Chapter One

"Burke." Peter barked into the phone. He and Elizabeth were halfway through the storage building. Spring cleaning and all that. But of course, his work phone was close by at all times. Unfortunately, crime took no holidays. He waited, but no one spoke.

But the call hadn't dropped-he could hear ambient noise coming across the airwaves. "Hello?"

Elizabeth glanced at him, a box of plastic pots in her arms, her dark hair swept back in a jaunty ponytail. He gave a shrug. Maybe there was a bad connection. But after the space of several moments, the silence broke.

"Is this...Peter?"

The voice was low and hesitant, but its familiarity rang through him, making his breath catch and his heart speed up. Was his imagination running away with him? He wanted it to be Neal, but he'd come to accept he'd never hear that voice again. Five months and nothing. No sightings. No tips that panned out in the least. No unsigned postcard from some foreign port.

Five long, discouraging and depressing months.

The initial search in the waters off the coast of Manhattan Beach had been cut short due to darkness and an incoming storm. Posing as a fence, Neal had been on a yacht brokering a deal to move stolen bonds, but somehow, his cover had been blown. In the chaos that followed that revelation, Neal had abandoned ship to avoid reprisal. They had received audio a few brief seconds after he hit the water. There had been shouts, gunfire, and then nothing. Whether the bullets had found their mark or not was unknown. The situation dire, Peter had called in reinforcements. With no time to coordinate a full search before the storm reached the danger level, the Coast Guard had utilized the resources on hand to search both from the water and the air for as long as possible. Peter had gone with the initial vessel to Neal's last known location, but there had been no sign of either him or the yacht. A mere two hours after the altercation had left Neal in the water, the search had been abandoned. A full search would ensue once the storm passed, but Peter knew from the Captain's grim face that Neal's chances of surviving the hours until then were very slim.

He'd reported to Hughes, who had in turn notified the Marshal Service. He'd gotten their call as he was leaving Sheepheads. It had been a very short exchange. He understood they had a job to do as well as their skepticism, but after the last two hours, he didn't have the patience to deal with them. He told them the search was to resume at dawn, he'd keep them informed and hung up.

The whole afternoon kept running through his head all the drive home. Neal should never have been aboard the yacht in the first place. The meeting was supposed to have occurred on dry land at the Marina, but Peter had understood why Neal had gone along when it had moved down the dock to Miggin's Yacht. Neal rarely passed judgment on the White Collar criminals they pursued unless they were violent, and Oliver Miggins was that. Neal had been determined to complete the task of brokering the deal for the stolen bonds and exposing Miggens for the murderer he was. Moving the meeting from the marina to the yacht wasn't ideal, but it was manageable. They still had audio and, with some adjustments, could offer Neal some coverage. That is, until the yacht had weighed anchor and sailed from the slip. To his credit, Neal had protested, but Miggins had insisted if he wanted the business, he had to stay aboard. And Neal would do anything to close a deal. Anything.

Peter had arrived home just before ten, exhausted but wound tight and unable to sleep. The storm raged outside and the thought of Neal, possibly injured, alone in the cold, stormy waters of the bay was worse than any nightmare. He'd waited, paced, flipped mindlessly through tv channels, hoping his phone would ring with news; good news. Neal had evaded the bullets fired into the water and made it to shore. He was an agile swimmer, and they hadn't been that far offshore. He could have done it. And oh, how he'd embellish his tale of survival at the water cooler when he returned to the office. Or he'd been plucked from the water by a passing boat bound for Sheephead Bay to weather the storm. Any minor injury could be easily treated, although Neal would likely milk it for all it was worth. That was okay. Any of those outcomes would be welcome. Any outcome other than the one that left a knot of dread in the pit of his stomach.

There was hope, Elizabeth had insisted through her own tears, there was always hope. This was Neal, after all. He was young, healthy, and beyond resourceful. He'd find a way to survive. Peter tried to hold that thought, but as the hours passed and no call came, it became more and more difficult.

Just six hours after leaving, he was back, jacket whipping against the ever-present coastal breeze, watching the dawn break over the water as the search began again. This time, the NYPD Scuba team, police Harbor, Coast Guard, and FDNY were all involved. The search was on the water, in the water, on land, and in the air, but despite the massive effort and manpower involved, it proved as futile as the one the night before. Peter knew it was a recovery operation at this point, not a rescue. The Divers were called back in at noon, but the FDNY kept crews combing miles of shoreline, and rescue boats continued patrolling. Peter, feeling there was nothing for him to do, returned to the office. Walking past Neal's desk, he'd paused and rested his hand there a moment. The entire office had gone silent at his arrival, and he felt their eyes on him as he stood there, trying to keep his composure. Taking a deep breath, he walked with purpose down the aisle. Diana stood up, her eyes meeting his in question. A quick glance at Clinton showed the same expression.

"No news," he bit out, then continued past and mounted the stairs to his office. He'd still been there when he gotten the call that the search had been officially suspended. If there were any changes or discoveries, he'd be notified. There was a chance the body might wash up along the shore at some point, but there was no guarantee. No guarantee of closure. Sadly, the caller had said, that was often the case of those lost at sea.

The Marshals kept the case open and the search ongoing, pointing out that if Neal had indeed escaped custody, he'd be counting on people believing he'd drowned in the bay, his body unrecovered. Peter hoped they were right, that Neal was alive and well somewhere. Anything was better than Neal being dead. A broad, multi-agency net had been cast to catch Neal Caffrey domestically and abroad, but nothing had turned up from those efforts, either. Not one tip had panned out. There had been no confirmed sightings. All Neal's possessions were accounted for, and according to Mozzie, even Neal's Rainy Day fund was still safely tucked away, along with the clean identity he'd had ready since the beginning of his work with White Collar. Neal had been a pro at dissembling but Mozzie, not so much. He'd been genuinely worried, but as the days and weeks had passed with no word from his friend, his worry had changed to grief. After months passed with no breaks or leads, even the Marshals had begun to consider that Neal hadn't survived his last White Collar assignment.

And no matter what people tried to tell him, Peter knew it was his fault. Except for Mozzie, of course. He'd not held back in his anger. It fully blamed the Suit. It was the Suit who'd sent him to meet with Miggins, the Suit who'd put Neal in danger, the Suit who failed to protect him. Neal would have been better left in prison, Mozzie had shouted, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks, at least he'd be alive. Peter hadn't needed Mozzie to tell him all that; he knew it already, and the guilt weighed heavily on him. Nothing was the same. White Collar wasn't the same. He wasn't the same. He and the team kept working, but he felt as if he was going through the motions. He'd even considered leaving the Bureau. Was still considering it. He hadn't just lost an FBI asset, a CI, that night. He'd lost a good man, a friend, even. But Neal hadn't known he saw him that way; he'd never told him. And that was one of his greatest regrets.

But the voice on the other end of the phone sounded like Neal. His heart wanted it so badly, maybe his ears were just going along with it.

"Who is this?" he asked, lowering the phone to see if a number was displayed. There was, and the origin was Jonesport, Maine. Curious, Elizabeth stepped closer.

Again, there was silence for the space of several seconds before the caller responded.

"That's the problem," he said. "I don't know." The achingly familiar voice broke. "Is this Peter?"

Peter's heart sped up. It was Neal. He was certain now. Or as certain as he could be without putting eyes on him. Had Neal changed his mind? Did he want to come home? Was this a ruse to explain his disappearance? To escape the consequences of his actions? He didn't care as long as it was Neal.

"Yeah," he assured. Sensing his growing tension, Elizabeth placed a hand on his arm. "this is Peter." He met his wife's questioning gaze. He had to know. "Neal, is that you?"

Elizabeth's eyes widened, her breath caught, and her grip on his arm tightened.

"Oh my God," she breathed, "is it-" He halted her with a raised hand.

"Neal?" He repeated.

"Neal." The name echoed as if the speaker was trying it on for size. "Neal." He said it again. "Is that my name?"

"I believe so," Peter replied, wondering if something was indeed wrong. The voice was Neal's, but not the uncertainty it held. "You sound like Neal." Again there was a pause. "Where have you been?" he pressed. "What the hell happened?"

Elizabeth pulled the phone down, hitting the speaker icon, challenge in her eyes. She wanted to hear, needed to hear him herself.

"I don't know what happened." The uncertainty quickly changed into desperation. "I don't know anything." Hearing for herself, Elizabeth's expression told him it wasn't wishful thinking; the man on the other end of the line was, in fact, Neal Caffrey. "I've been here nearly five months and nothing," the frustration was palpable. "Nothing has come back. They didn't tell me anything," Peter wondered who hadn't told him anything, "just that they'd found me in the water down the coast. I don't know if they were lying to me or not. They seemed relieved I didn't have a clue as to who I am or where I came from. But you do, don't you?" he queried, a hint of desperation slipping in. "Are you...are you my..." Peter heard him swallow. "my brother?" The emotional weight of it hit Peter square in the chest; the slight intake of breath beside him said it had a similar effect on his wife. In no circumstance could he see Neal being this vulnerable. At least not willingly. Maybe it wasn't a ruse at all. Maybe Neal didn't know who he was. "Is that why I remembered your name and this number?" Neal continued anguish in his voice. "Why I feel like I can..."

Again, his voice caught, and when he didn't finish, Peter pressed him. "Can what?"

"Trust you," he stated. "I feel like I can trust you. And I need someone, Peter," the desperation leaked through again. "someone I can trust."

"You can trust me," Peter assured him, meaning it completely. He only wanted Neal to be alive and safe. And, well, back in Federal Custody where he belonged. "Tell me where you are, Neal. I'll come get you. We can figure it all out from there."

"I don't know," Neal replied doubtfully, "I...I just have this...bad feeling. All the time. I don't want trouble." Peter winced; there would be no avoiding that. "I just want answers."

"If you tell me where you are," Peter urged again. "I'll come there and give them to you."

He held his breath, wondering if Neal would demand answers now instead of later. If he did, he wasn't sure what he should say. The truth, in this case, would not set him free.

"In a town called Jonesport, Maine. Ever heard of it?" Peter admitted he hadn't. "You can find me on the Beale Street wharf."

"Is that where you work?"

"Work and live," Neal answered. "I'm out on the boat four or five days a week, but other than that, you'll find me here."

"Boat?" Peter repeated, trying to picture Neal in the life he'd been living for the past five months. "What kind of boat?"

"A fishing boat, Peter. It's Maine." Peter smiled; this sounded like Neal. "When do you think you can come?"

In his capacity as an agent, he should immediately report this call to the Marshals. They'd move in within the hour, take Neal into custody, and that would be that. His mental state would be evaluated but by a prison psychologist. He met Elizabeth's eyes and saw the plea there. A plea his own heart echoed.

"I can be there by Tuesday afternoon," he lied. He'd be there by morning. "Where will you be?"

"The Mariner should dock around 7:30," Neal answered. "I can meet you at the Fish House at, say 8?" He asked. "You'll want me to shower first, trust me."

Peter would be glad to see Neal anytime, anywhere, and he didn't care how he smelled.

"So Tuesday, 8 o'clock at," he hesitated. "The Fish House?"

"It's the restaurant on the Wharf," Neal said. "I rent a room above it."

"Okay," Peter said, trying to wrap his mind around Neal on a fishing vessel and living above a Fish House. "Tuesday at eight at the Fish House."

"You're sure you know me?" The question held both doubt and desperation. "You're sure I'm Neal?"

"Yeah," Peter answered. "I'm sure."

There was a pause. "But you're not my family, are you?" He sounded disappointed.

"Not technically, no," Peter answered, again meeting Elizabeth's eyes. "But I am your friend," he insisted. "A good friend. You did the right thing calling me, Neal."

"I hope so." There was weariness in his voice. "I'll see you Tuesday, Peter."