A/N: Reference: S1E18—The Stable Boy

Chapter 48

Despite his misgivings, Neal was exhausted, and it wasn't long before sleep claimed him. By the time he opened his eyes, the noonday sun was bright in his eyes. Four hours and a bit weren't nearly long enough, but Neal got up anyway, dressed, and made himself a cup of coffee. He slapped a couple of pieces of American cheese between two slices of buttered bread and put them in the microwave for half a minute.

There was a message from Marco telling him not to make a habit out of 'these late nights' and to be there at seven tomorrow morning, but there was a cheerful note underlying the gravity of the handyman's tone that bespoke more tolerance than irritation. Neal still felt bad about it, though; far worse than he'd felt about stealing those watches from that other boss all those years back. He'd get an early night tonight, he promised himself, and tomorrow he'd make sure he was on Marco's doorstep at a quarter to seven.

His resolution made, Neal sat down to his lunchtime breakfast, and thought about what to do with his day. When he was done, he got his jacket and headed down to the sheriff's station.


Emma wasn't there, but Mary Margaret called out a friendly greeting from the confines of the holding cell. Neal turned and stepped closer. "Wasn't sure I'd see you back here," he admitted.

Mary Margaret took no offense. "I wasn't sure I'd be back here. Or," a shadow seemed to fall over her face, "well… earlier last night, before you came, I wasn't sure if I'd be anywhere today."

"Yeah," Neal said softly. "How are you holding up?"

Mary Margaret seemed to give the question serious thought. "I'm not sure," she said thoughtfully. "Last night, everything seemed to be crashing down around me, people I thought I could rely on…well, one person anyway," she amended, lowering her eyes, "were accusing me, and as much as Emma was saying she was on my side, she wasn't helping me, and then I found the key in my cell and—"

"Wait," Neal cut her off. "You found a key?"

Mary Margaret nodded. "I-I thought maybe Emma had put it there, because she knew I was innocent and it was the only way she could help me." She winced. "Stupid, right?"

"No," Neal said. "Not stupid, but not Emma either. Where's the key, now?"

"I lost it in the woods," Mary Margaret admitted. "Okay, I chucked it. Even if Emma had helped me escape, I knew other people were going to come after me and if they found the key on me, there would be questions about how I got it and if it was Emma… even if it wasn't Emma, I didn't want anyone to get in trouble for helping me."

Neal nodded. "I hear you. Like I said, it wasn't Emma, though it does beg the question: who else would have had a key to your cell?"

Mary Margaret frowned. "I don't know," she said slowly. "That… that is an excellent question."

Neal didn't need Emma's talent to know that the schoolteacher was telling the truth. "Mary Margaret?" he asked quietly. "Why did you come back? You weren't more than a mile or so from the town line; twenty minutes of walking and you'd have been past it. It must've taken you more than three times as long to get back into town and we both know you didn't do it."

"Thank you," Mary Margaret said, smiling for the first time since they'd started talking. "I think I needed to hear that. And to answer your question… it was Mr. Gold."

Neal blinked. He hadn't been expecting that answer. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, he found me after I escaped and we talked and… I realized I didn't want to spend my whole life running away from my life. So I came back to face it."

Neal sucked in a breath. "What exactly did he say to you?" he asked, wondering whether she could hear him over the sound of his own heart pounding.

Mary Margaret hesitated. "I'm not sure I remember everything, she said slowly, "but he said something about having had to run a time or two himself and how it made a difference whether you were running from a thing or towards one…"

Neal wasn't sure how he managed to keep his composure until he was out of the station and back in his car. If Mary Margaret's memory was as good as it had sounded, then… Then Neal didn't know what to think. Oh, Papa probably had some agenda; he'd wanted Mary Margaret to come back… But if he had her in the car, why didn't he just lock the doors and drive her back? Maybe he couldn't have dragged her inside, kicking and screaming, but according to Emma, he was there when she found Mary Margaret's cell empty; they both knew she was a fugitive. All he had to do was call Emma. Or the sheriff station, if he didn't have her direct cell. So, why hadn't he? Why had he given Mary Margaret a-a pep talk that, from the little bit he'd learned long ago in the Enchanted Forest and the bit more he knew now after having read parts of Henry's book, could just as easily have been one Papa might have wished someone else had given him?

It didn't sound like advice that one would expect to hear coming from the Dark One.

Plus, if Henry was right about 'bad things' happening to people who tried to leave, Papa might just have saved Mary Margaret's life.

Sure, he had an agenda. He had to. But for the first time, Neal found himself asking, 'So what?' Papa had still saved her. If someone made a big donation for a tax write-off or to see their name on a donor plaque instead of—or in addition to—the worthiness of the cause, would it have been better for them to keep the money because the motivation wasn't entirely pure?

Of course, if Papa had saved her to set her up for something worse, then that was different, but had he?

Neal didn't know, but for the first time in a long time, he found himself thinking about what might happen if he were to seek Papa out and tell him who he was. He wasn't planning to. He reminded himself firmly that Papa could have come to this land with him, but had chosen his power over his son. He reminded himself that no matter how long ago that had been, no matter how many regrets Papa might nurse, it was still Papa's fault for letting go. He reminded himself that he was still angry.

The problem was that he didn't really feel angry anymore. At least, not as angry.

And he was still thinking about telling Papa.


He was still thinking about it the following morning, when he woke up early, ready to make up for leaving Marco short-handed the previous day. Emma was still in bed, but she'd left Henry's book on the kitchen table. Neal reached for it, flipped it open, and started turning the pages.

His eyebrows shot up. Jefferson was in the book. His face pulled into a frown. Jefferson might be in there, but not as the Mad Hatter. It looked as though he'd been working for Papa. He breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn't disclosed his identity to the man last night. As desperate as Jefferson was to get free of this realm, Neal had no doubt that he would have sought Papa out and tried to cut a deal. Something along the lines of safe passage for himself and his daughter in exchange for sure knowledge of Neal's whereabouts.

Despite his ruminations yesterday, Neal was very glad that Jefferson couldn't make that deal. He might be toying with the idea of letting Papa know who he was, but if he was about to do so, it would be at a time and place of his own choice. He kept reading and let out a low whistle. He wasn't nearly as… opportunistic as his father could be. All the same, he had to admit that knowing that Jefferson had more than one reason to oppose the Evil Queen just might prove useful at some point.

For now, though, unless he wanted to risk letting Jefferson guess his identity, he intended to give that mansion near the town line as wide a berth as he possibly could.


Rumpelstiltskin watched the sleeping woman dispassionately. Her breathing was slow and regular. Her clothing was mussed and filthy, her hair hadn't seen a brush in days, and she seemed far paler than she should have been for having been indoors for less than a week.

He drew closer to check her pulse and was relieved to find it strong. Her survival was non-negotiable, and while he hadn't believed her to be much the worse for wear after her abduction, there was always the risk that she'd react badly to the sedative with which he was dosing her food, or that she'd sustained some injury he hadn't yet detected. Thus far, however, all was well. His gaze fell on the tray of food, nearly half of it still there. If that was all she was eating, he might need to increase the dosage, lest she awaken to soon. He didn't believe she'd be able to escape the confines of this cellar, however he would prefer to forgo being assaulted, in the event that she attempted to escape by overpowering him.

In the end, though, he decided against it. If all the food she had available was drugged, then it didn't matter if she ate half of it, fell asleep, and ate the other half when she awakened. He brought his hands to his face to assure himself that the woolen muffler was still securely wound about it from nose to chin. Dark sunglasses and a blue parka, its hood pulled forward, served to further conceal his features. That the jacket was far removed from his usual sartorial choices was an added benefit.

He quickly collected Kathryn's unfinished meal and set another, fresher one down its place, together with a bottle of water. Then he made his way upstairs.

As he padded carefully along the bamboo hardwood floor, he felt a slight pang of irritation that the Curse had given him that pink monstrosity, instead of this classic Nantucket-style home. Although he did own it, and could move in here quite legally, if he so chose, he knew Regina wasn't the only person in town who was awake. She'd forced him to reveal himself with that chipped cup, but the fewer people who knew he wasn't bumbling about blind and clueless, the better. He didn't want to deal with Jefferson popping in to plead with him to restore his daughter to him. (It would happen sooner rather than later, if the Savior ever stopped dawdling and did as she was meant to. For now, though, he was quite unable to do as the one-time portal jumper desired—and he much preferred it when those about him didn't realize how powerless he truly was.)

He could handle Jefferson, if it came to it, though. The Snow Queen was another matter entirely. He was not about to confront her until such time as the Curse broke and he'd retrieved the potion from where it had been stashed for safekeeping nearly three decades ago.

For now, it was better if both of them presumed him to be asleep still, and for that reason, he was going to return home to his far-too-pink domicile, at least, for the time being.

One day, though, he thought with a thin smile, as he let himself out the back way, he rather thought that this house would be a fitting home for the Dark One. For now, though, there were other matters that required his attention.


Neal was driving to Mr. Clarke's to pick up an emergency roll of duct tape, when he spied Emma coming out of Granny's up the street. He slowed, looking for a parking spot, when he saw David Nolan hurry up to her. From the slump of David's shoulders when he walked away a moment later, Neal imagined that Emma hadn't told him anything he wanted to hear, but he waited until Emma was alone again before approaching her.

"Hey."

"Hey, yourself," Emma replied, greeting him with a smile and kiss.

"Everything okay?" Neal asked, jerking his head in the direction in which David was retreating.

Emma shook her head. "He was looking for an update on Mary Margaret I'm not sure he's entitle to," she said heavily. There was a buzzing sound from her pocket and she pulled out her phone. One eyebrow shot up.

"Trouble?"

"Gold," Emma said. "Which… usually turns out to be the same thing," she added.

Neal sniffed. "You've noticed," he said, keeping his tone light. "What does he want?"

"A pretrial meeting with the prosecutor," Emma said.

Neal frowned. "Since when does he need your permission for that?"

"And Mary Margaret," Emma continued. "How does that even make sense?"

"You're going to turn him down?"

Emma shook her head. "Not my place. Like it or not, he's her lawyer, he's supposedly acting in her best interests, and it's her call." She sighed. "Of course, she doesn't get to make that call if he can't talk to her. I have to get back to the station to let him in. Want to come?"

Neal shook his head. "I have to pick up some duct tape and get back to work. Hey," he added. "Don't let him sweet-talk you into doing anything you don't feel right about, you got me?"

Emma nodded. "Yeah. Call me when you're done with work. Maybe we'll go out for dinner."

"You got it."


Several hours later, Emma was still asking herself how Gold could have thought that a meeting with the prosecutor—a smarmy guy named Alfred Spencer, who reminded her a little too much of Ross Anderson—would be a good idea. She'd had a ringside seat so that she'd been able to watch him rip Mary Margaret to shreds. To make matters worse, Regina had been sitting right beside her when he had.

It was enough to make her want to hurl the vase of flowers that Sidney had brought in that morning against the wall, but she wasn't about to let Regina see her lose her temper. It could wait.

She'd been a bit taken aback when he'd brought in the flowers, reminding him that she was currently in a relationship. He'd stammered and mumbled something apologetic about his not being able to find anything to incriminate Regina, and she'd played along and pretended she believed he wasn't still deep in the mayor's pockets. If he thought that she was buying his pack of lies, he wouldn't feel the need to act sneakier. At least, that was the theory.

Now, alone in the office, she was still asking herself why he'd brought them. Maybe she was being paranoid. Maybe this was just 'small town hospitality'. Maybe. All the same, she rose to her feet, picked up the vase, carefully brought it into the bathroom, lifted out the flowers, pressed down on the stopper, and tilted the remaining contents into the sink.

She was only mildly surprised when a small round device, not unlike the one she'd planted in Regina's office some weeks ago, poured out with the water. "Sonofabitch," she murmured. Then, just in case someone was listening on the other end at that moment, she added a few more choice words, ending with an angry, "And I hope you rot in hell, Alfred Spencer!" Then she went back into the main office, picked up a Lucite paperweight, carried it into the bathroom, and flung it—hard—against the wall.

Emma wasn't about to lie: that had felt good. She took several deep, calming breaths. Then she refilled the vase, replaced both flowers and bug, and left the vase in the bathroom. The next time she wanted to send Sidney or Regina on some wild goose chase, she'd have the perfect way to do so. Meanwhile, the bug could stay in here, where the only conversations it would pick up would be the ones she meant it to!

The crime lab still didn't have a report on the finger nail or the polish she'd found in Mary Margaret's loft. The feeling of catharsis that had washed over her evaporated with that bit of news. Through the Plexiglas walls of her inner office, she saw Mary Margaret sitting slumped in her holding cell and couldn't bear to see her friend's hopelessness and have nothing to say that might lift it. She'd told Mary Margaret to trust her, and now Emma couldn't say that Mary Margaret was better off for it.

Suddenly, she felt like she couldn't be at the station for another minute. She grabbed her jacket. She'd brought Henry's book to work with her today, and she scooped that up too, as she all but sprinted for the door. Her car was in the lot, but while a drive might be relaxing, Emma felt that a good brisk walk might do her more good. A sea breeze blew back her hair and she welcomed its bracing chill. Gritting her teeth, she walked into the breeze, letting it blow through her clothes as she headed towards its source.


August found her at the pier an hour later, while she was rifling through the book's pages. The stories were… unconventional, but fairy tale retellings were kind of a thing—even if they weren't her thing. (Well, not usually her thing; if you twisted her arm hard enough, you could probably get her to confess that she'd enjoyed Ever After a great deal more than she'd thought she would. There was something deeply satisfying about a Cinderella who didn't need to be rescued by her handsome prince, and even got to rescue him for a change.) Unfortunately, these stories weren't being especially helpful right now. Henry seemed to act as though the book held all the answers to what was going on in his life and, even though she'd known it was silly, this afternoon, Emma had been desperate enough to look inside it for herself. So far, she was coming up empty.

"What you doing?" August asked, after he'd observed her for several minutes.

Emma glanced up with a groan. "Grasping at straws," she admitted. The bug in the vase only proved that someone wanted to listen in on the doings at the sheriff station. It didn't exonerate Mary Margaret or implicate Regina. She wasn't entirely sure it implicated Sidney—he could always claim he hadn't know it was in there. She knew she was being spied upon, but it didn't help Mary Margaret one iota.

August sat down beside her with an easy smile. "Still trying to find a way to prove your friend's been framed?" he asked.

Emma nodded glumly. "Every time I go down a path I think leads somewhere, it ends up being a dead end. I used to think I had these great instincts… Or a superpower. Or… Ah, I don't know."

"It sounds like you got a case of writer's block," August told her, and despite his smile, there was a seriousness underlying his words. "Only," he added, "without the whole writing part."

Emma had never thought herself much of a writer, but if August was as he claimed to be, then he might know what he was talking about. "Maybe," she allowed, and glanced back down at the book.

August didn't leave. "You know," he said, "when I get struck by a block, I usually reread what I've done, rather than plow ahead blindly. Sometimes, I find there'll be a little nugget of inspiration left behind."

She wasn't sure she understood. "You mean start over?" she asked. The idea of beginning the investigation all over again from square one didn't appeal to her, and more to the point, it wasn't as though she could slap a boot on the 'wheels of justice' that were poised to roll off out of town with Mary Margaret aboard to put things on pause while she recovered old ground.

August shook his head. "I mean," he said, "when I start writing, I usually have one idea. And then, in the middle, I may get another idea, and things are different.

Emma's eyebrows lifted. "So, your perspective changes."

"Exactly. When you started this investigation, what was it about?"

"A missing person," Emma replied promptly. "Then, it became a murder, and then a cover-up."

August nodded. "And if you knew that then, maybe you would have approached things differently."

Emma pondered that for a moment. Then she rose to her feet.

August followed suit. "Where you going?"

Emma was already moving. "Scene of the crime."

August grinned. "I'll drive," he said, falling into step behind her.

Emma remembered what Neal had said about August's fixation with her. He seemed normal enough, but all the same, maybe driving off with him wasn't the best idea. Even if she'd already done it once. "No," she told him. "I'm fine."

August didn't back down. "No," he said. "You're not. You look like you haven't slept in days. And, let's be honest – it was my idea."

There wasn't much she could say to that, and as drained as she felt right now, it was just possible that August might turn up something that she'd overlook. She sighed. "All right. Come on." Her instincts told her that August really was trying to help, but if she was wrong? Well, she had her gun with her, not to mention a bunch of self-defense classes under her belt. She'd be fine.

Kathryn probably thought the same thing, she thought, but despite that misgiving, she climbed up onto the motorcycle wrapped her arms around August's waist, and held on.


"Hi," Henry greeted Neal, who glanced up from his brown-bag lunch.

"Shouldn't you be in school?"

Henry shrugged. "It's my lunch, too, and school's just down the street. As long as I'm back before the bell, nobody'll care."

"Except your teacher, your mother—"

"She's not really my mother, you know."

Neal sighed. "Legally, she is, and there are different kinds of 'real'." He rose to his feet. "C'mon. I'll walk you back."

Henry nodded reluctantly and fell into step beside his father. It didn't take long before he perked right back up again, though. "So, that guy who grabbed Ms Blanchard," he said. "Do you think he's got Belle, too?"

"Huh?" Neal was already regretting that he'd told Henry anything at all about that night.

"Well, if he wanted Ms Blanchard or you, so that he could blackmail my real mom, maybe he's got Belle so he can blackmail Mr. Gold."

"You think he's been holding Belle prisoner for twenty-eight years, without anyone knowing about it?" Neal asked skeptically.

Henry shrugged. "You weren't here before the Curse started breaking. Nobody knew how much time was passing except me."

Neal shook his head. "Sorry, Henry, but that kind of disproves your theory. I mean, are you saying that Jefferson kidnapped Belle twenty-eight years ago, just because one day, Mr. Gold was going to wake up and he wanted to make sure he had some… hold… over him when he did?"

"Who says Mr. Gold's been asleep all this time?" Henry asked. "If it were my Curse, I'd want to be awake for it."

"Being awake for it is what made Jefferson a little… unhinged," Neal pointed out, even as he found himself remembering the way Papa had been after he'd become the Dark One. Papa was losing his grip more and more every day back then. Would he have cared if insanity was the price to pay for remembering who he was? Would it have made any difference? Or maybe he thought the Curse would make him sane? Seeing the way he is now, maybe it did… Papa was awake now, but had he been so for all this time, or was that a relatively new development? And if it was, what had triggered it? He realized that Henry was talking again and blinked. "Sorry, what?"

"According to my book, the Blue Fairy knew that my mom—that Emma—was going to be the savior and she told Snow White and Prince Charming. If they told everyone else, then Jefferson would know. And he'd know that if he ever needed Rumpelstiltskin's help, and he didn't want to lose out in a deal, then he'd need something—or someone—that Rumpelstiltskin wanted."

It made sense, Neal had to admit. "I don't want you going to his house on your own," he said firmly. "If there's reason to suspect she's there, then we get a search warrant first." Honestly, he intended to keep himself, Emma, and Henry as far away from that creep as possible.

"Okay," Henry sighed. "Hey, maybe my mom has a secret room in the basement." His eyes grew wide. "Or maybe in her vault!"

"Henry," Neal sighed, "we can't just go breaking and entering all over town. I mean, I'm Emma's deputy now," he pointed out. "We have to do things by the book. Not to mention that the mayor would probably kill me and ground you for life," he added, only half-joking. "So," he said firmly, "you find me some sort of proof without going skulking around in places you aren't supposed to be, and if it's good enough, I'll get that warrant." They were at the school gates now and Neal placed both hands on his son's shoulders. "Otherwise, you need to keep a low profile and stay out of trouble." He smiled. "Can't have the wrong people finding out about Operation Cobra, right?"

Henry sighed. "Right," he admitted reluctantly, just as the bell went. "Gotta go," he said at once. "See you, Dad!"

Neal watched him slip through the gate and into the throng of students hurrying back into the building. "See you… son," he murmured.


At Emma's request, August drove the motorcycle to the toll bridge in the woods and parked beside it. Both slid off, Emma a bit more easily. "Ruby found the box with the heart right over here," Emma said, bending down, "just by the shore." August didn't reply and when Emma glanced over her shoulder, she realized that he was wincing and rubbing at his leg. "What's wrong?" she asked.

August shook his head. "Nothing."

"It doesn't seem like nothing," Emma replied with a worried frown. "Here, let me look."

August backed away. "No," he said quickly, "it's okay. It's just a shin splint. Just…let me walk it off. Sorry," he said a moment later. "I know this must be hard on you."

"Yeah," Emma muttered. "That's an understatement." She stooped down and began clearing rocks away from the place where the box had been buried.

August drew closer. "I don't know you that well," he said, "but, it seems to me, that aside from Henry, Mary Margaret's the closest thing to family you've got." Seeing Emma's frown, he smiled. "It's okay to admit it."

"You don't think you're leaving out Neal?" Emma asked wryly.

"Yeah, sorry," August said, not sounding sorry at all. "I guess he's close to it, too."

"You know, trying to waltz into my life twenty-eight years after you waltzed out of it is… kind of weird, and more than a little creepy, right?" Emma asked him, not looking up. She was gratified to hear his embarrassed swallow.

"He told you."

"He's my fiancé. We talk." She was debating whether to tell him that she was also aware that he'd played a part in getting her and Neal arrested, when she spied something in the sand that definitely wasn't another stone.

"Uh… Should I ask what else you talked about?" August asked.

Emma plucked up the thing that had caught her interest and her eyes widened. "August," she exclaimed. "Look."

August was beside her in a moment. "What is it?" he asked.

"It's a shard," Emma breathed. "From a shovel, I'll bet. It must've broken off when it hit a rock. If we can find the shovel that it broke off of, we can prove that Mary Margaret didn't bury the heart. We can prove that she's innocent."

August smiled slowly. "And I'm going to guess you know exactly whose shovel it is."

"Oh, you know it."


Neal was surprised to find a visitor on his doorstep when he arrived home later that day. "Madame Mayor," he greeted her, his tone carefully neutral.

"Mr. Cassidy," she returned pleasantly.

He raised an eyebrow. "Can I… uh… help you with anything?"

Regina nodded. "Actually, I came around to apologize," she said. "When Ms Swan came to town, she and I got off on the wrong foot. And while I suspect that she and I will be at odds, so long as she refuses to believe the evidence staring her in the face and prefers to think that I've somehow… framed Miss Blanchard," she sighed and rolled her eyes slightly skywards, "I see no reason that you and I need to be enemies as well."

Neal frowned. "Um… okay," he said. "So…?"

Regina smile grew warmer. "Since it seems you're staying," she said, walking briskly back to her car and popping open the trunk, "consider this a housewarming gift."

Neal took the largish, square, flat box in both hands hesitantly. "Thanks," he said, wondering what she was playing at.

"I love my son, Mr. Cassidy," Regina said, still smiling. "But I'm not blind to the fact that he is a deeply sensitive and," her expression turned sad, "deeply troubled young man. I worry that he's managed to bring Emma into his delusions, and now she sees me as some sort of villain. It's my hope that you'll be able to continue as you have been thus far, helping her to distinguish between reality and fantasy in a way that my son is, as yet, unable to."

"What?"

Regina's smile returned in full force. "It's not lost on me that Ms Swan has become a great deal calmer and more methodical since your arrival. I can only chalk that up to your influence, and hope it continues." Before Neal could say anything further, she went on, "Well. I'm sure I've already taken up too much of your time and it's late. Have a good evening, Mr. Cassidy."

And then she was off, her heels clicking on the pavement as she circled to the driver-side door of her Mercedes and got in.

Still holding the box—a bit less than three feet by three feet by his guess—Neal went inside shaking his head. He hadn't wanted to be rude, but he was glad Regina hadn't kept him much longer. He really needed to use the bathroom.

He set the gift box down in the living room, leaning it against the wall on his way upstairs. By the time he emerged, his thoughts on the dinner he wanted to have waiting for Emma when she came home, he'd forgotten all about it.


Mr. Dove looked down and pulled his phone out of his pocket. The message was brief. "Collect her tomorrow. Leave her in the alley beside the diner at precisely 5:30PM. Do not be seen.

Dove frowned a bit at that last instruction. He had no difficulty avoiding being heard, but at six-foot-nine going anywhere without being seen would be a bit of a challenge.

However, he thought with a grim smile, he had never once failed Mr. Gold, and he had no intention of beginning now. He headed toward Granny's to map out the best route for the task ahead.


Neal's welcoming smile faded when he saw the man trailing into the house behind the woman he loved. "What is he doing here?" he demanded.

August turned to Emma. "I told you," he said in a low voice, but one that Neal was clearly meant to overhear.

Emma sighed. "Yeah, you did. Neal, we can deal with the past later, when Mary Margaret's been exonerated. Right now, though, making that happen is more important than that." She held up the plastic baggie with the metal shard, dangling it before Neal's eyes.

"What's that?"

"Piece of a shovel used to bury the jewelry box with Kathryn's heart," Emma said. "At least we think so. Just waiting to confirm."

"Waiting? Don't you have to take stuff like that to the crime lab?"

"They still haven't got back to me on that finger nail," Emma scoffed. "No, we're going a different route."

"What are you—?"

Emma smiled. "We know Regina's involved somehow. I don't know if this comes from a shovel that belongs to her or not, but Henry's going to let us know when it'll be safe for us to check her garage and see if we can find a match."

"Hang on," Neal said. "Now, you're involving Henry?"

"Beats the sheriff breaking into the mayor's house. Now, do you want to come along, or would you rather wait by the phone in case Regina hears a noise after all and dials 911?"

Neal sighed, just as the oven timer rang. "That's dinner," he said. "You guys want to eat before we betray our office, or should I just put everything in the fridge for later?"

He eyed August meaningfully. "We're not done," he pronounced.

August shook his head. "I didn't expect we would be," he said. "But for now, how about a truce?" He held out his hand.

Neal took it slowly. "Truce," he agreed. "For now."

Emma smiled a bit too heartily.


A half hour later, Regina stepped into the upstairs bathroom and closed the door. Then, carefully, silently, she opened it again and left it partway open. She drew the shower curtain, reached in, and turned on the cold faucet. Then she tiptoed stealthily down the hall.

"…package is secure," she heard her son's voice in a loud whisper.

There was a crackle of static, likely from that infernal walkie-talkie she was currently pretending not to know about, and then she heard Miss Swan's voice saying something about a code book.

Henry sighed. "She's getting in the shower and the keys are under the mat."

Regina stepped into her home office and cautiously tweaked back the thick curtains. When she saw one figure scurry up her front steps, retreat back down a moment later, and head toward her garage, two others following a half-step behind, she smiled. She could head downstairs and surprise them all right now. She had to admit it was tempting. But if she did, then they'd know she'd been expecting them and she wasn't quite ready to show her hand.

Besides, this way, Regina knew that not only would Snow White finally pay the price for the murder she'd instigated oh so long ago, but she'd have the satisfaction of seeing Emma Swan watch her friend get carted away, knowing she would be tried for a crime she hadn't committed, and yet unable to prove it. Regina knew first-hand the excruciating agony caused by seeing a guilty party evade their just deserts. With any luck, that pain would haunt the sheriff for years to come. Better. It would finally teach her that in this town, only one person was assured her happy ending and that person was neither Mary Margaret Blanchard nor Emma Swan.

Let them find the damaged shovel now. By the time they returned with the search warrant they needed to collect it, it would be long gone.


Nearly two hours later, Emma and Neal returned home, angry and dejected. "Where is it?" Neal demanded, almost before they got out of the car. "If it wasn't there, than where is it?"

"Ask August," Emma muttered, leaning against the hood. "He probably chucked it off the pier or something. I've got half a mind to storm over to his motel room and—"

"Emma…"

"He's the only one we talked to. We didn't even tell Henry what we'd found."

"You don't think Henry would—"

"We were on a walkie-talkie, Neal. It's not like Regina couldn't have been listening outside his…" Her eyes widened. "Listening outside his door," she repeated slowly. "If she heard us talking… What's the range on a walkie-talkie?"

Neal frowned. "Can I see?" He looked at the device Emma passed him. "Handheld police issue," he said slowly, "might get you two to five miles. This is an ancient model; I'd have to look it up and that range might deteriorate due to wear and tear or aging or whatever. Thing is, even if you were standing on the town line and Henry was standing on the beach, how long would it take you to reach him?"

"Half hour… forty-five minutes, tops," Emma said. "If Regina overheard and knew we were coming, she'd act fast. But… Henry said she was in the shower."

"Yeah. I can run a tub faucet, too. Doesn't mean I actually step into it." He sighed. "Henry might be great at keeping secrets. Keeping the fact that he has secrets secret is…"

"I don't know," Emma said slowly. "I mean, it fits, but Henry's been keeping things from her for weeks. Does she always pretend to take a shower, just in case he's waiting for an opportunity to…?"

Neal's eyes grew wide. "I wonder," he said slowly.

"What?"

His key was out. "Listen, when we go inside, change the subject. Especially in the living room. I want to show you something, but we're not going to talk about it until we're back out here."

"What are you talking about?"

"Just a hunch. Well, actually, if it is what I think it is, feel free to vent. Just don't mention walkie-talkies or spying or," he turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. Then without pausing or missing a beat, said, "She really ought to install softer lighting in that front hallway. Up close, I could see her crow's feet."

"What?" Emma blinked.

"Yeah," Neal said. "Well, I mean, you said she's been mayor forever. Stressful job. Not surprised it's taking a toll. I mean, she's got to have a bunch of grey hairs under that dye job."

Emma laughed, catching on. "Neal, seriously, I'm not feeling so lousy that I need to lie and attack her looks." She frowned thoughtfully. "She does need a paper bag for her personality, though."

Neal led her into the living room and motioned toward the gift-wrapped box, even as he said, "You know, I don't think I've ever heard you act catty before." He smiled suggestively. "I like it." He quickly steered Emma out of the hallway and upstairs to the bedroom.

"She dropped that box off this afternoon," Neal said, serious once more. "She told me it was a housewarming gift, but I wouldn't be surprised if it's a bug."

Emma nodded slowly. "Sidney pulled something like that the other day with a bouquet of flowers at the station. Figures she'd try the house, too." She sighed. "Well? I guess we'd better open it."

Two minutes later, they were lifting a round wall mirror with a brass frame out of the box. It was nice enough, Emma supposed. It looked like the kind of thing a person might find in Ikea or Target—tasteful, not junk, but not the kind of thing you oohed or ahhed over either. At least, not usually.

"It's beautiful," Emma breathed, flipping it over and noticing a bit of tape—colored to match almost perfectly the backing of the mirror. "Seriously, does she do this for everyone who moves here?"

She pulled the tape back carefully, not in the least surprised to find the listening device it had been concealing. "I know exactly where to hang this," she gushed, heading for the basement door. She walked down the stairs, then up, and then down again, before she slid the mirror into a gap between two pieces of decrepit furniture and covered it with a tarp.

"Took you a minute to make up your mind?" Neal asked, when she came back up.

"I'm hoping she thinks I brought it upstairs instead of down," Emma said. Then, sharply, "What are you smiling about?"

"She's panicking," Neal said. "She knows we're onto her and she's starting to get sloppy. It's just a matter of time before we get her for good."

Emma's answering smile fell away almost at once. "That's all well and good," she cautioned, "but time is one thing we have… and Mary Margaret doesn't." She shook her head. "She faces the grand jury tomorrow. And if they indict, then the case falls out of our jurisdiction and goes to County Court." She took a breath. "Neal, she'll be sent out of Storybrooke.