Neal's frustration about not being able to go out in New York City was tempered by his excitement of the gallery party that night. Michele could feel his energy, and June looked at him with immense pride at the fact that he was finally getting recognition for his own original work. He deserved it.

She arranged for a driver to take Neal and Michele to the gallery, and promised she'd meet them later. They exchanged hugs, and Neal left for the gallery. When they arrived, they were greeted by the gallery owner. She apologized for the lack of a better welcome—everyone from the party planner to florist was in the back, bringing everything inside and trying to make the party perfect—and she lead the two of them to the back of the gallery. Neal glanced at the paintings around him as he made his way to the back. He'd been in the gallery before, back before prison when he was actually considering stealing from it, and it was surreal to see his own paintings lining the walls. The gallery owner showed Neal and Michele the curtained off area, and true to Neal's request, no one wold be able to see him unless invited inside. Inside the area it was spacious and well lit, and Neal found he liked the set up quite a lot. He'd have to thank the party planner—it was clear there was an experienced hand pulling the strings.

Neal thanked the gallery owner for all she had done to make this happen, and told her he'd like to get situated in his area. Michele would be staying by his side the entire time. The gallery owner told him that patrons would be arriving in as little as twenty minutes. She shook his hand, thanked him for his work, and then it was just Neal and Michele in the small curtained-off room.

Neal transferred from his wheelchair to a wooden chair behind the table that was set up in the space, and Michele moved his wheelchair to a corner, tucking it between the folds of the curtain and the wall. It would be easily accessible, but out of sight.

Michele took in Neal's broad smile, and sat next to him, rubbing her fingers over his hand. "Do you mind if I ask…" she said hesitantly, "is this how Neal Caffrey would do it?"

Neal laughed. "Not at all. First of all, Neal never painted his own work. He was a forger, not an original artist."

It didn't escape Michele's notice that he used both the third person and the past tense to describe the man he used to be. "But say he did, and there was a gallery showing in his honor."

"Okay, say there was. Neal would not be curtained off from the crowd, ever. He'd want to mingle, find out what people thought of his work first. Then he'd probably get everyone's attention, and make a speech that mentions that he's the artist. It would be nearing the end of the evening, and all the attention would turn from his paintings to the man himself. He was always a sucker for attention, and it got him into trouble a lot."

Michele giggled and kissed his cheek. "I like Daniel's method better. The intrigue and secrecy adds to the effect of the paintings. They'll be dying to meet you, and once they leave, they'll feel they need to have an original 'Anonymous' in their homes."

The gallery owner stepped into their area. "There's already a line to meet you. Are you ready?"

Neal nodded. "Send them in."

The first people to come in were an older couple, their eyes bright and smiles wide.

Michele reached out her hand. "My name is Michele," she said, her French accent sounding stronger than ever, "and this is the talented artist himself."

Neal stuck out his hand as well, and shook the hands of the couple in turn. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

The couple stayed for five minutes and they spoke. They complemented his art, and Neal in turn complemented their taste, and when they left there were big smiles on all of their faces.

Michele looked at Neal before the next patron came in. His eyes had closed for a minute and he had the sweetest look on his face. It was clear he was drinking in the moment. She kissed him squarely on the lips, and he kissed back without opening his eyes. When they broke away, he whispered, "Perfect."

When he was ready, Michele stood to get the next guest. She came back inside with a young girl beside her. "And his is the artist himself," Michele said, gesturing to Neal.

Neal smiled and shook her hand. She was an art student, and had many questions about the technique Neal had used when he painted. Neal's eyes came alive as he talked with the girl about different painting styles, and he told her he'd be more than happy to see her work at some time. He took out a business card from the inside pocket of his jacket, which said 'Anonymous' in bold, black print—they were a gift from Michele earlier that day—and scribbled his number on the back. When the girl left, her face was red and she looked like she was about to cry from happiness.

Twenty minutes passed in similar fashion. Everyone who met Neal gushed about his art, and a few repeatedly asked to know his name. He smiled and answered questions and deflected in only the way a conman can, and it seemed everyone left craving to have one of his paintings hanging above their mantle.

After a young couple left, Michele walked out to get the next guest. Neal heard the introduction through the curtain, and he waited patiently for the new guest to enter. He was never expecting who he saw.

"Neal?"

Michele shot Neal a frightened look, standing against the wall instead of sitting down, the hidden wheelchair pressed against her back. She had no idea who she had let in.

"Peter Burke." Neal adjusted to his shock quickly, and found anger surging through him. He was having the perfect night, and of course Peter had to come around and ruin that. "Why are you here?"

"I could ask you the same thing. You're supposed to be dead!"

"So what," Neal asked, "you're here to arrest me?"

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't," Peter snarled back.

"Neal Caffrey is dead! He almost a year ago, death certificate of not."

"That's funny," Peter said, his eyes staring daggers, "because I bet if I ran your prints, it would show me Neal Caffrey is quite alive and right in front of me."

"I'm not Neal anymore." His voice was low, and in his rage Peter missed the hurt under his words. "I will never be Neal Caffrey again."

"I'm afraid I can't take your word for that," Peter said. He laughed, but there was no humor to it. "Frankly, I should've known. Not signing the paintings, being all mysterious and anonymous, it had your name all over it. It's not like you haven't faked your death before, too. And to think I was once worried about you. All this time you've just been going from museum to museum, stealing what you want. But that's not enough—now you need the fame, too."

"What part of this is making me famous?" Neal shot back. "I'm curtained off from the rest of the guests. I'm anonymous. No one knows who I am!"

"I guess that's one thing you've learned from Mozzie," Peter said, spitting out the name like he had when he found out who had stolen the treasure. "Arrogance will always catch up with you. The only reason you're not grabbing all the credit for this is so that tomorrow you can jet off to your island without anyone chasing you. Only that plan didn't work out too well, did it?"

"I don't have an island," Neal said. "I have a house. It's my home, it's where I live. I haven't been outside of that country at all before coming here. I have an honest life, I paint for a living and I help improve museum security on the side."

"A perfect way to surveil your next crime."

"No! Peter, I have been on the right side of the law for the past year, and I will never go back. Because I'm not Neal Caffrey anymore."

Peter's expression didn't change. "I came here to ask you to do something nice for the party planner, who's been working really hard to make this happen, and who also really likes your art. But now—"

"Elizabeth planned this? No wonder, the set up is amazing."

"Don't you dare talk about my wife. You lost that right when you got her kidnapped, and then you disappeared."

"I'm sorry, Peter. I—"

"I'll find you tomorrow, with a warrant for your arrest. You better still be in the country, but know that if you flee there is no place on earth I wouldn't go to hunt you down."