After an awkward ride on the subway in which he had nearly been arrested for fare dodging, Neal found himself standing outside the place where it had all begun: his school, Merrinote High. It was a Thursday, nearly noon, and lessons would be in full swing inside. It was only now that he was here, standing in front of the red brick structure, that Neal felt the grief crushing down on him. He was on the run, for good this time. There was no way that he could ever go back to the Burkes. There was no way he could ever go back to school. He was a shadow, a city wraith, a teenager without a home or an identity, condemned to roaming from town to town, country to country.

That didn't mean that it wasn't going to be fun, of course. He had big plans. Together with Mozzie he would tour Europe, hitting the big museums and galleries. You know, classic tourist stuff. Then they would go to Asia and improve their cooking skills, or visit New Zealand and learn how to surf… The possibilities were endless. It struck Neal then just how free he was. Free of the anklet, free of the Burkes. The sadness of leaving his family behind mingled with the sheer euphoria of being able to live without responsibility. Oh, to have no tethers, no plans or purpose! He would be the greatest thief the world had ever known. And though it pained him, he knew that there was no space for Peter and Elizabeth Burke in his new future.

But first things first.

Neal looked down at his hands, which were still cuffed together. The electronic cuffs had certainly caused their fair share of trouble. It was time that he got rid of them. He glanced one more time at the school in front of him, then looked down at his clothes. He was wearing the dark blue suit from the trial, complete with a skinny red tie. Blue and red. The shades didn't match and it wasn't perfect, but he was wearing the same colours as the Merrinote school uniform. It was the first piece of good luck he had had all day.

He took a deep breath, feeling his diaphragm shiver and his lungs align within his chest. Confidence came with proper posture. When he felt that he was ready, he walked up the school steps and pushed through the double doors – which turned out to be quite a challenge thanks to his bound hands. He was in the foyer and he knew that from this moment on, he was working against the clock. Peter and the police in the courtroom would be scouring the city in search of him, but he doubted that they would be able to trace him here. The school where he had been arrested was one of the last places on earth he would visit when on the run, which was exactly why he had chosen it. Of course, other factors had put their input into the decision, too. There was a reason why he was here. He was about to see if all this risk-taking was going to pay off.

Neal walked briskly through the hallways, his Nikes tapping a squeaky rhythm against the polished floors. The corridors were deserted. All the other students were in their lessons, and he realised with a pang of envy that he would never be able to join them. He was free. But his freedom had come at a cost. He would never get to be normal, he would always be hiding, he would never be able to go to school and hang out with other teenagers. His life would be one long look over his shoulder, always edgy, never able to settle down.

But then, when had that ever bothered him before? The last time he had felt this sort of bittersweet happiness was when he had gone on the run after his first unsuccessful heist. He had been eleven years old and on the verge of breaking down into a fit of embarrassing tears. It had been Mozzie who had calmed him down. He still remembered how the candlelight had flickered off Mozzie's spectacles in the rundown hotel with no electricity, how his friend's words had hung in the air, half joking, half mournful.

"Being on the run is fun, Neal, if you take the proper precautions. All you need to do is have a few aliases up your sleeves and then you're golden. We'll enrol you in a new school, set you up with a whole new identity…" There had been a definite pause here, whilst Mozzie took a swig of bootleg whisky. A few hiccups later and the pep talk resumed. "Yes - granted being a wanted man isn't a piece of cake, but at least you're wanted." Mozzie's wistful tone had struck a chord with him that night. Mozzie had come from a background of foster parents and care homes. He didn't know what it was like to be wanted and loved. Neal could relate – his childhood hadn't been all too stable either.

The memory of the all too similar experience helped slow his racing heart. He mentally ran through Mozzie's on-the-run checklist. He did indeed have 'a few aliases up his sleeves', and fake passports to match. Once he got out of the cuffs and ran one final errand, he would be able to track down Mozzie and travel the world with him. He knew the little guy would be raring to go.

By this point, Neal had reached the end of the corridor and had started down a flight of stairs. They led out to an enclosed courtyard which students had to cross in order to reach other blocks and classrooms. Right now it was deserted; a cool expanse of greying tarmac with a couple of scraggly bushes, but it was by far the most open part of the school. If he was going to be caught wearing handcuffs and a nice suit at a school he no longer attended, this was the place it would happen.

He knew the secret to crossing the hideously open expanse was to act naturally. A casual, rolling stride, head lowered, arms swinging, would do just perfectly. Shooting a surreptitious glance at the windows on all sides, he started his rolling stride across the playground. The 'casual, confident, nonchalant walk', which he had spent many hours of his life mastering in his bedroom, was harder to pull off today. His cuffed hands stopped his arms from swinging. The familiar surroundings threw him off balance. Without meaning to, he quickened his pace and kept going, nearly running now, until he reached the building at the other end of the courtyard. He threw open the bright blue door – why are schools always so garishly decorated? – and slipped inside.

This was the woodwork room. It was here where all the tools, cutters, slicers, sanders, flame throwers, you name it, resided. The tools were kept locked away when not in use by students wearing goggles, but Neal didn't care. He was just relieved to have made it this far. Grinning broadly, he deftly picked the lock on the tool cupboard and came out with a pair of sturdy looking pliers. This was where things got complicated. All his planning went a bit hazy at this moment. He had never been good at shop class. He didn't even know if pliers would get the damned cuffs off his wrists. But he had to try.

Neal placed his hands on either side of a clamp that was bolted to a table. He stretched the handcuff chain taunt over the top of the clamp so that he could get at it. It wasn't easy. Every time he got the pliers into the right position to snip the chain, he found that the awkward angle stopped him from using enough power. He could only chew ineffectually at the chain with the pliers, worrying it but not snapping it. Growling in frustration, Neal decided to try a different tact. He stalked back to the tool cupboard, checking that the room was still deserted as he did so, (it was) and came back with a saw.

Holding the tiny, jagged instrument made him feel stupid, but he gritted his teeth and tried to saw through the chain by balancing his hands against a table top. Once again, it was no use. The saw bounced off the chain, not even denting it. Neal was fast losing his patience. He didn't have a lot of time left to free himself – lessons would be ending sooner or later and someone was bound to go to the woodwork room.

The last thing he wanted was to be caught scraping at handcuffs with a bendy saw, so he decided to go back to the pliers. He stabbed down with the metal instrument a little too hastily and the tool slipped off the chain links, grazing his wrist just above the bracelet and cutting the skin. It was all too much.

Neal recoiled, throwing down the pliers in disgust and nursing his injured arm. The gash from the pliers was bleeding quite profusely. He swore repeatedly and tried to wrap his arm up in an old oil cloth that was lying next to one of the machines.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a voice said from behind him. Neal spun around, the oil cloth still pressed to his wound. Mr Wolsey, the shop teacher, was leaning casually against a desk, watching him carefully.

"Um, why?" Neal asked. He was feeling tongue-tied. How had the old man managed to sneak up on him?

"It might get infected. Here, let me." Mr Wolsey creaked over to a sink in the corner and came back with a wet paper towel. "Hold this against the cut," he said calmly. Neal hesitantly obliged, wincing when the towel touched the jagged wound.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." There was silence. Both Neal and Mr Wolsey were waiting for the other to speak. They were weighing each other up, searching for clues in the other's expression. Finally, Neal cleared his throat.

"I… I suppose you know why I'm here?" he asked awkwardly.

"You want to get out of those handcuffs," said Mr Wolsey matter-of-factly. "You actually had the right idea with the pliers, though it's nearly impossible to do it yourself. As I'm sure you found out." Mr Wolsey took a doddery step forward. "May I?"

"Please, be my guest." Hardly able to believe his luck, Neal handed the teacher his pliers and proffered his chained hands. With a grunt, Wolsey heaved on the handle. There was a moment of tension, where Wolsey strained against the metal, then the chain broke with a snap. Neal jerked his arms as far apart as they could go. It felt wonderful to have unrestricted movement again.

"Thank you, sir," he said, amazed. He rolled his shoulders repeatedly, trying to work away the clicks and niggles. "Why… why…" he was too stunned by the sheer serendipity to finish the question. Wolsey smiled toothily, showing yellowed canines. His stringy grey hair hung in his eyes, limp and curiously rope like.

"Why did I release you? Because, old chap, if I hadn't then you would have drowned! That said, we might all drown anyway."

"Pardon?" Neal blinked. It wasn't the answer he had been expecting. The old man chuckled darkly.

"Easier to swim with your hands free, eh, lad?"

"I suppose so," said Neal. Then, out of sheer curiosity, "Sir, where are we right now?" Mr Wolsey crinkled his eyebrows at him.

"On the SS Titanic, of course. Aren't you paying any attention?"

"Um…"

"I think it's best if you go now, lad," said Wolsey, nodding in the direction of the door. "You'll stand a better chance of survival if you get up on deck instead of staying down here in the hold."

"OK." Neal headed for the door, shooting anxious glances back at the wizened teacher. "Thanks again, sir, for… you know. Saving me from drowning."

"Any time," said Mr Wolsey, making little shooing gestures with his hands. Just as Neal turned to leave, he thought he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the teacher wink at him. But he couldn't be sure and by the time he turned back to check, Wolsey had trotted off to return the pliers. Had the teacher really been so dotty as to think they were both aboard the Titanic? Or had he known exactly who and what Neal was and had decided to help him, and in such a way that wouldn't get him into trouble later? After all, if Neal told anyone that Mr Wolsey had cut his handcuffs so that he didn't 'go down with the ship', nobody would believe him.

The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed that Mr Wolsey was actually perfectly sane. The wink, combined with the maths – it took Neal longer than it should have to realise that the Titanic sank over one hundred years ago – all suggested that he was a kind old man wanting to help an ex-student in need. Neal smiled. Perhaps there were some people left in the world he didn't want to see him behind bars.

Now that his hands were free, he still had one little piece of business left to complete in Merrinote school before he could start his new life. He glided back across the courtyard, able to do his 'casual, confident, nonchalant' walk to a tee, and nodded at a couple of students walking the other way. If they seemed surprised to see him, they didn't let on, which he took as a good sign. He made it back to the school proper and glanced at the big plastic clock in the main hall. It was twenty five to one. Lessons would be finishing in two minutes. If he was caught milling in the hallways when students and teachers started pouring out of their classrooms, it would be all over. A teacher would turn him in and he would be back at square one. He had to do this now.

Neal broke into a run and sprinted down the hallway, his Nikes scrabbling for purchase as he skidded around a corner. He took a flight of stairs three at a time and came to a stop, gasping, on a top floor landing. A stand of lockers leaned against a wall in front of him. One of them was his – he recognised it by the small, but powerful electronic padlock. If he remembered correctly, on the other side of the small metal door was something that would set him up for life. He could finance his trip around the world with Mozzie and still have some cash left over to buy a chateau in France and style themselves as lords. He patted his pockets for his phone. The padlock had been designed to open when a PIN code was entered into the owner's mobile.

The phone wasn't there. He shoved his hands into every single pocket, his searches growing more and more frantic. Had he dropped it? Left it on a train? And then he remembered. Peter had his phone at the FBI, back in Holding Room Two.

"Damn it…" he cursed, dropping to his knees in front of the locker. All was not lost; he was still a professional thief. If he could break his own modified padlock, then he could access the treasure inside. Picking the lock was difficult. He used the jagged edges of the broken chain that still trailed from both his wrists. When he was out of the school, he would have to find a professional underground blacksmith to finish what Mr Wolsey had started and get the silver bracelets off his wrists. Concentrating hard, and horribly aware that he had less than a minute until the bell rang, he inserted the broken chain link into the lock. A few seconds of careful jiggling, a couple of taps with the graphite end of a pencil he had found on the floor, and one big kick with his Nikes and the padlock fell open.

"Yes!" Neal shouted, then clapped his hands over his mouth. The sound echoed down the empty corridor, a thousand ghost Neals, yes, yes, yes. He winced as they faded and waited for someone to investigate, but thankfully nobody had heard him. He yanked open the locker door and pulled out the one thing that was inside, a painting rolled into a slender tube. Inside was his forgery of the Mona Lisa which he had completed several months before and stashed in his locker the morning he had been arrested in geography. Now all he and Mozzie had to do was use their contacts in the press to run a fake story about the Mona Lisa being stolen and they could cash in their forgery for an estimated jackpot of six million dollars. Easy as pie.

Neal slung the painting over his shoulders and turned around. For the second time that day, he nearly jumped out of his skin. Mr Harris, his maths teacher who had appealed at the trail just that morning, was standing behind him. And unlike Mr Wolsey, he was gaping in disbelief.

"You! What are you doing here? You're meant to be in prison. I heard you were sentenced!"

"There was a change of plan," said Neal, taking a couple steps backwards. There was a window to his right. If he could only get to it…

"What are you doing?" the teacher demanded. "Why are you dressed like that?" He took in Neal's immaculate suit: the blood-stained sleeve from the gash on his wrist, the painting slung across his back. The teacher's eyes settled on the handcuff bracelets that still glittered on Neal's wrists.

Neal took another step backwards. It was the wrong move. With a roar like a tiger, Mr Harris lunged at him.

"No! You're not getting away this time! I won't let you!" His fingers locked around Neal's injured wrist, and several things happened at once. Neal cried out in pain as the teacher gripped the still bleeding wound, but he was able to take a few more steps backwards and slam his handcuff bracelet into the window. The window shattered just as a bell sounded and students streamed out of their classrooms. Mr Harris looked frantic. He refused to let go of Neal, even as pupils crowded around him to get a better look at what was going on.

Neal jumped up onto the lockers to access the smashed window, but a yank from the teacher on his arm caused him to fall backwards. Fortunately, he landed on Mr Harris. There were screams and a few laughs from the gathered students, but Neal didn't care – all that mattered was that the painting was still on his back and that Mr Harris's grip had loosened. He yanked his arm free, shot to his feet and ran at the smashed window. He dived through it and landed in the branches of the tree outside just in time to see Mr Harris' puce face appear behind him.

"I'll get you for this, Caffrey! I'm calling the police!" Neal shakily gave him a little salute.

"You do that, sir. I'm sorry you wasted your time today in court. Oh, and I'm sorry I broke another window." And with that, he shimmied to the ground and set off at a run across the school's car park, before hitting the street and melting into the city.

He had one last job to do. And then he would be free.

The next morning, Peter Burke sat down to eat breakfast with his wife. He was in a foul mood. He had gotten home at five o'clock that morning after searching for Caffrey all night. There had been the initial search of the streets which, naturally, had wielded nothing. And then there had been the conversation with Mr Harris, who had been referred through to White Collar after phoning the police. Apparently Caffrey had been at his school all the time Peter had been searching New York. The thought made him seethe with anger. Not only had Caffrey tricked him with an emotional goodbye before escaping, he had mocked any attempts to capture him by cockily returning to his old school. Mr Harris wasn't the only one who was hopping mad about that.

Clunk.

Peter slammed his bowl down on the table top and reached jerkily for the cereal.

"Hon, you ok?" El asked softly.

"Yes," he grunted, ripping the top off a carton of milk.

"You liar. You're making breakfast like you have a vendetta against cutlery." Peter followed her gaze and realised that he was gripping his spoon so tightly his knuckles shone with bone.

"Sorry. I'm just feeling a bit…"

"Frustrated? Angry? Fed up? Betrayed?"

"All of the above." Peter sighed heavily. "It wouldn't be so bad if Caffrey had..." He trailed off. He couldn't think of anything that Caffrey could have done to make this betrayal any better. Apart from stealing the microchip in the first place, he guessed.

"Hon," Elizabeth placed a soft hand on his own. He felt his grip on the spoon relax a tiny bit. "His name is Neal. You're treating him like some common criminal."

"He stopped being Neal the second he stole that painting. The second he ran away from justice."

"Justice?" Elizabeth nibbled the edge of her toast and grimaced. Neither of them were very hungry. "He was going to go to prison, hon. He's fifteen years old. I'm sure he was terrified. No wonder he ran." Peter rolled his eyes. He wasn't in the mood for excuses. He didn't want to listen to anyone justifying Caffrey's actions. In a few hours, he would be in front of another tribunal. They would be assessing the damage caused by Caffrey's escape. The fact that he robbed a museum proved that he was never reformed in the Burke house. The fact that he jumped the courthouse proved that Peter was a bad agent for letting him slip through his fingers. And the fact that after all that trouble, the FBI still didn't have the microchip… He was most likely going to get fired.

Peter grabbed the box of cereal and shook it forcefully into his bowl. A rush of cornflakes clattered against the ceramic.

"I don't want to talk about it, OK?" he asked Elizabeth. "Please, hon, I don't want to know about how frightened he was, or how he really meant it when he said goodbye. I don't care. He knew exactly what he was doing when he robbed that museum. Yes, he said that he was being threatened, but he knew full well that thievery wasn't the only course of action. He could have told me. But he didn't. He didn't trust me and now look what happened. He ran off and left me to be sacked and you with a hole in your lovely, trusting heart."

"I'm not the only one with a hole in my heart, Peter," said Elizabeth gently. "You loved him too. Don't pretend this is just about losing your job."

He gritted his teeth.

"Fine. It's not just about the job. I just feel… hurt. Hurt that he would do such a thing. Hurt that he would leave us after we went through so much together." He blinked back tears and, to hide the fact that he was starting to cry from El, shoved a big spoonful of cornflakes into his mouth.

"Holy moly!" He spat out his half chewed mouthful with a curse, massaging his cheek. "I just bit something hard. There's something in there…" Together, he and El peered into his bowl. There, amidst the mushed up cornflakes, was something rectangular. Definitely not cereal. Black and silver.

"Nearly broke my tooth…"

"Peter," El whispered. "Is that the… microchip?"

Hi everyone, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to leave you with that bittersweet, ambiguous ending. This was the last chapter. However, I will be posting an epilogue some time soon to wrap things up and finish this story off. Please feel free to drop a review as I love hearing your thoughts and opinions!