, after speaking to the other employees, he met Julia and picked up the files. Thanking her and taking them back to the small conference room he'd been set up with, he finally opened the file on John Cameron. The other employees had talked highly of him, and agreed with Julia and Amanda's assessment that he had no reason to steal it.
Unfortunately, as the smiling face of Neal Caffrey stared back at him, he had to wonder who was fooling whom.
Jones pulled out his cell phone. His thumb hovered over the button to call Peter. This would wreck his boss. But he had to tell him.
Tapping the screen, he waited as the call went through.
“Peter? It's Jones. I need you to fly out tonight. There's been a development. I'll explain when you get here.”
Hanging up, he stared at Neal's photo. He didn't look any different, maybe just a little older. He still had the charming smile and bright blue eyes that could make any woman fall at his feet. It was just hard to believe the man had faked his own death, had allowed Peter and everyone else to mourn him. There had been no reason to doubt it, his body had been identified, police reports filed on the car accident.
And what about Sara? Had she really died? Was Neal so broken that he had to start over?
He skimmed the file on Neal, but found nothing to answer any of his questions. On paper, he was a regular college intern. 3.9 GPA. Glowing recommendations. Jones knew he had to dig deeper, but he was afraid to raise any flags. Part of him felt he owed that to Neal. He had to have a reason for hiding, and this time, he knew he should follow his wishes.
But that didn't mean Jones wasn't going to track him down. No, he had questions, and Peter would want to see him. He would just have to be careful.
*~*~*~*
Peter got off the tram at Denver International Airport carrying his laptop bag and pulling his carry-on behind him. He walked towards the baggage claim, where Jones would be waiting for him. His curiosity was piqued because of Jones' vague phone call, but he didn't doubt the agent, and had booked a flight out that evening. As ASAC, he had the purview to work on any case. All he had to do was get his assistant to reschedule a few meetings. It had to be something big for Jones to call him out.
Scanning the crowd of people, he spotted Jones by the windows and walked over to him.
“Hey Jones, I hope you're not trying to get a vacation out of this trip.”
The younger agent shook his head and smiled grimly. “I wish that were the case. We've had an unexpected development that I know you'll want to see.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “This must be pretty important. What happened?”
Jones hesitated, then nodded towards the parking garage. “I'll explain in the car.”
Nodding, Peter followed him out and they walked to Jones' rental in silence. Once he'd thrown his stuff into the backseat, he looked over at Jones expectantly. “What's up?”
Turning in his seat, Jones pulled out the case folder from his briefcase in the backseat. Handing it over, he took a deep breath. “The forgery was discovered by an intern.”
Peter opened the folder, pausing to look up at the other agent. “An intern? Guess he's going to get an A.” He skimmed the first couple of pages with the regular case notes then flipped until he saw the employee files.
His heart plummeted and he blinked, trying to clear his eyes as he stared at the face smiling back at him.
“Neal?”
Jones nodded.
“I...I don't get it. How can this be?” Peter's stomach clenched, and expected to feel the familiar heartbreak that overcame him whenever he thought about his friend. But now he was just confused. A long time ago it wouldn't have surprised him that Neal had faked his death-he'd done it before. Peter had no reason to even think that he would do it again. Not after his anklet was off.
“I can't answer that, Peter. But he's here, and has been for the past five years. I don't think he's the one that stole the painting, but I figured you'd want to talk to him.”
Peter nearly growled as the anger started to set in. “You bet your ass I want to talk to him. Where is he?”
Jones held up a hand. “Whoa, come on Peter, I know you're upset, but don't you think it's a little late? It's eleven. We can talk to him tomorrow at the museum.”
“My best friend faked his death and made me grieve for him, so no, I won't wait until morning. He can lose a little of his beauty sleep.”
Jones' eyes widened and settled back in his seat, pulling his seat belt across. “Okay, then.” Starting the car, he entered Neal's address in the GPS unit then backed out.
As they drove out of the airport, Peter started skimming Neal's file. “What did you find on him?”
Glancing over, Jones frowned. “I didn't want to dig too deep, just in case there’s a good reason for everything, but I ran his name like I did everyone else’s, and he's clean. He's going by the name John Neal Cameron.”
Peter stared at the photo of his friend, feeling unsettled. “He's still using Neal. That's a first.”
“I know. And Boulder, Colorado isn’t exactly a tropical island. A lot of it is surprising,” he replied and slowed down at the toll booth. Once they passed, he continued. “A Colorado driver’s license was issued to him in May, almost five years ago. His last known address is listed in Paris. According to the curator, he worked there for several years. At least, that's the story he gave them.”
Peter closed the file and looked out into the night. None of it made sense. Why did Neal run here? To go to college? “And he's just been here, going to school?” he asked.
Jones nodded. “Yep. He enrolled at the University of Colorado Boulder that fall in an accelerated Bachelors and Master’s program in Art History. He's set to graduate this spring. The curator said he wants to teach.”
“Well, he does like to show off his knowledge,” Peter conceded, rolling his eyes. He'd had the entire class eating out of his hand that one time. He could only imagine what he'd be like teaching art history to a lecture hall full of young college kids. The girls would be falling all over him. Neal would be the most popular professor on campus, if Peter had to guess.
“That's definitely true,” Jones agreed, chuckling. “What I don't get is why he had to run away to do it.”
It was the million dollar question. Neal finally had a good life, had settled down with Sara... Peter's eyes widened in alarm and he sat up straight, looking over at Jones.
“What about Sara?”
Jones nodded towards the file. “I found her listed as his emergency contact. They're married.”
Peter let out a breath. She was alive too. He was happy to hear that. If Neal had lost Sara too...
He wouldn't have been surprised at the fact that Neal had run if Sara had died. Neal had lost way too many people those last few years. Starting over fresh, where his past couldn't haunt him, would have been very tempting to him.
“They got married a year after moving to Colorado. She's a lawyer at a firm in Denver. I looked at their website and she's listed as working in Art & Culture and Intellectual Property law.”
Tapping his fingers on the middle console, Peter nodded absently. Even Sara had started over. He vaguely remembered that she had a law degree, but had never given it a second thought. Apparently she had found a new avenue to work art crimes. “Did you check their financials?”
“I did, and nothing stood out. They have credit card bills, car payments, even a mortgage. I don’t think he ran away to start his criminal career again, not while going to school,” Jones pointed out.
Peter sighed and shook his head. “No, you’re right. I don’t think he did.” He paused then glanced at Jones. “How are they paying for his tuition?”
“Well, that’s the only weird thing I could find. The only record I see of them paying the school is the current year. So I called the school, but without a warrant they couldn’t give me his records. All the lady could tell me is that he had no outstanding payments.”
“So someone else paid for it,” Peter thought out loud.
Jones shrugged. “Maybe. I figured it was a loan or something.”
“Or a fake scholarship,” he muttered and slapped the console. Neal just couldn’t get away from it, could he? He wanted to start over, but he’d either had to use his old resources to pay for it or else he’d rigged the scholarship somehow.
“Hey, Peter, we don’t know that,” Jones said, glancing over and looking worried. “Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
Peter laughed bitterly. “It’s Neal. I can’t help it.” He sighed. “I just can’t help it,” he repeated softly, looking out the window at the passing landscape. It was dark, darker than he’d seen in a long time, not since he’d been home to upstate New York, away from all the city lights.
He turned back. “Why would they only pay this year though?”
“Well, if it is a scholarship or a loan, they’re usually only for four years.”
Nodding, Peter understood. “But he’s in a five year program.”
And he had to give Neal credit for that. He was getting a degree, going straight. He had a wife, a house, was going after a good job… everything he’d always wanted. Everything he saw in Peter’s relationship with Elizabeth.
The rest of their drive was spent in silence, with only more questions circling through Peter’s head. Jones pulled off the highway forty minutes later and followed the GPS to a quiet neighborhood. It was a world of difference from the townhomes in Brooklyn. It had homes separated by several feet, well-manicured lawns and driveways. Greenbelts with walking trails and low wooden fences sprawled through the subdivision.
Jones whistled as he caught sight of the homes. They weren’t mansions, but they weren’t the small track homes that dotted most of America’s suburbs. “Wow, these are pretty nice. I guess that’s what you get when you leave the city.”
When they slowed down near Neal’s house, Peter couldn’t help but shake his head. “Three car garage? I don’t even have one. Are we sure he didn’t steal the painting?”
Jones chuckled. “Peter, you live in New York. No one has a garage. That’s the price you have to pay to live in commuting distance.” He pulled into the driveway and cut off the headlights quickly. “It is hard though, to picture Neal here-living in the suburbs, going to school, having a mortgage. He was always so slick, so metropolitan. I never imagined him settling down, not really.”
“I did,” Peter murmured as he looked at the house where Neal’s dreams had come true. He’d always wanted this for Neal. Knew he could have it if he just worked for it, if he set his mind to it, and ignored temptation (and Mozzie).
“Well, I guess it’s time to get some answers.” Jones opened his door. “This is going to be interesting.”
“No kidding,” Peter muttered under his breath. As much as he wanted to hug his friend, he knew the questions would come spilling out, along with the anger and resentment that had been building for the past hour. It had taken him months to move on from Neal’s death. Every Christmas was a reminder that he was gone, and just two months ago Peter had visited his grave, amazed that five years had already passed.
Five years that Neal had been living a quiet life in Colorado. He couldn’t deny that Neal deserved it, but it wasn’t fair that he’d had to lie and they’d had to mourn his death in order for him to get it.
He got out and followed Jones up the sidewalk to the front door. There was a light on high up in the porch, but the house was dark. His hand froze over the doorbell, and for a second he felt bad about waking them up, but then remembered how many times Neal had come over unannounced at all times of day and night. No, he felt no remorse for this. He wanted answers.
Quickly he pressed the button.
It took a couple minutes before a light came on in the entryway. Peter shared a look with Jones and took a deep breath. This was it.
They heard the deadbolt flip, then the door opened slowly before it was pushed wide open. Peter’s eyes dropped from the empty doorway down until he caught sight of Neal’s tousled head. His jaw went slack as he took in the ex-con, clad in a t-shirt and sweats, and sitting in a sleek black wheelchair, his feet haphazardly situated on the footrest.
Neal didn’t seem as surprised to see him. He seemed resigned to the fact that Peter and Jones were on his doorstep at midnight. He sighed. “Peter.” With one quick move, he backed away and spun around, leaving the door to swing shut behind him.
Peter’s arm shot out quickly to keep it from closing and glanced back at Jones. The younger agent appeared as stunned as Peter felt. They said nothing and followed Neal inside.
*~*~*~*
Five years earlier
Sara woke up to a dull throbbing throughout her body. It took several moments for her to realize that she was not in her own bed. The sounds of a hospital filled the air and the pain amplified as she slowly came to her senses. Wearily, she opened her eyes, and nearly closed them a second later, wanting to curl into a ball and fall back unconscious as everything screamed in pain. The bright lights made her head pound, and the smallest movement sent a sharp pain through her abdomen and up her left arm.
She shifted slightly and felt something holding her shoulders back, which only sent a new wave of pain through her chest.
“Hey there, don't move, Sara,” a soft voice commanded her.
She blinked and turned her head slightly. Reena stood up from a chair at her bedside and walked over.
“What...” she croaked and stopped, swallowing and wincing at the feel of her dry throat. “What happened?”
Reena picked up a water glass from her bedside table and held it out for her to sip from. The angle was awkward, but Sara greedily drank.
“You were in a car accident. Do you remember?”
Sara paused and tried to ignore the pounding in her head as she thought back.
They had gone to the market. A man was following them. The taxi.
Her eyes widened. “Neal!”
Reena softly touched her hand. “Shhh... he's here. Don't worry.” She pulled the chair up to the bed and sat down.
She shook her head then cried out as the pain shot through her shoulder. Clenching her jaw, she closed her eyes and breathed in and out for a few seconds. “How is he?”
“He's pretty banged up. You both were,” she replied, then asked again, “Do you remember anything?”
“We were being followed. Neal tried to lose them. We finally caught a cab and were headed to Scotland Yard,” Sara recounted, and Reena nodded.
“I figured as much. The driver had jotted that down in his book.” She paused. “He died on the scene.”
Sara closed her eyes. The man lost his life because of them.
“The car that hit you was stolen and dumped later, wiped down. We don't have any clear video of the driver, but we suspect one of Gregory's men.”
Neal had been right, all along. Gregory was not to be messed with. Most days it was hard to think of Neal as a criminal when there were men like Keller and Gregory out there. He never hurt anyone, but guys like them had no compunctions about killing someone if they got in their way.
“Sara, I need you to listen carefully.”
Opening her eyes, she looked at Reena worried.
Her friend's face was drawn tight, and there were heavy bags under her eyes. “I've done my best to protect you two. You're here under the names of Alec and Jessica Miller, and there are plainclothes officers on the floor. But we have to talk about what comes next.”
She gave her a slight nod, and Reena squeezed her hand softly. “First, I should let you know that you'll be out of here in a couple of days. You broke your collarbone and your arm in two places. They’ve scheduled surgery tomorrow to align the bones after the swelling has gone down.”
That explained the sling holding her shoulders back and the splint on her left arm, Sara realized somewhat belatedly. It was obvious she wasn’t thinking clearly, still disoriented and a little fuzzy.
“You also hit your head pretty hard. The doctors are pretty sure you have a concussion. They'll want to observe you for a while to make sure there aren't any complications from that. Your spleen ruptured and they had to repair that, but they were able to save most of it, so again, they're just going to monitor you to make sure there's no further bleeding or infection. Other than that, your whole left side is just one big bruise, I suspect, so you're probably going to be miserable for a few days.”
Sara was already feeling pretty miserable, but knew she had to be on some good drugs. She wasn't looking forward to when they wore off.
“You'll be put into protective custody when you leave, but Neal's going to be here for a while longer.”
Her head jerked, and she didn't care about the resulting pain. “What happened?” Sara exclaimed, and her heart hammered in her chest. She couldn't lose him now.
Reena took a deep breath and squeezed her hand again. “He's going to be fine, Sara, but the car hit his side of the taxi. His spinal cord was severed.”
“No...” she whispered in horror, tears spilling from her eyes. Not Neal, no, this couldn't be right.
“He was pretty lucky though, it's a low break. He'll have full use of his arms and upper body. They have him sedated right now as they wait for the swelling to go down. He'll have surgery later to stabilize the spinal cord,” Reena carefully explained, her eyes suspiciously wet as well.
Sara nodded numbly, the news still sinking in. She couldn't imagine Neal not dancing around, laughing, so carefree and happy. The memory of the two of them climbing the steps up the Arc de Triomphe, holding onto each other, gasping for breath when they reached the top, just weeks ago.
But at least he still had his hands. If he couldn't paint... couldn't touch her...
She closed her eyes and pushed that thought away. That didn't happen.
“I'm sorry, Sara.”
Taking a shuddering breath, Sara tried not to cry, but the tears kept coming. All because of a painting. A stupid painting.
“Sara, I know this is hard, but we have to discuss what happens now. You two aren't safe. At present, Gregory doesn't know you survived, but if he finds out...” she trailed off and looked at Sara apologetically.
“He'll come after us again,” Sara filled in, wiping tears from her eyes.
Reena nodded. “We can keep you in protective custody until the trial, but I'm not sure that will stop him. He has connections everywhere. Not only does he have his own people in Europe, and contacts around the world, but the criminal world knows Neal.”
“And they know he worked for the FBI, so they won't mind giving him up,” Sara said, the realization hitting her hard.
“Exactly. And Neal's not in a position to go anywhere. The doctors say he could be here for a few weeks, and then he'll have to go to rehab. After that, well… ” She paused, hesitating slightly. “He won't be able to slip into the crowds anymore.”
There was no winning, Sara thought. He couldn't run from his past even if he wanted to. For all the good he'd done, he'd never be able to move on, not without a target on his back. It wasn’t fair.
“So what are you thinking?” she asked, her voice shaking, looking to her friend for answers-for what amounted to a miracle.
“I think,” Reena replied slowly, “the only way for you to be safe is to for Gregory to believe you two died today.”
Understanding dawned in Sara’s eyes and she frowned. “You mean, go into hiding.”
“Witness Protection.” Reena smiled sadly and leaned back in her chair. “You can start new lives. No one will be looking for Neal.”
“But we’ll have to give everything up, everyone we know.”
She nodded. “I know it’s a lot to ask of you, Sara, and normally faking you death isn’t required, but-”
“…it’s the only way,” Sara interrupted her.
“Yes.”
Sara grabbed a fistful of the blanket with her good arm, clenching it tight, and looked out the window. She couldn’t believe that just this morning they had set out to go to the market like any other weekend. Their whole lives had changed in an instant. Neal would never walk again. They would never see Peter or Elizabeth, or even Mozzie ever again. Their friends would think them dead.
“Sara,” Reena called out softly. “I can’t force you. It’s Neal that’s at risk. If you don’t want to do it, just say the word. But we can’t guarantee your safety.”
“Because he might come after me, use me as bait if he suspects that Neal’s still alive.” Sara closed her eyes. It wasn’t a question of whether she’d go with Neal. She loved him, and she wasn’t leaving him to do this alone. He had more to lose than she did. She had no family and only a few friends. For so long, her job had been her life. Then she’d learned that she needed to find a life outside of it, and had found it in Neal.
She’d find a new job, but she couldn’t replace Neal.
Her life had just shattered into a million pieces, but she felt a fire light up inside her, determined to not let this get the better of her. Sara knew they would come out of this stronger than before. She wouldn't let Gregory win.
“I’ll do it,” she said quietly, opening her eyes to look up at Reena.
Sara would lose her too. She’d have to make new friends, and then lie to their faces. Her whole life would become one big lie. Would it get easier as time passed?
Her friend smiled knowingly. “I’m sorry I’m putting this on you. We’ll still ask Neal, of course, but I think it’ll be easier for him if he knows you’re okay with it.”
She was making the decision for him, wasn’t she? He’d let her go to London so she’d be happy, but this time, she had to think about him, and what he needed. He had a long road to recovery, and maybe this was a chance for him to have that life he’d always wanted. It wasn’t what they had planned, but life was always full of surprises.
She certainly had never planned on falling in love with Neal Caffrey.
Chapter Two
Author's Note: I want to thank Kanarek13 for the gorgeous cover art!