When he entered the Gallery, Ms. McBride's face had brightened with hope but quickly dimmed when he'd given a slight shake of his head. A few people were milling around the Gallery, taking in the current exhibit, Fresh Perspectives, but as soon as she saw him, she moved away from the couple she'd been speaking with and crossed the Gallery to meet him. When they'd drawn close, she lowered her voice.

"I haven't heard from him, either," she confided. "And neither has Ms. Angevine. I am so worried," her beautiful face creased with her distress. "Have you found anything?" she asked, almost pleadingly. "Does he have his car?"

"No," he told her. "He never made it to the garage Thursday afternoon. We checked his phone-he didn't call a cab, so he had to be on foot. We've pulled CCTV footage from the area outside the Gallery and beyond, and it's being reviewed now. It may provide something to go on. Could I check his office?" He ventured. "Maybe something in his email or calendar might shed some light on where he might be."

Without hesitation, she led him to the office and opened the door.

"He doesn't lock it?" Peter asked, a bit surprised. Nathan Clay, the reclusive and enigmatic artist, was known to be an exceptionally private.

"No," she said. "He leaves his office open if I need something when he is not here. Of course, anything valuable is in the safe, and I can't help you there," she smiled. "Only he has access to that. But I can log into his computer," she said, crossing the room to the desk and opening the closed laptop. "and let you check his work email and his online calendar."

As she was busy with that task, Peter took in the office of Nathan Clay. Peter knew Neal, or Nathan Clay, was very wealthy, but his office didn't flaunt it. It wasn't ostentatious in any way; it was rather minimalistic in style. Elizabeth had described Neal's office in Paris as lacking any personal embellishments, calling it cold, but this room couldn't be described in that way. There wasn't a lot cluttering up the space, some nice paintings on the walls, and a few pieces of three-dimensional art on stands in the alcoves along the unwindowed side of the room. The windowed side of the office sported a small, intimate sitting area. A large, burgundy-bound book lay closed on the coffee table. A small sideboard held tumblers and wine glasses and a Pierre Water dispences. The open cabinet below had an almost full wine rack. Behind the desk where McBride was leaning over to access Neal's laptop, a credenza held a collection of what Peter presumed were antique books, some thick and some thin, with varying colors of leather spines. There was also a small assortment of framed photos-something Elizabeth had noted missing from his Paris office. When Peter had offered a photo of Neal's namesake to him at the airport in Bogota, Neal had declined it, saying he didn't keep moments from his past life. According to Elizabeth, though, he hadn't kept any of his current life either.

Peter stepped closer to see what they were.

Of course, the ones of Little Neal caught his attention first. There were three of them, from various times and ages. There was one of Elodie, looking like a supermodel and all smiles, at a Paris Gallery Event. There was also one of Ms. McBride and a beaming young lady holding some award. Another similar scene depicted McBride and an older gentleman, but this time the man was holding an overly large check. He leaned closer, and his breath caught. Made out to the Mantucker Children's Home, the check was for one million dollars.

At the hitch in his breath, Ms. McBride glanced up at him. Following his gaze, she smiled.

"Mr. Clay is one of the Home's greatest contributors," she explained, with a soft look in her eyes. The woman was probably in love with her boss, Peter guessed. Some things never changed. She nodded to another photo, this a larger one featuring children holding up individual works of art. "He goes every month and does art class with the children," she explained. "They absolutely love him. The only stipulation," she added, "Is that the Home doesn't publicize it in any way."

Peter was left speechless at Neal's patronage of the Children's Home. From what he could tell, Neal had been left to fend for himself most of his life, so it stood to reason he'd have a heart for children in similar situations. But it surprised him Neal had never mentioned his involvement with the home. It was such an admirable, commendable cause, and Neal had always craved praise.

But that was Neal Caffrey, Peter reminded himself, and this was Nathan Clay, the man his friend had become when no one was watching, expecting, or demanding. This was who he was when he got to choose for himself.

"Here," Ms. McBride said, interrupting his musings. "I've got it pulled up for you. Click here," she demonstrated, "to see his email. Then here," again she clicked an icon, "takes you back to his calendar. This tap will pull up his task list." At that, she moved away. "I'm going to check on our patrons," she said. "I'll be back momentarily."

Peter sat down at Neal's desk, and immediately, his eyes fell on a small resin figure of a Columbian Warrior. The small clay item sat next to a container holding an assortment of drawing and writing utensils. Other than the laptop and a small lamp, those were the only things on Neal's immaculate desk. The sight of it brought a warm feeling to Peter's chest. He'd gifted it to Nathan Clay after the artist rescued him from a drug lord who had kidnapped him and spirited him away to Venezuela. That event, and Elizabeth's determination to get him back at all cost, was what had brought Neal back into their lives. It had been a traumatizing thing and Peter still, on occasion, woke in a sweat, thinking he was back in that small, ten-by-ten cell as his time ran down, day by day. But that event had brought Neal home, and for that, Peter could not regret it. He'd waited too long to have Neal back in his life, and he wasn't going to lose him now.

Other than being impressed by Neal's busy schedule, there was nothing to be learned from Neal's correspondence nor his calendar of engagements, so he opened the desk, looking for a notepad or sketch pad. Neal was a hands-on, tactile learner, and he processed by taking notes and making lists. That was a trait he shared with Nathan Clay.

He was not disappointed. It was in the second drawer on the right. Peter flipped through pages of sketches interspersed with various lists-some were needed supplies for the Gallery or his monthly visit to the Children's Home. There was also a list of names, ages, and interests. A check was beside some of them, others not. Peter didn't know what exactly the list was, but Neal was working through it. There was also a page titled Potential birthday gifts for Neal, and after glancing down it, Peter was glad Uncle Nay had shown a little restraint.

He found what he was looking for after several dozen blank pages-almost at the back of the notebook. The way the page was laid out was very familiar-he'd seen Neal's case notes in the same, small, and precise print many times before. But before he took in the details Neal was so proficient at noting, his eyes were drawn to the words scrawled across the bottom of the page in large letters:

Talk to Peter. It was underlined heavily twice. Peter let out a deep breath. Neal had intended to talk to him, to ask for his help. Mozzie and Agent Elliot had both told him that, but a part of him was afraid they'd just been trying to ease the discomfort when they realized he hadn't known.

Each act of vandalism was listed, along with any specifics. There was a list that Peter gathered predated his time with the Bureau and another that included names Peter recognized, some of which had been marked out. Cordero had been marked out, but Black Panthers was still listed. What Mozzie kept telling him was true; the list from his time with the Bureau was substantially longer than the one before it. It was a long, daunting list, but it was something to start with.

Ms. McBride hadn't returned, so he stepped to the office door. When she saw him, she hurried over.

"Can I get a copy of Ne-Mr. Clay's notes on the incident here at the Gallery?"

"Of course." She entered the office and opened a cabinet door on the credenza, revealing a black copy machine. He folded the spiral notebook back, indicating the pages he needed. A moment later, he had them in hand.

For the first time, Peter felt he had something to work with. Neal's notes would be thorough and detailed and an excellent place to start. But on top of that, he knew Neal had planned to come to him. He just hadn't gotten the chance. That knowledge caused some of the weight to lift from his chest. Now, he just had to find his friend.