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They had spent years trying to uncover Neal’s past, chasing a phantom trail of aliases, forged records, and carefully constructed lies. Whenever the topic of his childhood came up, Neal brushed it off with a charming smile and a swift redirection.
He treated his early life like a buried treasure or a stolen masterpiece he had no intention of sharing. Now, they finally had a breakthrough.
The Burke dining room was alive with the specific brand of energy that only came from late-night caffeine. Ever since Peter had uncovered Neal’s birth name, or at least the name he grew up with, he hadn't found the time to dig through the files during office hours.
When Peter finally ran a search for "Danny Brooks," the database flooded with so many results that he had to call in reinforcements. Which was how he found himself sitting at his dining room table with Jones, Diana, and Elizabeth, passing around embarrassing elementary school photos and old report cards.
"Oh, look at this!" Diana laughed, holding up a printout. "Class president, sophomore year."
As the photo went around, everyone took turns teasing him about his haircut (which, despite being ridiculous, still somehow made him look like a Disney prince).
Neal wandered over from the living room couch, letting out a dramatic, long-suffering sigh. "Ha, ha. Very funny, everyone. Aren’t you all getting bored yet?"
"Not even close," Peter chuckled, shoving a photo of a tiny Neal dressed as a kid cop for Halloween toward him.
Neal pouted, dragging his feet back to the living room where an art history documentary was playing on mute. At least he’d gotten a good dinner out of the evening, and he had Mozzie trapped on the other side of the sofa for company.
"Aw, Neal, we only poke fun because we love you," Elizabeth called out warmly.
"Yeah, yeah," Neal waved off, offering a tight smile.
In truth, a knot of unease was tightening in his stomach. He hated them looking through his past. He knew exactly what was in those boxes recovered from Ellen’s house, and he knew they weren't just filled with school memory books.
Catching the sudden tension in Neal’s posture, Peter and Diana exchanged a quick, perceptive look. Breaking the sudden quiet, Jones held up a disc from the file box with an amused grin. "No way. It’s labeled 'police footage.' Did we just find Neal’s first arrest? Because Peter definitely didn't make this bust."
Neal sat up, genuine confusion replacing his guarded look. He had never been arrested as a kid. "What?"
"Don't worry, buddy," Peter joked, clapping him on the back as he moved toward his recliner. "Statute of limitations means whatever you did is long off the books."
Ignoring Mozzie’s protests to leave the documentary on, the group migrated to the living room, gathering around the TV.
"Guys, seriously, I don't even know what's on that," Neal said, his voice forced into an easy, nonchalant cadence. "It's probably just a mistake. I wasn't arrested before I was 18."
"Well, let's see what kind of trouble Danny Brooks was getting into then," Jones said, sliding the disc into the player.
As the screen flickered to life, showing an old VHS-quality police perspective approaching a rundown apartment complex, Neal's easy demeanor vanished. "I’d really rather you guys didn't watch this."
When no one moved to turn it off, Neal stood up. "Excuse me. I'm going to use the restroom."
"Wow," Elizabeth said softly, watching him walk away. "Who knew he'd get that embarrassed watching old videos of himself?"
"Yeah," Peter murmured, staring at the empty hallway. "Usually Neal never misses a chance to be the center of attention." he said with a laugh.
--
The audio crackled through the speakers as the time stamp appeared in the corner: OCTOBER 14, 1990. The room quieted down, settling in for what they assumed would be a funny look at a tiny inexperienced con artist.
On screen, a uniform officer climbed a narrow, dimly lit apartment staircase. The body camera jolted with every step. From behind a door at the end of the hall, a woman’s sharp, echoing voice cut through the static.
"Danny, do not walk away from me!"
The atmosphere in the Burke living room instantly shifted.
The officer pushed the door open, stepping into a cramped, suffocating apartment. The camera panned across peeling wallpaper, stacks of past-due bills, and a cluttered kitchen before settling on a young boy standing by the front door.
There was no mistaking him. He was small, his dark hair a little longer and wilder than the Neal they knew, his face still holding the soft roundness of a nine-year-old. But the eyes were identical.
A woman stood across from him, a sharp finger leveled at his face. "You embarrassed me today."
The boy immediately dropped his gaze to the floor.
"What's the context here?" Jones asked quietly, the humor entirely gone from his voice.
Diana scanned her eyes over the digital file on her laptop. "Neighbor called in a disturbance."
On screen, the woman stepped closer. "You think you're smarter than everyone else, don't you?"
"No." The boy's response was instantaneous, automatic.
"You always have an excuse."
"No."
"You think the rules don't apply to you."
"I don't," Neal whispered, shrinking back as his mother took another step forward. Even through the dated, grainy footage, the tension in the room was suffocating.
"What did he even do?" Peter asked, his brow furrowed.
Diana looked at the text on her screen, a frown forming. "He skipped a mandatory school enrichment program."
The living room went dead silent.
"Oh, Neal," Elizabeth murmured.
"That's it?" Jones asked, incredulous. "For skipping a school program?"
Diana nodded, her eyes fixed on the screen. "Apparently, he bypassed the program, went to the regular school building instead, and spent the entire afternoon drawing in the art studio."
On the couch, Mozzie let out a faint, bittersweet huff. Of course Neal had skipped a structured event to sneak into an art room. It was entirely in character. But the sheer fury it had provoked from his mother felt entirely disproportionate.
"You humiliated me in front of those teachers," the woman hissed.
"I'm sorry."
"You should be."
The officer finally intervened, his shadow crossing the frame. "Ma'am, maybe everyone just needs a minute to calm down and take a breath."
She whipped around to face the camera. "I am perfectly calm."
Nobody in the Burkes' living room believed her. Neither did the officer. The camera tilted down as he crouched to eye-level with the boy.
"You okay, kiddo?" Neal gave a tight, practiced nod.
"What's your name?"
A heavy pause. "Danny."
Hearing the name out loud felt incredibly weird. Even after weeks of seeing it written in government paperwork.
The officer’s voice softened. "How old are you, Danny?"
"Nine."
"Can you tell me what happened today to upset your mom?"
Neal hesitated. His eyes flicked rapidly between the officer and his mother. He wasn't trying to remember the answer; he was calculating the safest thing to say. Peter felt a cold knot form in his stomach. He had seen that exact calculation on the faces of countless witnesses.. and victims.
"I wasn't supposed to leave the field trip grounds."
"And you did?"
"No, but I didn’t go on the field trip at all."
The woman let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "See? He admits it. He's a liar."
Neal visibly frowned.
Diana shifted uncomfortably, gripping her laptop.
The mother stepped into Neal’s personal space again. "You think because you're clever, you can get away with whatever you want. You lie to your teachers, you lie to the neighbors, and you lie to me."
The boy kept his eyes glued to his worn sneakers. In the reflection of a dusty mirror on the wall, the officer's face looked increasingly alarmed.
Then, the woman reached out and gripped Neal’s wrist. The kid froze instantly, locking up like marble.
The officer moved in. "Ma'am. Let go of his arm."
She ignored him, her fingers digging deeper. "You think you're so special."
"I didn't—"
"You think you're better than everyone else."
The boy sucked in a sharp, painful breath as her grip tightened.
"Ma'am!" the officer commanded, his tone dropping into authority. "Let go of him right now."
She abruptly released him. Neal immediately stumbled backward, putting as much distance between them as the small hallway allowed.
Peter looked down at Elizabeth, who had moved to the floor, leaning heavily against his legs for comfort. The initial curiosity that had driven them to open the file had completely vanished. Nobody wanted to watch this anymore.
But the tape kept playing. The footage cut abruptly, skipping forward several minutes.
The officer was now sitting on the concrete steps of the apartment stairwell. Neal sat a step below him, staring out into the landing while a second officer spoke to his mother inside the apartment.
"Your mom gets angry like that a lot?" the officer asked gently.
He shrugged, his shoulders tight. "Sometimes."
"You seem pretty used to it."
Another small shrug. The officer waited out the silence, letting it stretch.
"She's just stressed," the boy finally offered, his voice small but defensive.
The officer paused. "Danny... does she ever hurt you?"
His head snapped up, and he shook it forcefully. "No."
"Has she ever grabbed you the way she did inside?"
The boy looked back toward the apartment door, checking to see if anyone was watching. He looked up the stairs, then down. Finally, he gave the sharpest, most microscopic nod of his head.
The officer lowered his voice, leaning closer to the microphone. "Has she ever hit you?"
The boy’s face went completely blank, emotional detachment that Peter recognized instantly. It was the exact expression Neal used in interrogation rooms when a case got too personal.
"If I answer that," the nine-year-old whispered, his voice trembling, "will she get in trouble?"
Elizabeth choked back a small noise, pulling closer to Peter.
The officer on screen seemed completely caught off guard, a heavy silence hanging over the audio.
"No," he promised softly. "And I won't tell her."
Neal nodded once "Then yes."
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the Burke living room. It wasn't the silence of anticipation anymore. It was the weight of a terrible realization.
On screen, the officer tried to ask a few more questions, but Neal had shut down.
For the remainder of the tape, every response out of his mouth was a practiced defense of his mother. She works hard. She didn't mean it. She just gets overwhelmed.
Peter hated how deeply familiar it sounded. Children of abuse always did that. They built walls around their parents, protecting the very people they needed protection from.
The tape crackled and cut to black twenty minutes later. There was no arrest. No charges filed.
In 1990, the officers had simply written up a domestic disturbance report, filed it away, and left.
For a long time, nobody spoke. The only sound was the quiet hum of the television screen.
Finally, Diana looked down at her laptop, her voice hollow. "There are seventeen more reports in this file." Peter’s head snapped up. "What?"
"Between the ages of seven and fourteen," Diana said, looking up at him with a pained expression. "Seventeen separate domestic calls to that apartment."
The number hung in the air like a physical blow. Seventeen.
As the room relapsed into silence, a decade's worth of unanswered questions suddenly fell into place.
They finally understood why Neal never spoke about where he came from. Why he treated questions about his childhood like a dangerous game. Why he had spent his entire adult life reinventing himself, shedding his identity over and over again.