Neal wasn't one to trust easily, and I didn't blame him. The life we both led demanded skepticism—it was a survival trait. But despite his reluctance, the seeds of doubt and curiosity had been planted. He didn't kick me out of his apartment that night, which was a start.
Instead, Neal spent the next hour pacing his loft, shooting me suspicious glances while I leaned casually against his kitchen counter. He poured himself a drink—bourbon, neat—his hand steady despite the whirlwind of thoughts I knew were racing through his head.
"Let's say I believe you," Neal said finally, breaking the silence. "That you're my... brother. Why now? Why not show up when I got arrested? Or when Dad—"
I held up a hand, cutting him off. "I wasn't ready then. You think I've just been sitting around? Neal, I've spent years staying off the radar. Every database, every system—they don't know I exist. And trust me, that takes work."
"Convenient," Neal muttered, taking a sip of his drink.
"Practical," I corrected. "Unlike you, I didn't have the luxury of making mistakes."
That stung, and I knew it. Neal's jaw tightened, but he didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he focused on me with a calculating gaze.
"You said something about Adler," Neal said, his tone sharp. "What do you know?"
Ah, there it was. The hook.
I straightened, walking toward the bookshelf near the corner of his loft. It was filled with leather-bound volumes and a few carefully placed trinkets—a mask from Venice, a miniature Eiffel Tower, a figurine of a cat that I was sure had some deeper meaning.
"Adler's not as clean as you think," I said, my fingers trailing over the spines of the books. "And neither is the music box. You're chasing shadows, Neal. Dangerous ones."
"I know that," he snapped. "I don't need a lecture."
I turned to face him, crossing my arms. "Then what do you need?"
For a moment, Neal didn't answer. He stared at me, his expression unreadable. Then, with a sigh, he set his glass down on the counter and ran a hand through his hair.
"Fine," he said. "Let's say I let you help. What's your angle?"
"My angle?" I repeated, a hint of amusement in my voice. "You're my brother, Neal. That's my angle."
He gave a short, humorless laugh. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting," I said, my tone firm. "You want to play this solo, fine. But you're walking a tightrope, and sooner or later, it's going to snap. When it does, you'll be glad I'm here."
Neal didn't respond, but I saw the flicker of doubt in his eyes. He wasn't convinced—not yet—but he wasn't dismissing me either. That was enough for now.
The next morning, Neal and Peter were called to a new case. I watched from a distance as Neal left his loft, slipping into the back seat of the black FBI sedan with practiced ease. He was playing his role well—the reformed conman turned consultant. But I knew better. Neal Caffrey was always running an angle.
With Neal occupied, I decided to follow my own lead. Adler was the key to unraveling the mess Neal had gotten himself into, and if I was going to protect him, I needed to be ahead of the game.
My first stop was an old contact—a man named Victor who specialized in underground information brokering. Victor owed me a favor, and I wasn't above calling it in.
Victor's "office" was a dimly lit back room in a Chinatown teahouse. The air was thick with the scent of incense and something floral I couldn't quite place. Victor himself was seated behind a battered wooden desk, his thin frame draped in an oversized sweater that looked like it had seen better days.
"Henry," he said, his voice raspy. "Didn't think I'd see you again."
"And yet, here I am," I replied, taking a seat across from him. "I need information on Vincent Adler."
Victor raised an eyebrow. "That's a dangerous name to be digging into."
"Lucky for me, I thrive on danger," I said with a smirk.
Victor sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Adler's got deep pockets and a long reach. But... I might have something."
He rummaged through a drawer, pulling out a thin file and sliding it across the desk. I opened it to find a collection of photographs, financial records, and a list of known associates.
"This is what I've got," Victor said. "But be careful, Henry. People who cross Adler tend to disappear."
"Good thing I'm not easy to find," I replied, tucking the file into my jacket.
Later that evening, I returned to my safehouse and spread the contents of the file across the sleek black table. Adler's connections were extensive—businesses, offshore accounts, and a network of operatives that spanned continents. But one name stood out among the rest: Sara Ellis.
I frowned, picking up a photo of her. She was listed as a recovered art specialist, working for Sterling Bosch. According to Victor's notes, she'd had dealings with Adler in the past—some of which didn't quite add up.
"Interesting," I murmured to myself.
Sara's name hadn't come up yet in the show, at least not in the first season I remembered. But if she was connected to Adler, that meant she was part of the web I needed to untangle.
For now, I had a starting point. Adler was the target, Neal was the priority, and Sara... well, she was a wildcard I couldn't ignore.