"Are you sure you're not overreacting?" El asked him when he got home, and he had told the story of the day.

"Neal is a convicted felon. I have to investigate."

"Of course. Of course, it's your job. But usually, you're more open-minded to who it is. And, well, Neal's never lied to you."

"He's never had a fortune of that size before either." Peter sighed. "Adler was about to kill him. He said, 'you won't get away with this.' Why else would he have said that?"

"He maybe thought Neal blew the treasure up. Or he misunderstood the situation and thought that Neal had stolen it. Honey, think about it; when would he have had the time to steal it?"

"You don't think he did it?"

"I don't know," El admitted. "But I don't think he would lie to you." Always positive. He loved that about her.

"So it was Mozzie." That way, Neal could say he did not steal that package from Sara either. Peter sank down on the sofa.

"Honey, did Moz even know where the warehouse was in time to get the art out without being caught by Adler?"

"I don't know." He leaned his forehead in his hands. Hughes had warned him when he took on Neal that four years was too long a time. And it had been only two.

"Hon," El said, sinking down beside him, giving him a hug, "do what you have to do, but be careful, alright?"

"Careful?"

"He's your friend. And he trusts you. If something will make him a taxpaying citizen, it is your friendship. Don't ruin that."

Peter sighed. That was the problem. His job did not allow him to make those kinds of exceptions. If Neal had stolen that art, he had broken every trust Peter gave him. He could not afford to be that naive.

He called Jones.

"Sorry to bother you so late. You drove Neal home; did he say anything."

Jones was silent for a few seconds at the other end.

"We spoke as colleagues."

Peter nodded. He understood and liked Jones' discretion.

"I want to run a lie detector test on Neal," he said. "Can you set it up?"

"Now?"

"Yes."

"At the office?"

Peter shook his head.

"No."

"You don't want to do it officially."

"No, I don't," Peter admitted. "Neal can go back to prison just for the suspicion. And if I'm wrong…"

"I can pick up the equipment and set it up in an office that is about to be redecorated that I know of," Jones suggested.

"You okay with that?"

"If it were me instead of Neal... Yeah, I'm okay with that."

"Thank you, Jones. I appreciate it."

"No problem."

Jones gave him the address and said they would meet there in an hour.

El did not say anything. She kissed him, rose, and walked upstairs.

Peter left and drove to Neal's place. The kid walked down the sidewalk when he stepped out of the car.

"Where've you been?" Peter asked. Who was out walking at this hour?

"Within my radius."

"Get in the car."

They drove in silence.

Peter found it difficult to tell what they were about to do. It was such obvious proof of distrust of a friend. But if Neal had stolen the treasure, were they still friends?

"You'll be questioned with a lie detector by Jones," he said. The kid chuckled. "What?"

"I didn't steal the treasure, Peter. I've nothing to hide."

"Good for you then."

"If I pass, will you trust me?"

Peter glanced at him.

"We'll see."

They drove to the address, and Jones met them. They walked upstairs, and Jones connected the kid. Neal looked tired, bored even.

Jones started the machine and got the paper running, plotting lines.

"What color are your eyes?" he asked.

"Blue."

"Are you a criminal consultant for the Federal Bureau of Investigation?"

"Yes."

The needles made little bumps.

"Okay. For a baseline, I'm gonna need you to tell a lie."

"I've never told a lie."

The needles moved up and down several times.

"Great. We've got our baseline," Jones said, waiting for his directive.

"Ask him about the warehouse."

"Shortly before his death," Jones asked Neal, "you confronted Vincent Adler outside of a warehouse. What was in that warehouse?"

"A U-boat. German, recently dredged off the coast of New York state."

"And inside of that U-boat?"

"A collection of art plundered by the Nazis." The kid glared at Peter.

"What happened?" Peter asked.

"The warehouse burst into flames."

Peter sat down close to the kid, watching the sweet and innocent face up close.

"Did you steal the art?" he asked.

"No."

"Do you know who did?"

"No." The kid had a sad smile.

"According to the readout, he's telling the truth," Jones said.

"It's two o'clock in the morning, Peter," Neal said. "You gonna keep me here all night?"

"Until I'm satisfied. Next question."

"Where've you been?" Peter barked, jumping out of his car.

Neal stared back at his handler. It was no way he could know.

"Within my radius."

"Get in the car."

What was going on in Peter's mind now? Neal pushed every thought of the treasure he had seen aside. If he was going back to Prison, would Peter tell and put him in cuffs? But he sure did not want to ask. Wherever they were going asking would not change anything.

"You'll be questioned with a lie detector by Jones," he said. Neal relaxed. "What?"

"I didn't steal the treasure, Peter. I've nothing to hide." Not entirely true, but he did not care.

"Good for you then."

"If I pass, will you trust me?"

Peter glanced at him.

"We'll see."

So he had already decided. Neal sighed. Why use a lie detector if you did not trust the result? If you did not trust the technique, you did not use it.

They were met by Jones in an old, run-down office building. It felt shady and not very FBI-like. Neal guessed that Peter did not want it to be public knowledge that their consultant was a suspect. If that was the case, Neal was glad for his consideration.

Jones hooked him up to the machine. It was a relatively simple device measuring stress, which often came with a lie. Or rather with the worry and shame that came with a lie. Neal had stopped being ashamed long ago. The paper started to move and the pens plotting lines.

"What color are your eyes?" Jones asked.

"Blue." He sighed. He wanted a little more altitude on the curve for the truths to hide his lie better.

"Are you a criminal consultant for the Federal Bureau of Investigation?"

He tried to muster some anger, but he was only sad.

"Yes."

Neal did not even bother to glance at the paper.

"Okay," Jones said. "For a baseline, I'm gonna need you to tell a lie."

He thought that he was now ready to lie to Peter, his friend, who he promised himself never to lie to.

"I've never told a lie."

The needles moved fast up and down; he heard it.

"Great. We've got our baseline," Jones said, waiting for his directive.

"Ask him about the warehouse," Peter said, standing behind Jones.

Neal glanced at his handler. Did he not have the decency to question him himself?

"Shortly before his death," Jones said, "you confronted Vincent Adler outside of a warehouse. What was in that warehouse?"

"A U-boat. German, recently dredged off the coast of New York state," Neal told Peter, though Jones asked the question.

"And inside of that U-boat?" Jones continued.

"A collection of art plundered by the Nazis." Neal directed this answer too to Peter.

"What happened?" Peter asked.

"The warehouse burst into flames."

Peter sat down close to him, staring into his face.

"Did you steal the art?" he asked.

"No."

"Do you know who did?"

"No." Any other day he would have given a little shrug instead, indicating that he knew but did not want to tell. And Peter would have let it be. He looked at his friend and felt nothing but sadness. They had worked so well together.

"According to the readout," Jones said, "he's telling the truth."

If Peter had any doubt about his assumption, he would have smiled and let it go, but not so.

"It's two o'clock in the morning, Peter," Neal said. "You gonna keep me here all night?"

"Until I'm satisfied. Next question."

"And that is until I confess to something I did not do? As with the women who confessed they were witches."

"Until I believe you're telling the truth."

"I didn't steal the art, Peter."

Jones glanced at the readout but did not need to say anything. He just exchanged a look with Peter.

"Next question," Peter barked.

"What was the confrontation you had with Vincent Adler about right before his death?"

"He was surrounded by the FBI and wanted me to help him out. I told him to go to hell."

And so it continued.

Neal grew tired and angry. Being interrogated by Peter had once been fun and a game for both of them. This, this was just depressing.

He threw his foot up on the table.

"It's this that bothers you, isn't it?" he asked Peter. "That you didn't put it back the second you hand the chance. If you think that I, without any planning, can get to that warehouse, pack, and leave with all that art within the few hours I was not by your side is insane. But you think so just because I'm without the anklet."

"And because you are Neal Caffrey, the best con man ever lived," Peter hissed as if it was an insult.

"Put it on!" he said and pointed at his ankle. "I insist. I'm tired of getting the blame for everything every time it's off."

Jones and Peter exchanged looks.

"We don't have it with us," Jones said, looking embarrassed.

Neal took his foot down and got to his feet. He pulled his jacket on.

"So you trust me not to leave but not to tell the truth. Can't say you give many reasons to stay." Neither here right now nor in New York.

He walked towards the exit. He wondered if someone would call him back and formed a few bitchy remarks in his mind. No one did, though.