A Matter of Trust: Chapter 6
Chapter 6:
Peter sat in the armchair in his family room with a newspaper partially open in front of him. He was half asleep and had given up the pretense of reading a long time ago. He kept surreptitiously glancing over at Neal, who was still sound asleep on the couch.
“Hon, you can’t wake him up to yell at him,” Elizabeth said, kissing Peter on the cheek.
“Going to bed?” Peter asked, observing that she had put on robe over a nightgown.
“Perhaps against my better judgment,” Elizabeth said, with a quick glance at Neal.
“Good night.” Peter pulled her in a for a longer kiss, then added, “I promise I will try my best not to jump to any conclusions. Elle, remember, we could have sent him to prison from the apartment building. But I’m going to hear him out about the art, the manifest, and Agent Matthews.”
“That sounds like the brilliant man I married,” Elizabeth said as she began to go upstairs.
****
Not long after Elizabeth had gone to bed, Neal opened his eyes blearily. He wasn’t particularly surprised when he realized he was in the Burke’s family room, nor when he felt the familiar weight of the tracking anklet against his leg. He reached one arm over the couch to try and pull himself up, but a wave of dizziness caused him to slip back down.
“Easy,” Peter said, momentarily forgetting that he was both angry with and perplexed by Neal, and gently helped him into a sitting position. Then he gestured to the coffee table where a glass of water and two tablets of acetaminophen had been set out. “Take them, it should help.”
“Thanks.” Neal took the medicine and leaned back into the couch. Then he looked over at Peter and asked, “So, am I here because you’re worried I’m going to run or because you’re worried that I have a concussion?”
“Both,” Peter answered succinctly. “And you do have a concussion. Do you not remember the paramedic looking you over?”
Peter glanced over at Neal, suddenly more concerned.
Neal thought for a moment; he did remember, but it was vague, as though it had happened in a dream. He nodded slowly until Peter looked satisfied.
“Do you want to tell me what happened today while it’s still fresh in your mind?”
“I’m not sure fresh is the best word,” Neal said, grinning up at Peter and rubbing his forehead.
“Neal, you can’t charm your way out of this. If you don’t tell me anything, I’m not going to have any choice but to send you back to prison. And right now, I’m not sure that’s a bad idea. When I came into the room earlier, you were demanding that Agent Matthews tell you where the art was.”
“You don’t know the whole story.”
“You’re right, I don’t. Enlighten me.”
“I’ll start from the beginning, then. But first, I didn’t steal the art. Do you believe me?”
Peter studied Neal carefully. “I want to believe you.”
“Then believe me”
Peter sat in the armchair in his family room with a newspaper partially open in front of him. He was half asleep and had given up the pretense of reading a long time ago. He kept surreptitiously glancing over at Neal, who was still sound asleep on the couch.
“Hon, you can’t wake him up to yell at him,” Elizabeth said, kissing Peter on the cheek.
“Going to bed?” Peter asked, observing that she had put on robe over a nightgown.
“Perhaps against my better judgment,” Elizabeth said, with a quick glance at Neal.
“Good night.” Peter pulled her in a for a longer kiss, then added, “I promise I will try my best not to jump to any conclusions. Elle, remember, we could have sent him to prison from the apartment building. But I’m going to hear him out about the art, the manifest, and Agent Matthews.”
“That sounds like the brilliant man I married,” Elizabeth said as she began to go upstairs.
****
Not long after Elizabeth had gone to bed, Neal opened his eyes blearily. He wasn’t particularly surprised when he realized he was in the Burke’s family room, nor when he felt the familiar weight of the tracking anklet against his leg. He reached one arm over the couch to try and pull himself up, but a wave of dizziness caused him to slip back down.
“Easy,” Peter said, momentarily forgetting that he was both angry with and perplexed by Neal, and gently helped him into a sitting position. Then he gestured to the coffee table where a glass of water and two tablets of acetaminophen had been set out. “Take them, it should help.”
“Thanks.” Neal took the medicine and leaned back into the couch. Then he looked over at Peter and asked, “So, am I here because you’re worried I’m going to run or because you’re worried that I have a concussion?”
“Both,” Peter answered succinctly. “And you do have a concussion. Do you not remember the paramedic looking you over?”
Peter glanced over at Neal, suddenly more concerned.
Neal thought for a moment; he did remember, but it was vague, as though it had happened in a dream. He nodded slowly until Peter looked satisfied.
“Do you want to tell me what happened today while it’s still fresh in your mind?”
“I’m not sure fresh is the best word,” Neal said, grinning up at Peter and rubbing his forehead.
“Neal, you can’t charm your way out of this. If you don’t tell me anything, I’m not going to have any choice but to send you back to prison. And right now, I’m not sure that’s a bad idea. When I came into the room earlier, you were demanding that Agent Matthews tell you where the art was.”
“You don’t know the whole story.”
“You’re right, I don’t. Enlighten me.”
“I’ll start from the beginning, then. But first, I didn’t steal the art. Do you believe me?”
Peter studied Neal carefully. “I want to believe you.”
“Then believe me”