"Ben isn't the killer."

Neal said the words out loud to himself that night as he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. Water dripped from his face – he had just washed it, and now he said his thoughts out loud. He had learned a while ago that it was always better to say everything he was thinking out loud – it helped him figure things out better.

"He was attacked by someone at the ball where the person was supposed to kill me," he continued. "But apparently it's not something that has to do with who's in line for the throne, unless…maybe it's fourth in line. Who would that be? My dad is dead, and so is Uncle Bartholomew, Ben's dad. It couldn't be them. Ben doesn't have a brother, and neither do I. So after that, wouldn't it be whoever is on King Wilhelm's wife's side?"

He sighed and tiredly rubbed his hands over his face. He wasn't getting anywhere in his speculations, and Ben hadn't remembered who had brought him to the cell-like area below the castle. The last thing he remembered was a hand over his mouth when he had left to go to the bathroom. No one else had seen anything, and Ben's attacker was gone, no sign of him anywhere.

Neal went back to his bedroom and picked up his phone on his bedside table. It was time to call Peter – maybe he could help.

A few minutes later, the other end was silent as Peter processed everything Neal had just told him. He sighed into the speaker and said, "I can't do anything about this, Neal. All I can say is that none of this would've happened if you'd stayed in New York."

There. He'd said it. He'd gotten his feelings out there – that he never wanted Neal to leave. Peter held his breath as he waited for his former partner's response. Neal breathed into the phone for a moment, and then said very deliberately:

"Thank you for your time, Peter, and I'm sorry for waking you up in the middle of the night. But since you apparently only want me back in New York so that you can constantly put me in life-threatening situations, take the glory for it, and then turn around and not give a damn when I couldn't help my situation at all when I'm finally free…"

"Neal," Peter interrupted, but Neal continued as though he hadn't spoken.

"…I'll just stop calling for your advice anymore. I'm an ex-con about to become king, and you're an FBI agent. I'll just talk to my own advisors here in Parasa. I don't even need to worry about being killed anymore, because you've already succeeded in stabbing me in the back."

"Neal," Peter sounded shocked at his words, "You're being really melodramatic."

"Am I?" Neal didn't wait for an answer as he shook his head to himself. "Good-bye, Agent Burke."

He hung up the phone, and a few moments later, it rung again, Peter's Caller ID flashing across the screen. He turned it on silent and shoved the phone under his pillow. It vibrated after a few more seconds, but he ignored it.

Neal lied down on his bed, ignoring the single, solitary tear that fell out of his eye. He didn't need Peter anymore.