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It had been a slow day. In fact, it had been a slow week. Some might argue that you can’t say it’s been a slow week when it’s only Tuesday, but Neal knows a slow week when he sees one. Monday had been an absolute drag with an open and shut mortgage fraud case in the form of a set of twins trying to scam each other out of half of a million dollars. It would have been more exciting if one of the twins had put a bounty on the other's head or if they were trying to set up an entire scamming scheme, but they weren’t. It was just a pair of greedy trust fund douchebags.
And then there was today: Tuesday. There had been no new cases, no kidnappings or ransom requests or art thefts. It was the kind of day that should have been spent doing paperwork, but instead, Neal spent a good majority of the day tossing around a rubber band ball and coming up with a million excuses to get up and leave his desk. It was the kind of day where Peter walked by Neal’s desk and instead of yelling at him for sketching on some scrap paper, he simply gave a nod of approval and walked away.
The only thing that could even be considered to be interesting would be the office gossip. Neal enjoyed sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, so finding out all the rumors and gossip that circulated the office was something he enjoyed immensely. Today, though, even the gossip was boring. It couldn’t even be considered gossip- it was just a fact.
Special Agent Peter Burke was taking the rest of the week off.
Sure, the agents tried to speculate what he was up to but Neal knew Peter arguably better than everyone else in the office and he could dismiss all of their radical theories with immense certainty. Despite the fact that Neal was smart enough to know that Peter wasn’t “going to a spiritual retreat in Utah”, as one of the agents had suggested, he still couldn’t figure out what Peter was doing.
Neal had waited until the end of the day to ask him. Peter was usually eager to get out of the office (who wasn’t?) and he would answer Neal’s prying questions quicker than he would in the middle of the day when he had more time to waste and more time to tease.
Neal jogged up the steps, grabbing the attention of everyone in the office. All of the other workers in the White Collar Crime Unit were dying to know what Peter was doing on his days off. As mentioned previously… It had been a slow day.
Neal knocked on the door to Peter’s office, despite it already being pushed ajar. Peter rarely had his door closed all the way. Peter looked up and offered a smile which was his way of telling Neal to enter.
“What do you need, Neal?” Peter asked. He wasn’t aggravated, just tired.
“Why do you always assume I need something?”
“Because you usually do.”
Neal turned his eyes ever so slightly to peer out the large glass window behind him. Just as suspected, everyone in the office had stopped working and were focusing on the interaction Neal was having with Peter.
“So, you’re taking the rest of the week off?” Neal stated it as a question as if he hadn’t been talking about it all day with the rest of his curious colleagues.
“I am,” Peter folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward, “And you want to know what I’m doing.”
“Me and everyone else in the office,” Neal muttered under his breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” Neal responded quickly. Surely Peter had found out about the rumors cycling through the office today, no matter how much they tried to hide them from him. He had a way of figuring things out without drawing attention to it. It was a trait Neal had always respected. “Care to share where you’re headed?”
“No, but you aren’t going to let me leave the office until I tell you.”
Neal only shrugged. It was probably better not to mention the small betting pool that had started based on where everyone guessed Peter was going. No one takes three days off of work without some sort of reasoning behind it.
“I feel like this is something I should know! Given that your handler duties will be temporarily passed off onto someone else, unless-”
“Jones will watch you while I’m out. I told him to keep an extra close eye on you,” Peter smirked.
“Rude.”
The look in Peter’s eyes was telling Neal that it was time for him to leave and go back to his desk, but Neal didn’t want to. Peter’s lack of desire to share his plans only made Neal more curious, which was never a good thing. If Peter didn’t tell him, then Neal would just have to find out on his own. He was sure that Peter knew that too.
“Fine,” Peter said after a lackluster staredown with Neal, “If you must know; I’m cleaning out my storage unit.”
Neal blinked a few times, unsure if he had heard correctly. He made a big show out of it, sticking his finger loosely into the side of his ear and pretending to clean it out.
“I’m sorry, did you just say you were taking three days off to clean a storage unit?” Neal scoffed, “Wait- since when do you own a storage unit? And how did I not know about it?”
Neal had done his research. He had done a lot of research. He’s been researching Peter Burke since the FBI first got on his tail all those years ago. Neal knew so much about Peter that if there was a Peter Burke Financial History category on Jeopardy, he would score all of the available points. Even the Daily Double.
“Hughes said I can only hold onto so many sick days,” Peter explained, “I figured I would use them while I still could, and cleaning out that unit has been on my to-do list for years. Plus, it’s been a slow week.” Peter got up from his desk and collected his jacket, then placed his hand on Neal’s shoulder. “And you don’t know about it because, as shocking as this may be Neal, you don’t actually know everything about me.”
Neal stood in awe as Peter walked past him towards the front doors of the office. Neal quickly snapped out of his trance of disbelief and chased after his friend.
“Wait, Peter,” Neal called out, “Will you at least tell me what’s in it?”
“Nope.”
“Is it filled with things from your childhood? Or secret case files?”
“Not telling you, Neal,” Peter said. He pushed the button on the elevator, calling it up to their floor.
The elevator arrived in a few short moments, the doors sliding open with a ding. Peter stepped inside but turned to face Neal before he closed the doors.
“I would say see you Monday, but I’m sure I’ll see you before then,” Peter sighed, “Behave for Jones.”
“I can’t imagine doing anything different.”
The elevator doors closed, leaving Neal to wonder what Peter could be hiding in a secret storage unit. He turned to go back into the office and was met with a room full of curious agents, all waiting to see who won the money in the betting pool. Neal shook his head and sighed at them, knowing that Peter’s mundane life would be disappointing but not surprising.
“Did anyone bet on cleaning out a storage unit?” Neal was met with confused looks and groans, “No? No one?”
---
It took Neal a lot longer than he would like to admit trying to find Peter’s storage unit. The reason it had been so difficult, though, was because it wasn’t listed under Peter’s name. It was listed under Elizabeth’s father’s name, so technically the storage unit didn’t belong to Peter, which meant Neal could still stand by his point that he knew everything about Peter Burke.
He thanked the cab driver and hopped out in front of Big Apple Self Storage. It was a little bit outside of the city, meaning that the bustling streets and nosy pedestrians had been left behind. It was relatively quiet and peaceful, except for the occasional loud, industrial noise of a truck backing up or someone sliding open the metal door to their unit. The units sat in long rows, fully exposed to the world around them and protected only by a fence and a padlock. Neal walked up to the guard at the front gate, who had just lifted the yellow arm to allow a car to pass through.
Neal knew that the guard wouldn’t let him in if he didn’t have proof of renting a unit, so he had to think of something else. He eyed a large dumpster off to the side that was filled with boxes and storage containers. Neal ran over and grabbed the cleanest boxes he could find, stacking them in his arms in order to cover his face.
He made his way over to the guard's station, trying to make a scene of how heavy the boxes were. They were all empty, but the guard didn’t have to know that.
“Do you have a pass?” The guard asked once Neal had gotten up to the fence.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s in my pocket,” Neal grunted, “But I can’t really get to it.”
“What unit are you going to?”
“311,” Neal told him, “It’s under the name Robert Mitchell.”
Even though Neal couldn’t see, he could hear the guard typing away on his computer. The guard eventually sighed with defeat and he unlocked the gate, allowing Neal to come through with much appreciation.
Neal made sure he was out of sight before ditching the empty boxes in another dumpster. He looked up and down the rows of units, reading the signs posted on the end until he came to the units in the 300’s. Neal took one glance down the aisle and spotted Peter’s car at the far end, the trunk popped open in preparation for whatever he decided to take home.
Neal jogged his way over to the unit, where Peter was standing inside with his back towards the open door. He must have only gotten here recently. There were two small piles on the floor and a trash bag with only a handful of items in it.
“You shouldn’t keep your back turned for so long,” Neal said, “Someone could sneak up on you.”
Peter jumped, startled, and spun around. He saw Neal and sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“What are you doing here?” Peter grumbled.
“I’m sick,” Neal proceeded to perform a string of very obviously fake coughs.
“You called into work sick just so you could come torture me?”
“No, not at all! I’m in the same position you are! I don’t want my sick days to go to waste,” Neal grinned.
“You don’t have sick days.”
Neal ignored Peter’s comment and pushed past him to inspect the storage unit. There were piles of cardboard boxes with faded marker labels, random pieces of furniture, and several unlabeled plastic containers and trash bags.
“What is this?” Neal asked, picking up an oddly shaped wood sculpture. Peter walked over and took it out of his hands before he could investigate any further.
“Look, Neal, since you’re already here you are more than welcome to stick around-”
“Really?” Neal said, excitedly.
“-only if you actually help me. Otherwise, I’m calling Jones and you can go back to the office.”
“There’s nothing to do there but paperwork!” Neal whined. Not only was the office extremely boring this week, but it also felt empty. Neal would never admit this, of course, but sometimes he just wasn’t in the mood to go to work and force himself to socialize with people who weren’t Peter. Talking to Peter was easy. It was fun and casual and Neal always knew how to carry on the banter. With the other agents, though, he had to try just a little bit harder. Today he wasn’t in the mood to try.
“Then you can stay and help me clean,” Peter said. He was dressed much more appropriately than Neal was, and Neal mentally smacked himself for wearing a suit. Although, he wasn’t actually expecting to have to help.
Neal sighed. “What do you need me to do?”
“I’m making piles,” Peter told him, “Donate, keep, and garbage.” He pointed to two small piles on the floor, but then pointed to Neal when he said “garbage”.
“What?”
“You’re on garbage duty.” Peter picked up a trash bag and handed it over to Neal. “I don’t want you poking through my stuff. Just anything that looks like it could be garbage, put it in the bag.”
Neal had heard one man’s trash is another man’s treasure far too many times in his life, so the idea of garbage was one that could be heavily interpreted. Instead of pushing any further, which would inevitably result in Peter calling the FBI to escort Neal to work, he simply nodded in understanding and began to inspect the storage unit.
“What kind of stuff do you keep in here?” Neal asked, knowing that if he tried to pick through anything Peter would just usher him away.
“Oh, you know, just furniture and trinkets. Some sentimental things that have been put on the back-burner over the years.”
They worked in comfortable silence for the better part of an hour, the only real indication that Neal wasn’t alone was the occasional mumble from Peter about how he had forgotten what was in the unit or how he had been looking for a particular item for years. It wasn’t a bad system, really, with Neal collecting plenty of old water bottles and faded documents to add to the trash bag. It wasn’t the most exciting chore, but it was better than going back to the office.
Some might try to argue with him and say that paperwork would be a hundred times better than sweating inside a dusty old storage unit, but Neal was confident in his decision. He wasn’t going to get to find a busted stereo from 1999 while glued to his desk in an office.
He also wouldn’t get to find an old evidence box with his last name scribbled across the side of it.
Or, maybe he would, but surely it wouldn’t be anywhere near as exciting as whatever could be inside this particular evidence box. Neal found the box stacked among several others that had pushed into the back corner of the unit. They were all cardboard evidence boxes, labeled with dates and details that had either faded or been written over. But, at the very bottom of the pile was an evidence box with only one word written on the side: CAFFREY.
It was turned at an angle so that the label wasn’t fully visible, despite the fact that the rest of the boxes had been organized that way. That and combined with how the box was in the back corner on the bottom of a pile, Neal could make the assumption that it had been put back here in an attempt to hide it.
Neal wouldn’t even have seen it if he hadn’t bent down to pick up the stack of books he had knocked over.
Neal immediately entered stealth mode. He peered out over the boxes to see where Peter was (he was standing out by the car drinking some water) and began to try and slowly shift the boxes. He pinned the boxes up against the wall with his hand and used his free arm to pull the bottom box free. He was doing a pretty good job of it too until the bottom box was completely moved out of the way and all of the other boxes hit the ground with a loud thud.
“Neal?” Peter called out, “You alright?”
Neal popped back up on his feet, the evidence box now clutched in his hands. He heard Peter’s footsteps quickly approaching and he didn’t have time to do anything before Peter came into view.
“Whatcha got there?” Peter raised an eyebrow. There was something in his voice that tipped Neal off and let him know that Peter was actually fully aware of what box he was holding. Or maybe it was in Peter’s facial expression; the way his pupils tightened and his mouth pulled into a line.
“Just an evidence box,” Neal said, “With my name on it.”
“Your name is on it?”
Neal nodded and turned the box around in his arms until the white label was visible. Peter let out a small hum of confusion once he read it.
“Any idea what’s in here?” Neal asked him. Peter might not have known, but he definitely had an idea of what was inside the box. Just based on the way the box had been hidden in the back and how Peter had tensed up once Neal had drawn attention to it led him to believe that Peter had wanted to keep Neal away from the unit for a reason. The reason, of course, is the box.
“Bring it out here and we’ll open it up,” Peter instructed. Playing dumb wasn’t Neal’s favorite technique, but Peter didn’t exactly have many other options to work with. He could have insisted that he had never seen the box before in his life, but everyone knows how that ends.
Neal followed Peter out into the opening of the storage unit where he dropped the box down onto a dusty card table. He exchanged a glance with Peter, who gave him a nod that told him he could go ahead and open the box up.
Neal, for some reason, felt nervous. He knew that it was likely to just be clues that had led to dead ends during the original chase, but somewhere deep down he had the sneaking suspicion that maybe, just maybe, the box was filled with something else entirely.
The only way to find out was to open it up.
Neal popped off the cardboard lid, anxious to find out what secrets the box contained. When he finally peered inside, it took him a minute to register just exactly what he was seeing.
The box was filled with postcards, letters, and trinkets.
All of which Neal had sent to Peter in order to tease him while on the run.
Neal selected a postcard off the top of the pile. The image on the front claimed that he had been in Belize when he sent it, but looking back now he was sure that he had purchased it weeks before sending and by the time Peter got it in the mail Neal had already moved to a new location.
Neal recognized his own fluid handwriting, probably written after one or two glasses of very expensive wine.
“Dear Agent Burke,” Neal read aloud, “Having a great time in Belize, wish you were here. Signed, yours truly. P.S: I don’t actually wish you were here.”
Neal tossed the card back into the box and picked up a more lengthy letter that had been folded to presumably fit inside an envelope. The margins of the paper were decorated with little doodles of hearts and wedding rings. “Hello Peter Burke, I hope this letter finds you well. Did you remember your wedding anniversary this year? In case you didn’t, I sent along a bottle of wine that you can use to make it up to your lovely wife. I assure you that this bottle was obtained in a completely legal manner.”
Neal couldn’t bring himself to keep reading. He clutched the letter in his hand and then turned to face Peter, who hadn’t said a word since Neal pulled the lid off of the box.
“Are these all the letters and cards I sent you while you were after me?” Neal asked, already knowing the answer.
“It appears that way, yes.”
Neal plucked another postcard out of the box. “Happy birthday, Agent Burke. Sorry I can’t be there to celebrate it with you.” Then he picked up another. “Peter, I heard you thought that I was back in the states and organized a raid. Sorry to disappoint.” Then another. And another. And another.
“Alright, Neal, we get it,” Peter sighed, taking all of the postcards off the table and shoving them back inside the box, “You sent me a lot of letters.”
“Why aren’t they in evidence?” Neal asked. He could remember the time period clearly. It was a time where Peter Burke used every clue and secret message he could in order to track down Neal, which is why it was surprising that an entire box full of location-based postcards wasn’t sitting in an evidence warehouse.
“They don’t offer any sufficient information,” Peter shrugged, “You wouldn’t actually be stupid enough to send a letter from a location that you were still in. It wasn’t worth looking into.”
“Really?” Neal scoffed.
“Well, we looked over the first few you sent. Nothing ever came out of it. You just kept sending more.”
“I’m surprised you still have them.”
“Don’t think too much into it,” Peter patted him on the back, “I burned the first dozen you sent.”
Neal stuck his hand into the box and pulled out another letter, except this one had a sketch stapled to the back of it. It was of a landscape that Neal recognized immediately: The ocean view from a villa he was staying in while hiding out in a small town on the coast of France.
“Hey Peter,” Neal began to read, “The sketch attached is what I see every time I wake up in the morning. If you can figure out where I am by the end of the month, not only will you be able to arrest me but I’ll give you a hundred dollars as well.”
“Never could figure that one out,” Peter said. “Even if I had figured it out in time, would you have still been there?”
“I’m a man of my word.”
Neal had waited there until the end of the month. It wasn’t that he had wanted Peter to catch him, it was just that he needed a reason to leave France. Of all the places he had been to, France was by far one of his favorites. He had been getting too comfortable there and needed someone to force him out. It didn’t stop him from returning several times while on the run, though.
“You should have turned this one into evidence,” Neal said, “Someone on the team would have been able to figure out where this was located, surely.”
Peter shrugged it off. He stood off the side, refusing to look at the box of cards with anything other than disgust. A look of shame had fallen upon his face at some point during Neal’s reading.
And then Neal understood.
He understood completely, actually.
“You were embarrassed,” Neal accused, “You were embarrassed that you couldn’t catch me even with all the hints I kept sending. That’s why you didn’t turn any of these in, isn’t it?”
Neal was expecting to get yelled at or scolded. He was expecting Peter to tell him that his theory was ridiculous and outrageous. But he didn’t. Instead, Peter sighed and shook his head with defeat.
“You sent so many,” Peter exasperated, “I felt like I should have been able to figure it out like there was a pattern that I wasn’t seeing. Maybe you sent each card exactly a week after you left the location or maybe you sent a card on the day you planned to rob a museum or just… something.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I sent them at random.”
“Your trail went cold for weeks at a time,” Peter continued, not acknowledging Neal’s weak effort at reassurance, “We would have no choice but to focus on something else until you struck again. I kept all of the cards so that I could go over them in my free time without having to lug all of your case files home from the office.” Peter placed his hands on his hips. “That’s all.”
Neal eyed him in disbelief. Working with Peter allowed him to memorize and study his tells, his movements, the subtleties in his expressions. Neal knew that there was something else that Peter wasn’t sharing. Maybe it had been the tone of his voice or the lack of eye contact, but whatever it was it was enough to let Neal know that there was one more piece to the puzzle.
“No, it’s not. There’s something else,” Neal was sure of it, “Something you don’t want to admit. Some other reason you hung onto the cards.”
“Like what, Neal?”
Neal stuck his hand back into the box as if he was searching for gold. He dug around for a little before pulling out a letter that he felt had been calling out to him. He unfolded the paper and read to himself quietly, before stumbling upon a paragraph that he felt provided an answer to his question.
“I’m sorry to hear about your latest case. I know how long you were after that guy and I’m sure the fact that the judge dropped all charges wasn’t something you were happy about. I can relate to having things pulled out from under me, even if we aren’t on the same side of the law,” Neal smacked the page when he finished reading, a large grin spreading across his face.
“What?” Peter asked. It was as if he hadn’t been listening at all.
“You kept my letters because we could relate to each other,” Neal explained. Peter began to shake his head in denial, but Neal continued. “I was someone who could understand you, at least on the surface.”
Peter scowled at him. Neal could see the gears in his head turning as he tried to decide whether it would be best to deny or accept the truth. Neal was almost positive Peter was going to try to deflect, but he let out a huff and his face softened.
“I have been a full-time federal agent for a majority of my life,” Peter said, “I don’t exactly get a lot of free time. I don’t exactly get to socialize with people outside of the office, and even when I do it’s never the same. Not many people I talk with know what it’s like to have a gun held to their head or what it’s like to come face to face with a group of armed robbers.”
Peter paused, but Neal knew better than to interrupt. This wasn’t the time for jokes or quips.
“I turned in a lot of your letters. I was supposed to be tracking you down and arresting you, just as I had done with all of the other criminals I came across. But then you kept writing and writing and…” Peter let out a heavy sigh, “I humanized you.”
“What?”
“You weren’t evil, you weren’t a murderer, you were just a thief. A really clever thief who, weirdly enough, I had some things in common with.”
Neal wasn’t entirely sure how he was supposed to respond to something like that. He hadn’t been expecting Peter to rip out his heart and pour the contents onto the table. When Neal didn’t say anything, Peter pulled the box towards himself and began to dig through it. It wasn’t at all like how Neal had been digging through it previously. When Neal had been digging, he was going in blind, hoping that the letters would call out to him and make themselves known in a great big box where any one of them could be chosen. Peter, however, was digging around with great ease and restraint, as if he was looking for something.
He pulled out a letter and smiled. He must have found what he was looking for. Even though Neal couldn’t see the front of the page, he knew that whatever he wrote was long. He could see the ink just barely bleeding through onto the back.
“Hello Agent Burke, I know this letter will reach you not long after my most recent postcard, but I felt it necessary to send this one anyway,” Peter looked up from the letter and waited for Neal to say something, but he didn’t. He had absolutely no recollection of writing this letter. Instead of continuing to read it out loud, Peter handed over the letter so that Neal could see it for himself.
I’m sorry about our phone call last night. Obviously, it isn’t last night for you anymore, but it is for me. I got carried away at the hotel bar and had one too many drinks, and when I drink I tend to lose a bit of my self-control. Unfortunately, though, I didn’t drink enough to the point where I don’t remember the things that I said, because I do. I’m just writing this in hopes that you will disregard everything that you heard.
I also remember the things that you said, and I’m sorry for that too. Your job is to track me down and arrest me, and I think I’m making that a little difficult for you. I only say this because I remember how legitimately concerned you sounded when I told you what was going on.
Just remember that I’m the bad guy. You aren’t.
Neal Caffrey.
Neal couldn’t place the letter at all. He had no memory of writing it, no memory of any drunken phone call, and especially no memory of what he had said during that phone call.
“I don’t… I don’t remember any of this,” Neal said. He felt like he should, like this letter should be some big important part of his history, but it wasn’t. The only thing that Neal could see right away was that this letter was signed. He hadn’t signed any of the other cards, not even with an alias, but he had signed this one with his full name.
“Lucky for you I remember it very well,” Peter smiled and took back the letter, carefully folding it and putting it inside the box. It was clear he thought highly of it and wanted to keep it safe. “You called me at about 3 am, your time, drunk out of your mind and whining about how alone you were.”
Neal couldn’t help but burst into sharp laughter. When Peter didn’t make any insinuation that he was joking, Neal forced himself to go quiet.
“You said that you were lost and hated that you would never be able to set down roots because you would always be on the run. You told me that you just wanted to be able to go to sleep without having to worry about the FBI gunning you down in the middle of the night,” Peter continued.
Neal still didn’t remember any of it. Was that because he was drunk or because his brain refused to let him remember such a humiliating event?
“And what, you told me that if I was so afraid I should just turn myself in and get it over with?” Neal snapped.
“Quite the opposite,” Peter said, “I told you that I was sorry things had to be this way and that when the day comes for me to arrest you, I would try to make it as least brutal as possible.”
Neal had hit some low points while on the run, he remembered those all too well. He loved the thrill that came with stealing. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, he didn’t want to cause anyone pain. All he wanted to do was have some fun. Then the FBI had to get involved and suddenly things weren’t so fun anymore.
The tracker around Neal’s ankle felt heavier than ever now. He could feel the metal rubbing up against his sock, twisting around ever so slightly every time he moved his foot. Was this Peter’s idea of not being brutal?
“What happened next?” Neal wanted to know.
“We had a conversation,” Peter shrugged, “You were drunk and I was exhausted, but we had a conversation. Then I told you to stay safe and then you hung up. You didn't make contact with me for over a month after that."
But the anklet wasn’t brutal. Neal knew that. Sometimes it felt like torture because he was so close to freedom he could taste it, but even that form of torture was a luxury when compared to the alternative. Go to jail with hundreds of violent criminals who beat up on their cellmates or be restrained to a two-mile radius by an FBI agent who cares?
Neal would take the latter.
Every single time.
Neal didn’t want to look at the letters any longer. He hadn’t been expecting for this to get so sentimental. He quickly put the lid on the box and closed it, then picked it up off the table.
“Where do you want this?” Neal said after he had cleared his throat.
Peter thought for a brief moment. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could he was interrupted by his cell phone ringing. He pulled it out and answered the call with a smile.
“Hey, Jones,” Peter greeted, “Everything alright?”
There was a pause as Jones spoke on the other end of the line. Neal couldn’t hear what he was saying, but when Peter locked eyes with him he could figure it out pretty easily.
“He’s here with me,” Peter said. Another pause. “No, no. It’s alright. He’s actually helping.”
Neal felt a wave of content wash over his body. He liked his life in New York. He liked working with Peter and the FBI. He might not have done it the traditional way, but at least he got his wish; Neal Caffrey was no longer afraid of being gunned down by the FBI in the middle of the night.
Peter was still distracted with his phone call, leaving Neal to make the decision of where to put the box of letters. Of course, Peter could always move the box if he disagreed with Neal’s choice, but Neal still felt like it was up to him to make the verdict.
He looked between the piles on the floor a few times before ultimately deciding to put the box of old letters in the keep pile.