(This chapter contains spoilers from "Under the Radar.")
When Peter came home that night, he looked sick. As sick as I felt when he blurted out the story: the explosion in the warehouse, the telltale piece of Neal's painting, the fight.
But I couldn't believe that Neal had stolen the art. Not after everything we'd all been through, the trust and friendship that Peter and Neal had built.
Peter had to keep Neal's past, the sticky-fingered Hyde behind the Jekyll, at the back of his mind at all times, or he wouldn't be able to do his job effectively. At some level, I understood that. But still—I couldn't believe it.
And I couldn't believe that he could believe it.
I argued with Peter half the night—over dinner (which he barely touched), then in the living room after dinner, then shouting between the bedroom and the bathroom, while Satchmo looked plaintively back and forth between us.
"Peter," I finally said, exasperated, as he came out of the bathroom. "This is Neal!"
He looked at me with bloodshot eyes. "Yeah," he said bleakly. "Exactly. This is Neal."
I could think of nothing more to say.
