I'm not going to insult you, dear readers, with an apology. Since I last updated (what, almost a year ago?) I went through some crappy months, spent some time with depression, and eventually recovered. I reread this and decided it was hopeless and almost deleted it. I finally admitted it was on hiatus, possibly for the rest of its pitiful existence, and subsequently tried to rewrite it. I still find it corny in places, and I still don't like it – or rather, the way I wrote it - but there's nothing I'm willing to do about that. I'm going to suck it up and finish it. I have a rewrite started, and maybe I'll post that in place of this after I finish. I have a decent start on the rewrite, and three to four chapters left of this, most of which is already written. Sad that I couldn't muddle through, isn't it?

I hope my writing has improved since then, but don't get your hopes up. Even if it has, this piece probably won't reflect that.

Still don't own, even though I wish I did. :)

Neal woke with a start and bolted upright. The first thing his brain registered was that the room he had apparently spent the night in didn't seem familiar. It most certainly was not his room. The odds seemed to smirk at him, and his sleep-muddled mind jumped to the conclusion that Sorivelli had kidnapped him.

After a few minutes, the more logical part of his brain woke up and last night started to come back to him. His heart stopped trying to leap out of his chest, and he lay back down. Neal wasn't normally one to stay in bed when one of his friends – because if he was entirely honest with himself, Diana was a friend – was missing and in the hands of an insane psychopath, but he just didn't feel ready to face the day.

He focused on breathing and promised himself that he would get out of bed just as soon as his heart rate slowed to normal. While he waited, he tried to make a calming list of things to do today. Face Peter, admit he'd screwed up, try to find Diana, hopefully rescue Diana, probably talk to Sorivelli on the phone, listen to Diana being tortured… Okay, that list wasn't calming. Screw the list, then. Neal needed to paint.

Silently praying that June had a spare canvas and paints (he assumed that his had been destroyed when Sorivelli's men ransacked his apartment), Neal rolled out of bed. He padded across the spacious room and pulled the door open, only to reel backwards as he came face to face with Mozzie.

"Moz!" Neal exclaimed, breathing heavily. He reached for the wall and leaned against it, realizing that Sorivelli had accomplished at least half of his mission. Neal Caffrey was a nervous wreck. There was no denying that.

"I think I might know where the Lady Suit is," Mozzie replied, cutting right to the chase as he straightened his slightly awry glasses.

Neal frowned, trying to think clearly. The Lady Suit was Diana, Diana was kidnapped by Sorivelli, Diana needed to be found… oh. "Have you told Peter or whoever is controlling this search?" Neal glanced around the room and added, "And do you happen to know where my clothes are?"

"June rescued the suits and moved them somewhere downstairs. You'd have to ask her." Mozzie shrugged, trying to make everything seem more ordinary than it was. "The things I took are safe. Do you want them back?"

Neal passed a hand in front of his face wearily. "I don't know anymore, Moz. How could this have happened?"

Mozzie shook his head. "There wasn't a reason for this, Neal. Sorivelli doesn't reason this stuff out, and you know that. He's here to make your life hell."

"Thanks for the reassurance, Moz." Neal offered his friend a wan smile. "Let's go downstairs and talk about Diana."

An hour later, Peter found Neal and Mozzie sitting in a storage closet off one of the main halls. Mozzie perched on a hard folding chair, and Caffrey looked like he had just rolled out of bed, wearing boxers and a white t-shirt, his face smeared with paint and hair messy. Light streamed in through a decent sized window, and boxes were neatly stacked along the walls. Assorted junk haphazardly piled on shelves seemed ready to topple at the slightest breeze, but both criminals looked comfortable enough in the room.

"What do you have to say that's so important you couldn't tell me over the phone?" Peter asked finally after lurking in the doorway for a long moment.

Neal and Mozzie jumped. They had lapsed into silence while they waited for Peter, Mozzie apparently lost in thought and Neal focused on the painting he was busy reproducing.

Mozzie was the first to reclaim his voice. "Suit!"

Neal glanced towards Peter. "Sit down, Peter. We're probably going to be in here for awhile."

His consultant's resigned tone worried Peter, but the agent stepped into the room and settled onto a largish cardboard box that was labeled 'books.' "I have a feeling I'm not going to like what I hear."

Neal gave him another sideways glance. Peter wasn't yelling, and he seemed more exhausted than angry. They were all drained of emotion after a restless night of worry. "Probably not," he finally agreed.

"I might know where the Lady Suit is," Mozzie said after a pause.

Peter leaped to his feet. "What? And you couldn't tell me this over the phone! We have to go to the bureau, tell missing persons… We need to bring her home!"

"No, Peter." Neal whispered it, trying to ignore the imperfect spot where his brush had created a jagged line of pale pink when he jumped from Peter's outburst. "We can't tell them. If the bureau sends anyone out, she's as good as dead. Sorivelli will kill her without blinking an eye."

The anger from last night was back in full force. "Neal, you can't just expect me to sit back and watch one of my people die!"

"No, Suit," Mozzie said softly. "That's why we're telling you what we know and warning you that you can't tell the other Suits."

"I think we can get her back," Neal added, determinedly painting over the pink streak. "The three of us, or maybe the four of us if you include Jones."

"I… Neal… Stupid… No!" Peter started pacing angrily, one hand shadowing his face. "Neal!"

Neal flinched. "Peter, it's the only way."

Peter turned and studied the various knickknacks on the nearest shelf, and then spun and stalked towards Neal. He glared at the painting that was beginning to take shape under Neal's skilful hands, and muttered, "You'd better sign that."

Neal nodded earnestly. "Right there, in the upper right hand corner." With the back end of the brush, he pointed to a tiny set of initials hidden in the shade-dappled foliage of the tree.

Peter humphed after squinting at the spot. "That looks more like the way you'd sign it if you were forging it."

"I'm using the wrong paints for it to be a good forgery," Neal said simply.

The agent didn't comment. Even with inferior, modern paints, Neal's work was good enough to fool any number of professionals. You had to be looking for the initials to see them, and the rendition of Monet's Water Lily Pond would only need some time in an oven to make it look exactly like the original once Neal was done. Still, he knew this was Neal's way of coping.

"Okay, count me in." Peter sighed and stomped back to the box, seating himself reluctantly.

Mozzie took a breath and opened his mouth, the first word on the tip of his tongue, when Peter's phone went off. Peter swore and fumbled with the device, eventually managing to get it out of his pocket and against his ear.

"Burke," he said shortly.

Neal and Mozzie watched Peter carefully, straining to hear what was said on the other end of the line. The blood drained from Peter's face, and he said, "Be right there, Jones."

He ended the call and shoved the phone back into his pocket. "Sorivelli sent in the first tape. You two are coming with me."

"Tape?" Neal blanched. "I… Peter, he sent a tape?"

"Yes, Caffrey. A tape. Both of you are coming with me, and you're going to tell me where you think Diana is on the way over."

A tape could never be a good sign. Sorivelli had broken the pattern, and the last time that happened… Well, Neal didn't want to consider that.