A/N: Some dialogue lifted from S1E14: Dreamy, and from S2E21: Second Star to the Right.

Chapter 40

She wasn't in his book. Henry had flipped through all the pages in Rumpelstiltskin's story, and she wasn't there. Well, she was, but…

Rumpelstiltskin was a mild-mannered and curiously unremarkable man who lived a rather unremarkable life. Along with his wife and young son, Baelfire, he lived in a modest wooden hut on the outskirts of the village, making his living by spinning wool into the thread that he would barter or sell to the people thereabouts.

Along with his wife. But there was no mention of her name! Henry shoved the book away. "Come on," he said, exasperated. "You named Prince Charming. You named Cinderella's prince. You even named the Miller's daughter!" He shook his head. "Along with his wife," he muttered.

He supposed he could ask Mr. Gold.

Mr. Gold? I was just wondering if the name Milah meant anything to you? Henry swallowed. If it did, Mr. Gold would demand to know where Henry had heard it and why he thought it was significant. If it didn't, he'd still probably ask the same questions, but either way, he wouldn't stop there. He'd be suspicious; it wasn't like Henry usually popped into the shop to ask questions. He'd start digging. He might talk to his mom—who might decide that three weekly sessions with Archie weren't enough after all.

And if Dad was Baelfire, then if he'd wanted Mr. Gold—or Rumpelstiltskin—to know who he was, he would have said something. Henry didn't know why his dad would want to keep it a secret, but he knew from the Snow White story that bad things happened when you told secrets, even if you meant well. Some secrets were okay to keep. Some, really bad ones, weren't. He'd had "No-Go-Tell" drummed into his head a couple of years ago, when his third-grade teacher had done a whole week's worth of lessons with them on 'good touches' and 'bad touches' and 'when to tell a secret, even if someone didn't want you to'. Then, he'd been told to 'tell someone he trusted'. Well, he didn't trust Mr. Gold, but if Mr. Gold was his dad's father, maybe it was still the right thing to do.

But maybe it wasn't. Suppose he was wrong. Mr. Gold might be mad at him and Henry did not want Mr. Gold to be mad at him. Look what he'd done to Moe French when he'd got mad! But even if asking Mr. Gold about Milah didn't make him mad, if Mr. Gold thought that Henry's dad was his son and it turned out he wasn't, if the whole curse had been so Rumpelstiltskin could get back to Baelfire and Henry got his hopes up for nothing, Mr. Gold would be so hurt. Henry didn't like Mr. Gold. Actually, he was pretty scared of him. But there was a difference between not liking someone and wanting to hurt them.

He wished there was someone he could talk to, but if he spoke to his dad, he knew his dad would order him to keep away from Mr. Gold, and that he'd probably say the same thing whether he was Baelfire or not. As for the others, Emma, Archie, Mary Margaret… they'd all tell him not to go bothering Mr. Gold. And if he was wrong about his dad being Baelfire, then they'd be right , too.

Henry heaved a sigh. There were too many reasons to keep this a secret. At least, for now. All the same, he was going to look harder and see if he could find anything to help him learn whether or not his dad really was Baelfire. Even if he still didn't know what he'd do if he found out for sure.

"You're quiet tonight," Emma said, smiling. "Not having second thoughts about the ring?"

Neal shook his head. "No. Sorry. I…" He took a breath. "I was talking with Henry earlier. He had a family tree project and asked me to fill in some of the names. I guess it opened up a few memories."

Emma walked over to the bed and sat down beside him. He smiled and took her hand. "Maybe," he went on, "I should've said it told me how much I've forgotten." He shook his head. "My dad… I loved him, but in the town where we lived, he… he didn't have any friends. People came up with all kinds of insulting nicknames for him, and he took it," Neal went on heavily. "The thing is, when Henry asked me what his name was, I didn't have an answer for him. To me, he was always 'Papa', and I honestly don't know what his first name is now."

He shook his head. "I'm sorry. I don't want to dump this on you when…"

Emma squeezed his hand. "When I know even less about my folks," she finished. "It's okay." She rolled her eyes. "August W. Booth was too busy playing head-games and acting mysterious to share anything about them, if he knows anything in the first place." She exhaled noisily. "I think when I drank that well water, part of me really wanted them to just… come trundling up the trail with my birth certificate and a million apologies, even if I wouldn't want to hear them now. I mean, how do you make up for twenty-eight years and…" A horrified look came to her face. "I didn't mean to turn this around and make it about me."

"I gave you an opening," Neal shrugged. "Maybe it was to get me off of this memory kick."

Emma squeezed his hand. "We deserve each other, you know that?"

"Hope so. So… how was Mary Margaret?"

Emma closed her eyes. "Bad. This… won't blow over for a while, will it?"

"In a town this size?" Neal laughed bitterly. "They'll stop whispering about it, once something else happens, but if you're asking if folks around here are likely to forget? Don't hold your breath."

"That sucks," Emma pronounced. "She's probably my best friend here or, well, anywhere. Apart from you," she added quickly. "Sorry."

"No need for apologies," Neal shrugged. "I sort of like to think we're more than friends." He caught Emma's quick smile before her expression sobered again. "It's good you two are friends, though," he added. "She's going to need one."

"Talking from experience?"

Neal sighed. "My dad… did something once. Before I was born. In hindsight, it probably wasn't as bad as it seemed. Or maybe it was, I don't even know. Where I grew up, a lot of things mattered that… really weren't as important then as I thought they were. Anyway, he didn't have any friends or support besides me, really. And not only wasn't it my place to be his… support network, but I'm pretty sure he tried to give me a normal childhood and tried to deal with his… baggage on his own, as much as he could. Back on topic, the thing he did… he couldn't live it down. More than thirteen years later, people still talked about it. Maybe not as much, but they remembered."

"That sucks," Emma said again.

"Tell me about it." He smiled. "And invite Mary Margaret to dinner here some night next week. If she flips it around and asks us to go to her, that's okay, too."

Emma smiled back. "That's a great idea. I'll spring it on her tomorrow."

Emma fully intended to act on Neal's suggestion the following morning, but Fate seemed to have other ideas. She'd been seated at Granny's waiting for Mary Margaret to show up for her morning coffee. It was a full twenty minutes before she realized that her friend might be too mortified to show her face after the stories flying about. She sipped her hot cocoa slowly and resolved to leave if Mary Margaret hadn't shown by the time it was finished. That was when she heard a familiar voice calling for everyone's attention from the doorway.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your morning," Mary Margaret announced, smiling as though her world hadn't flown apart yesterday, "but I just wanted to remind everyone that a very special occasion is upon us – Miner's Day. As always, the nuns of Storybrooke are hoping that everyone will get involved, and will help sell their exquisite candles. All we need are a few energetic volunteers. So, who wants to join me?"

One volunteer might have been enough to keep her spirits up, Emma reflected. She was debating whether to stand up and be counted—it wasn't as though being sheriff involved that many long days, and getting more involved in the community was probably a good thing—when she saw Leroy get up and head for the door. Maybe the guy did have a sensitive side after all, she thought.

"…Quite a team we'd make – town harlot, town drunk. The only person in this town that people like less than me, is you. If you're coming to me, you're screwed."

Emma winced. No, Leroy did not have a sensitive side. Her eyes slid to Mary Margaret and the look on her friend's face as she turned and hurried away made Emma start from her chair and rush to catch up.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked. "So, what the hell is Miner's Day and why are you beating yourself up about it?"

Mary Margaret's explanation didn't make much sense to Emma. Since when did Maine have coal mines anyway? Lobster or timber, sure, but coal?

"Look," Mary Margaret cut her off, "I don't know; now they use it as a fundraiser. It's an amazing party; everyone loves it."

Emma frowned. "It doesn't seem like everyone loves it," she said.

Mary Margaret shook her head. "It's not Miner's Day, it's me. Last week, I had ten volunteers. This week, they all dropped out."

"You think this is about what happened with David?"

Of course it was about what had happened with David. Mary Margaret informed Emma that some of her former volunteers had even said so. "I've never been a… home-wrecker before," she finished miserably.

"It's going to blow over," Emma said. "You made a mistake with David. It happens. But you don't have to do charity to try to win people's hearts back."

"I have to do something," Mary Margaret retorted, "and this is the best I can do. Love ruined my life."

"Hey," Emma started to say. "You want to—?" Her phone rang and for a moment she thought about not answering, but then she was the sheriff, and with her luck, Regina had probably just bought Henry a kitten and needed Emma to get it out of her apple tree. Or was that a job for the fire department, she thought, as she pulled her phone out. "Sheriff Swan," she said. Her expression turned serious. "Yeah," she said. "I'll be right down." She looked at Mary Margaret. "Well, apparently, duty calls. We'll talk later. And meanwhile, if there's anything I can do to help, I will."

Mary Margaret smiled sadly. "I know. Thank you."

It was getting harder to keep quiet around Emma. One of the many reasons that Neal had never wanted to come here. At first, he'd naively thought that if he never mentioned what August had told him on that long-ago night eleven years ago, the subject would never come up. Storybrooke wasn't on any map. It occupied a tiny piece of the state of Maine, which was one of fifty states in one of several countries on the American continent, among several continents on the globe. Statistically speaking, the odds of the town ever being a topic of conversation between them had looked to be somewhere between 'slim' and 'none'.

As if Fate had ever given a crap about statistical probability.

He should have stayed away, told Emma that another job had come up, or that he needed to pick one up so they could pay next month's rent (damn, he was going to have to mail a check to their landlord for this month and last, come to think of it); he could have come up with something! Instead, he'd yielded to a mix of excitement over meeting the son he'd never known, a sense of protectiveness—Emma might not know the kind of people living in Storybrooke, but Neal knew at least one of them and Emma had no clue what she was going to be facing, and a sense of morbid curiosity over just how the hell Papa was after all these years, even if he'd had no intention of ever confronting him again.

The longer he stayed here, though, the more he cared. About Emma and Henry, of course, but also about the people whom the Evil Queen's curse had carried here. Maybe he'd never met most of these people outside of the distorted second-hand book of fairy tales he'd bought in Alaska and a bunch of equally-distorted animated movies, but splitting up Snow White and Prince Charming was just wrong. Especially when it was so clear that, curse or no curse, they were still fighting to be together.

And, for all his deals and angles and conniving, Neal had to admit that he saw more of the Papa he remembered in Mr. Gold than in the Dark One he'd left behind. And when he thought of everything that Papa had done to get here… No. Neal was not going to blame himself for the Dark Curse. His going through the portal might have been the catalyst for Papa's plan but, Neal reminded himself firmly, Papa's plan wasn't his fault. If Papa had truly wanted to come here with him, then he shouldn't have held onto that damned dagger and released him!

So once you mess up, you never get a second chance, Mr. Arizona Department of Corrections Veteran?

Neal shook his head. That was different!

He knew he should confront Papa, or talk to Papa or something. And if he'd blundered on this place alone, he probably would have. But with Emma and Henry here, they'd wonder why he was spending so much time with Mr. Gold. (Once Papa figured out who he was—and he would—either he'd be spending more time with Papa, or he'd be riding Herbie for the town line a top speed, with or without Emma, and he'd have to explain that, too!) And if he told them the truth… Neal winced. Henry would probably think it was cool. Emma would either think he'd had some kind of mental break or she'd think he'd been lying to her from the moment they'd met.

In a way, he had been. He hadn't meant to. It was just… really hard to find the right moment to say, 'By the way, Neal Cassidy isn't my real name. I come from another land where magic exists and fairy tales are real and my dad's Rumpelstiltskin, only he abandoned me and now I'm on my own'.

When he'd been younger and less wary, he'd told one person that he came from a land with magic and spent the next couple of centuries under a more tyrannical overlord than the duke and the army he'd left behind!

He ruthlessly tamped down on the voice that reminded him that his getting to Neverland hadn't happened quite like that. In all likelihood, Wendy's fascination with magic would have had her flying off with Pan's Shadow whether she knew he came from a magical land or not, but there was still a part of him that wondered if she'd have been quite so quick to leave with it if he'd been more skeptical from the outset, rather than confirmed that magic was real.

You don't have to be afraid. He doesn't want to hurt us. He's from another land—a land with magic, but it's... different from where you came from. It's called Neverland. And there are no grown-ups there, and children never grow old. And we can do anything we want, even fly! This is what I've always dreamed of. You just don't believe.

If Wendy hadn't believed, then he wouldn't have ended up trapped in Neverland.

So, what was he afraid of now, that he wouldn't be able to get Emma to believe… or that he would?

Ironically, if the circumstances had been different, even in this land, he probably would have gone to Papa to ask his advice on how to proceed! "Not gonna happen," he muttered.

He didn't know how to handle this, although he had a pretty good idea that closing his eyes and hoping the problem went away wasn't the right move. Unfortunately, he didn't think full disclosure was either, and he didn't know how much of a partial disclosure would be safe.

Meanwhile, he was due at Marco's workshop in twenty minutes. He fixed himself a cup of instant coffee and told himself he'd figure things out later.

Maybe if he closed his eyes, the problem really would go away.

Yeah, he still didn't believe that part.

The left rear tire of Kathryn's Saab hung several inches off the ground. The car was tilted on an angle at the side of the road, both doors open, and no driver in sight. Wearing thin rubber gloves, Emma snapped several photos of the interior, and then opened the glove compartment. It was empty.

"You mind if I take a look, too?" a voice called from behind her. Startled, Emma nearly banged her head on the door frame as she turned to look at Sidney.

"What for?" she asked, trying not to sound suspicious. As far as she knew, Sidney wasn't aware that she'd found out about her brakes before sending in her car for servicing, and until she knew what his angle was, she wanted to keep it that way. She wasn't forgetting that photo Neal had received either. While she couldn't prove that Sidney had had anything to do with it, she knew it was likely. Of course, even if Sidney had taken the photo, he hadn't necessarily sent it. He would have been acting on Regina's orders—or someone else's, someone who hoped she'd blame Regina—and the photo might just as easily have come from whoever Sidney had passed it to (for now, she was just going to assume it was Regina and not complicate things more than she needed to). Meanwhile, Emma knew she'd get more information from Sidney if he didn't realize she was on to him. She could lean into the 'dumb blonde' stereotype for now, at least she hoped she could.

Oblivious to the thoughts going through Emma's head at the moment, Sidney shrugged. "Well, just because I got fired from the Mirror, doesn't mean I can't do a little freelance reporting. So, what do we got here?"

Maybe two heads were better than one, even if one wasn't necessarily trustworthy. If you had to trust someone to pump them for information, she wouldn't have gone to Gold for a clue to the Zimmer twins' father. She sighed. "Gym teacher found this thing on the side of the road abandoned. Engine running, no one around. Registered to Kathryn Nolan. She's MIA."

Sidney raised an eyebrow. "Kathryn Nolan, whose husband very publicly left her?" Something about Emma's expression must have checked him, for he hurried to add, "I mean, the story writes itself. If I get a scoop like that, the Daily Mirror would have no choice but to take me back."

So, this was all about getting his job back. Emma relaxed. She could understand that sort of motive easily enough. Still, she didn't need him mucking up her crime scene and it wasn't like there wasn't another explanation. "Calm down, tiger," she warned. "You don't work for Regina anymore." Well, maybe he didn't. There was still a slim chance that she was reading the situation wrong, but if she wasn't, it didn't hurt to let him think she still bought his story. "Kathryn got accepted to law school in Boston. Maybe, after David dumped her, she decided to leave town. Car broke down; she hitched the rest of the way. That's what I would do if I was running away from my problems."

As she had been talking, she'd been moving to the rear of the vehicle. Now, she popped open the trunk and her expression froze.

"And, uh, would you leave your clothes in the car?" Sidney asked and Emma muttered something under her breath.

Aloud, she said, "Time to pull Kathryn's phone records and find out who she spoke to last."

Sidney rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you know, if you go through the Sheriff's Department, it'll take you days to get those. I've got a contact over at the phone company, who used to help me out when I was at the newspaper. I can get those in a couple hours."

Emma still didn't trust him—not for a second—but, like Gold, she could use what he could give her. She'd just have to try to verify what she got from some other source whenever possible. "Great," she agreed briskly. "Call me the minute you get your hands on those phone records."

The sound of a motor made them both turn to watch as David's truck pulled up close by.

"There he is," Sidney muttered.

Emma nodded. "Time to break the news."

Sidney sniffed. "You really think he doesn't know?"

Much as she hated to admit it, Sidney had a point. When someone went missing—or worse—statistically speaking, the guilty party was likely to be someone the victim knew and was close to, like a spouse. Grimly, she replied, "I'm about to find out."

Mary Margaret looked up as Neal approached her table. "Hi," he said. "How's it…?" He checked himself. "Stupid question, sorry. You're hanging in there?"

Mary Margaret swallowed hard. "I'm trying to," she said, pasting on a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "C-can I help you with something?"

Neal nodded. "Yeah, Emma texted me. She got called away before she could invite you, but, would you like to come over for dinner Tuesday night?" He smiled sheepishly. "Police business isn't always nine to five and I'm a pretty basic cook. I can't promise you it won't be spaghetti, a tin of sauce, and some sliced-up hotdogs, but Emma and I aren't bad company. At least, when we haven't got something to brood over." He winced. "I'm not selling this well, am I?"

Mary Margaret's smile grew a bit warmer. "Thanks," she said. "I… I'd love to. Even if I'll probably be miserable company."

"Eh," Neal shrugged, "I guess we can deal." He looked at the banner over her table. "So, this candle-selling… What kind of time commitment are we looking at?"

Mary Margaret blinked. "Are you saying you want to help out?"

"Well, I'm working full-time for Marco, but the hours are a little irregular and sometimes there's overtime. At least, that's what he told me; I've only been at it for about three weeks. So if this going to be another 40-hour job, then I can't, but…"

"No!" Mary Margaret cut him off with a startled laugh. "No, of course not! You can put in as much time as you want; every little bit helps!"

Neal smiled at her enthusiasm. "Okay, so how does it work? Do I buy the candles from you up-front and then sell them to recoup, or…?"

"What?" Mary Margaret blinked. "Oh, no. No, it's not like in Newsies!" she laughed more warmly this time. "No, you just fill out this form, put down the number you're taking, and if you sell them all and want more, you can fill out a new one, and if you can't sell as many as you thought, you can just bring back the extras."

"Okay," Neal said. "In that case, put me down for two dozen, um," he looked at the price and pulled out his wallet, "on top of the one I'm buying from you now…"

"You don't have to…"

"Yeah, actually, seeing as we're friends, I kinda do," Neal replied. "So, one to keep, twenty-four to try and sell, and we'll see how it goes."

Just then, Leroy came charging toward them. "Where can I sign up?" he demanded.

Mary Margaret raised an eyebrow. Then she pointedly set down a cardboard box in front of Neal and turned to grab another.

"What?" the janitor pressed. "I want to volunteer to sell candles."

"No you don't," Mary Margaret said in a low voice. "You made that very clear this morning at Granny's." She smiled brightly at Neal.

"There you go," she said. "Two dozen to sell, and that'll be ten dollars for the one you're holding."

"Thanks," Neal said, pocketing the candle he'd been holding and then scooping up the boxes. He walked off leaving Leroy still arguing with Mary Margaret. He wasn't sure if he could sell two dozen of these things, but he was damned well going to try.

The site was too clean, Emma realized. The car was wrecked, the airbag deployed, but a meticulous search turned up no blood, no hair, not even a broken fingernail. Try though she might, Emma could discern no shoe-prints other than her own, Sidney's, and now David's.

David's eyes were wide as Emma finished telling him what she'd discovered. He closed the car door a bit harder than necessary and only then did Emma realize that she shouldn't have let him touch anything. First, the angle of the door might have been important—she'd been careful not to move it when she'd crawled in to look for evidence. Second, he'd just got his fingerprints on an active crime scene—if they hadn't already been there.

She was just as glad that Sidney had gone back to town to talk to his contact face to face. It made sense, she supposed. Someone adept at obtaining phone records that might prove incriminating might also want to minimize creating any that would shine a light on their own activity. Sidney's absence meant that she could question David about his wife's disappearance without worrying about Sidney muttering insinuations about his possible means, motive, or opportunity—everything Emma had seen of the reporter so far told her that he wasn't anywhere near as discreet as one would expect a journalist to be. Maybe that was the real reason the Mirror had fired him, she thought. Maybe it had been a lack of professionalism, rather than a word from Regina. Or perhaps, the word from Regina had just been that final straw that had broken the camel's back.

"She's just gone?" David asked, looking stunned.

Emma raised both eyebrows. "You really don't know anything, do you?" she asked, trying to make him believe that she was convinced of it. Truthfully, she wasn't sure. She hadn't thought to look for footprints until after David had pulled up, and—as she'd realized too late—she hadn't cordoned off the crime scene. She and David had walked around the car now, but were all of his tracks newly-laid down? If Kathryn hadn't crawled out of the car, but been carried, Emma suspected that David was strong enough to do it.

"I-I don't understand," he said. "What happened?"

"I don't know," Emma admitted. "I'm trying to find out. What can you tell me? When was the last time you spoke to Kathryn?"

"Yesterday afternoon," David admitted, a bit shamefaced.

Emma took a breath. "Okay," she said. "Look. I know there has been lies and deceit and I'm really not judging you, but is that the truth?"

David nodded. "Yes. I haven't spoken to her since we… I ended things. And I came home yesterday, and all her things were gone. I assumed she was going to Boston. That's what she told me." He frowned. "Am I a suspect or something?"

She hadn't ruled him out as one yet, but he was telling her the truth right now, or at least the truth as far as he knew. "No," she told him firmly. "I know when people are telling the truth, David, and you are. She hasn't even been gone twenty-four hours. She's not even technically missing. But, if she is, trust me – I will find her."

Her reassuring smile lasted until David got back in his truck and drove off. She wished that she hadn't known for a fact that since David had awakened from his coma, he'd suffered at least one instance where he'd gone sleepwalking and awakened with no idea where he was or how he'd gotten there. She'd assumed that he hadn't done anything like that since, but she didn't know. More worryingly, David might not know either.

Could he have done something to Kathryn while he was in that state? Or, a new thought came to her, could someone engineer such a state in a patient, possibly make them do things that they'd never consider if they were conscious at the time?

She was back to the brainwashing experiment hypothesis again. She hated it; she knew it was venturing into tinfoil hat conspiracy theory territory. The trouble was, the longer she stayed in this town, the more plausible the idea seemed. There was something strange going on here. She didn't know what it was, but Kathryn's disappearance was part of it, and one way or another, Emma knew she was going to figure out the rest.