"I'm telling you, Suit, there is nothing on the street about Neal Caffrey, Nick Halden, nor any of his other aliases. His past, miraculously, is still dead here in New York." Mozzie had arrived at the Burke doorstep at 7 am, having been informed by June of Neal's disappearance. "I'll tell you what I told him," he glared. "This is Suit trouble."

What he'd told Neal. The words hit Peter like a punch to the gut; Mozzie knew. His expression must have shown the shock of betrayal he felt because Elizabeth gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze of understanding. He had worked hard to repair his relationship with Neal, but even with the progress he thought they had made, when Neal sensed he was in trouble, he hadn't come to him. He had gone to Mozzie instead.

That hurt.

And, of course, Mozzie would blame him. In the years he'd worked with Neal and Mozzie by default, he'd gotten used to it. But there was an understanding between them. After standing with Mozzie in that morgue, he knew Mozzie loved Neal, and no matter their differences, when push came to shove, if Neal needed them to stand together, they would. Mozzie's assumptions didn't bother him; in fact, he had the same niggling fear. But that he knew about Neal's difficulties did.

Mozzie must have also read Peter's expression because he glanced uneasily at Elizabeth before settling his eyes on Peter. "You didn't know about the car?"

"No," Peter bit out. "I didn't know about any of it."

It was Mozzie's turn to frown. "All of what?"

"The rash of vandalism at the Gallery," Peter said, watching confusion wash over the little guy's face. "Been going on for weeks."

"Weeks?" Mozzie squeaked. So Neal hadn't told him everything, either. Shamefully, it made Peter feel a little better. "He called me Saturday to cancel our standing chess game," Mozzie explained. "Then he asked me to ask around to see if anyone was talking about him. I asked him what was going on, and he told me about the car. Said he was going to keep his distance from everyone until he knew what was going on."

Elizabeth let out a breath. "That's why he didn't want me and Little Neal to meet him at the park."

And why he hadn't gone back to his apartment. Neal was trying to protect them. Peter understood the sentiment, but it still irritated him.

"Dammit, we've been through this," he growled. They'd had this conversation at length during the Cordero operation, and he thought they'd reach some understanding. They were grown men, responsible for their own actions and not for each others'. "He should have told me."

"He said he was going to," Mozzie told him. "just as soon as he had this showing behind him. I think he thought, you know," he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "it would be a whole thing once you knew."

A whole thing? What did that mean? That he would take it seriously? That he would find out who was threatening Neal and why? He was damn right; it would have been a whole thing. And if he'd come to him weeks ago, then it might not have come to this. Well, there would be time to call Neal out on that later; right now, he had to find him.

"What else did he tell you?"

"Just that someone had followed him out to Queens, slashed his tires, and painted the words traitor, turncoat, and sell-out all over his car."

Peter grimaced; that did sound like suit trouble.

He set aside his frustration and filled Mozzie in on what he'd done so far. He called all the area hospitals to see if Nathan Clay, or any John Doe fitting his description, had been admitted during the last 48 hours. Nothing had turned up there, either. Whether that was good or bad remained to be seen. Neal's phone went straight to voicemail, and when he'd called in a favor and had it traced, its last known location was in the vicinity of the gallery. A call to the garage revealed Neal had never arrived to pick up his car. He'd also spoken to Elodie. She knew of the Gallery issues but hadn't known about the car being vandalized and hadn't talked to Monsuier Clay since Wednesday. She seemed remarkably unconcerned, and he remembered the strange, no questions asked rule of their relationship. He'd thought that might have changed since the big reveal, but maybe it hadn't. Elizabeth was sure theirs was a cold, emotionless alliance, and her response to Neal's disappearance lent that some credence. She promised to call him if she heard from Neal, and he reciprocated.

Once Mozzie knew all Peter knew, and likewise, he departed with a promise to scour the underworld if necessary to turn up a clue to what had happened to Neal between the gallery and the garage.

Peter leaned back in his chair, the weariness heavy on his shoulders and disappointment heavy on his heart.

"After everything we've been through, El," he breathed. "Why would he not come to me?" He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and resting his head in his hands. "He knew he was being followed. Thought he was in danger. Yet he didn't come to me."

Peter heard Elizabeth take the seat Mozzie had vacated; felt her hand on his arm.

"He was going to," she reminded him. "He just wanted to get through last night. That's understandable, isn't it?" When he didn't answer, she continued. "The showing was a big step for him, Peter, and for his new life. And he wanted you there. You, his friend, not an agent on an investigation."

Peter let out a long sigh. He did understand, and Neal was right; it would have been a whole thing. Peter knew how he could be. Hell, look how he handled stopping by Synergy Suits. A potential threat to Neal would have taken priority over everything else. It would have likely brought Neal's past front and center. Neal had elected to return to New York to reconnect with the people he cared about, but he hadn't wanted to reconnect with the life he'd had before. He wanted to be Nathan Clay, an artist, and entrepreneur. Not Neal Caffrey, conman, one-time felon, and CI for White Collar. Neal had worked hard to reach the point where he could unveil his original work to the world.

Fresh Perspective. Neal was trying to start over. As much as it bothered him that Neal hadn't told him immediately, he understood why he'd want to wait before tackling the issue. More than once, he'd insisted he was no longer Neal Caffrey; he was Nathan Clay. And to have something from his past rain on his big day was unforgivable.

But rain it had.

Peter raised his head and met Elizabeth's concerned eyes. "But he wasn't there, El." He felt a lump rise in his throat, and the ache in his chest blossomed. Worrying about Neal never got easier. "He's gone, and I don't know how to find him."

She scoffed. "Of course you do. Finding Neal Caffrey is what you do, remember?"

"I've done all I can," he pointed out in frustration. "and I got nothing. I need to dump his phone, find out if anyone called and caused him to change his plans. I need to access all the CCTV footage between the gallery and the garage to see if he hailed a cab, met someone along the way, or entered a building en route. I need to put a trace on his bank accounts to see if his debit card was used or if any money was withdrawn. But I can't do any of that without FBI resources. And technically, Neal Caffrey isn't missing-he's still dead, I can't look for him. If I open an official investigation, it will ruin everything he's trying to do."

It was Elizabeth's turn to lean back with a frown.

"Then don't look for Neal Caffrey," she said. "look for Nathan Clay."