I know, I seriously suck at continuing projects and I am so, so very sorry. I feel awful. I just couldn't think of a way to keep going, and the quality just got worse and worse and worse with Life Goes On that I just... couldn't. I had an apology oneshot lined up but this came into my mind. The apology oneshot is on its way though. I am so sorry. I'm so sorry.

But anyway, this is a oneshot inspired by a conversation a bunch of us had on the Castle Summer Rewatch chat relating to how Beckett got the ring. It ran away from me a bit, but here goes...

Disclaimer: Definitely do not own Castle. If I owned Castle, you'd get an episode every fifty years because I'd get writer's block. Again.

Lost.

That's the only word she really had to explain her emotions at the moment. Just completely, totally lost. What was she doing here? What was going on? Why was this happening? How could this be happening? You'd think that after three weeks at least the edge would be gone, right? But it wasn't. It wasn't. There was still this massive, gaping hole punched into her heart. There was still an emptiness, a dread, a regret, something always waiting to ambush her around every corner. Just when everything was okay, something would always pop out to remind her of her mother. Something was always there to make her mother's absence all too far at the forefront. And there wasn't even anything to remember her by that wasn't drenched in blood. Nothing. Sure, there was the stuff at home, but even going into her parents' bedroom, the bedroom they'd had since she was little it just… too many memories. It was too much. She just couldn't… she couldn't. It was still nearly an impossible challenge to go into the apartment. Took everything she had just to go in. She'd taken to staying with a New York friend every so often just to get out of there. She didn't know how her Dad could possibly be dealing with it, she hardly could. Then again, he hadn't really been around.

The precinct, that detective, had called her. She didn't really know why. If it was just to torment her more with her mother's murder then… she would just leave. She could. It was legal, right? She wasn't breaking any laws by leaving if that happened. She'd answered all of their questions. Both Dad and her had solid alibis, they couldn't possibly still suspect them. Not like they'd have killed Mom. How the hell could those detectives have possibly assumed that? How the hell… No. She was not going through this again. She'd been through this. Many times. She was just too tired. Not now. Not right now. Later?

Maybe they actually found something. A lead.

…

Who was she kidding, there was no chance in hell they found a lead. Last time she'd checked they were still trying to box it into "random gang violence", which basically meant whoever the hell did this to her, to her mom, to her entire family, would never be caught. Never punished. How was that for justice?

She stared bleakly up at the façade of the 64th Precinct, the cold stone mocking her. How many other victims had passed through those gray doors, how many others had passed through here with a case still 100% unsolved with no leads at all? Probably too many. Way too many.

Definitely one too many.

The guard on duty looked up at her, "Do you need help, miss?"

She nodded, vainly trying to keep her voice level, "Yes. Detective Raglan from Homicide called me and said he had something relating to my… my mother's case that I should see."

"Oh, so you're Kate Beckett," said the guard, nodding. She gave him a tense nod in return, "Straight up, third floor."

"Thank you," she forced out, heading towards the stairs. The elevator had been broken for the entire time this hell had been burning in her life. Couldn't help but wonder if that made solving cases harder for those poor, unfortunate detectives. Stairs? The horror, must make their lives so much more difficult. No, no, no. You swore you wouldn't do this to yourself, Kate. It snuck up on her, every time. And then eventually she was degraded into a sobbing mess on the floor of a hallway, her room, the street, anywhere, and that just wouldn't do. Not for her.

She got to the third floor easily enough. Her years at the brand new ten-floor building of Stuyvesant with the escalators that were broken 24/7 that also expected you to get from the first floor to tenth in exactly four minutes made two flights a laughing stock. Once there, she glanced around the messy and pretty depressing looking homicide floor. Desks and boards were strewn all over the place in what, she supposed, could be called an order of some sort if you really pushed the definition of order. Where the heck was Raglan? She searched the handful of guys in the room (many of which were staring at her like she was a piece of meat) until she spotted Raglan in a corner. There was some sort of bag on his desk that he was staring at. Ignoring the creepy stares from the thirty, forty-something year-olds around the room, she walked up to Raglan's desk.

"Excuse me, Detective Raglan?" she said, the detective jolting upright and breaking out of the trancelike state he had been in, "You called me?"

"Oh… yes," he said, shaking his head, "One of the Forensics kids said they did another sweep of the crime scene and they came across a ring off to the side, behind a cardboard box. We're pretty sure it's your mom's wedding ring. Your father mentioned it before?"

He picked up the bag and the familiar sparkling band glittered at her, reflecting the fluorescent light from above. A little dirty, but yes. That was definitely it. She gasped, hand instinctively reaching out for it. The ring. Her mom's ring.

"It probably came off during the struggle," continued Raglan, "And since we couldn't reach your father, we thought you might want to take it to him or… it doesn't really matter what you do with it. It's up to you."

She picked up the bag gently, cradling the plastic in her hands and staring at the large reflective gem inset on the band. She'd always loved her mom's ring. Mom's always saying… Mom used to say that she used to be fascinated by it in her earliest years. It used to always make her smile, apparently. Even now, it almost forced a smile to come across her face. Didn't quite accomplish it though. It'd take a miracle to overcome the oppressive depression surrounding her right now, and even finding the ring… not enough. However, her eyes apparently decided that crying was not beyond her. A tear fell down her cheek.

"Thank you," she breathed, looking up at the detective, "Thank you."

He nodded gruffly, "You're welcome."

She was about to turn away, the ring clenched in her hands like she was Gollum and it was her Precious, but something hit her, "You… You didn't happen to find anything relating to the m… the case, did you?"

He winced, looking down, "I'm sorry… we… we haven't found anything," he paused before rushing out, "It was probably gang violence though. Area's known for it, and the stab wounds were totally random, typical of gangs. You know how gangs are."

Deflating a bit, she nodded, "Yeah. I guess. Any chance of catching the jackass?"

"With gangs it's near impossible to even get near them…. legally, that is," said Raglan, sighing, "But… you never know. We might get lucky."

Her chest felt heavy, so she gave him a curt nod and whirled around, heading quickly back down the stairs. She rushed out, ignoring the guard's goodbye. She walked mindlessly through the streets, ring gripped so tightly in her hand she feared she might break the band. But no, wedding rings did not bend that easily. She knew that. Guess she wasn't exactly being rational right now. Honestly though, walking randomly in NYC…

Wait. Seriously, where was she?

She looked around, stopping on the side of the sidewalk. Peering at the street signs, she determined that she was around 70th and 2nd. Great. Walked three massive crosstown blocks and two blocks without noticing. She should really head home. Dad… Dad would be worried, right? If he was home at all. Raglan had said he wasn't home. Oh. Right. He was out at the cabin. He wasn't even in the city. Fantastic. Just when she needed him, too. Great father.

Okay, she couldn't blame him. The love of his life was gone. Her parents… as much as she had hated them during her teenage angst period, were ridiculously adorable together. To have that much ripped from him… Dad couldn't be taking it well. And neither was she. She couldn't be expected to be the strong one here. She was just a college kid for crying out loud- she couldn't even (legally) drink! And yet, here she was, expected to be the strong one who could handle her mother being murdered in stride while her father ran away from it all. How was she supposed to be handling this? How?
Calm down, Kate.

She couldn't stand the thought of going home to a cold, empty apartment full of agonizing memories right now. Anything to do around here? Wouldn't… wouldn't do her any good to get flat out wasted, not again. She… no. She had to be strong. As unfair as it was, she couldn't do that to herself. She couldn't. Later. Drown later, when people aren't around to come home to you throwing up in the toilet or huddled over a pregnancy test, begging it to say negative.

There was a crowd gathering outside of a small storefront across the street. Huh. What was that about? She crossed with the green light, craning her neck a bit to see. A huge poster advertising some author's book reading was plastered across the window of what looked like a small bookstore. Huh. She couldn't make out the title, but the writer's name was definitely clear as day. Richard Castle. Why did that ring a bell?

She pondered over it for a moment longer before giving up. It… it wouldn't hurt, right? It could even be fun. Fun. Ha. Funny. She probably wouldn't have fun for another fifty years at the rate she was going. Suddenly remembering the diamond ring in her hand, she unzipped and the small bag she had on her with her wallet and metro card in it and pushed the ring inside. That way she wouldn't drop it. She put the bag hastily into her large coat pocket as the door opened. The crowd rushed in, and she went with the flow. Guess it was one way to waste time.

The mob continued towards a large room in the back set up with folding chairs and a single podium and a microphone at the front. A book lay on the podium's sleek wooden surface. No sign of the author. She followed the chattering woman in front of her into a seat as the room filled up around her. The woman she'd followed was so loud she couldn't help but eavesdrop.

"Oh, I'm so excited!" squeaked the redhead, "I love his books so much, Lauren, I can hardly wait for this."

"Oh please, Nik," said her brunette companion, rolling her eyes at the redhead, "You just think he's hot."

"No," huffed the redhead, "I love mystery books."

"Sure," scoffed Lauren, "You can hardly cope with anything wordier than a tabloid."

"Can too," whined the redhead.

"Can not."

"Can too."

"Can not."

She quickly tuned out of the increasingly childlike conversation. It was honestly not helping her wild vortex of emotions right now. Cheers went up from one side of the room and she turned to see a young man walk up to the podium at the front of the room. He had dark brown hair, just enough stubble to pass as sexy without being too much, and bright blue eyes. If she wasn't an emotional disaster right now she might find him hot. The redheaded woman, Nik or something like that, squealed. She was a little concerned the woman might faint.

"Hello," said the author, Richard Castle or something like that, "I am so happy all of you beautiful ladies could join me this afternoon."

Every face in the room was beaming at him, both old and young (oh my god was that a baby? Who brought a baby to a mystery book reading?), all except her own. Smiles were not happening today, not for her.

"You guys are in for a treat today," he said, grinning, "I've got my latest book here, one that was released but two hours ago. I bet you all have copies already though."

As if in response many of the women in the room raised a copy of the book in the air. She felt rather left out, but she hadn't, per say, exactly been in the loop since you know…

"I knew I could count on my wonderful fans," he said, "Now, shall we begin?"

The room buzzed with anticipation as the author cracked open the pretty stereotypically designed hardcover.

"Chapter One."

"It was a peaceful town, nothing much ever happened there…"

...

"…As they drove off together towards the unknown future, she grabbed his hand in hers. He turned to look at her in surprise, smiling. They might have no clue where they were going, but they were going together, and that's all that really mattered."

The author closed the book, sending a heart-melting smile at the crowd. She snapped out of the dreamlike state the reading had put her in (as reading so often did) and actually joined in with the applause.

"Thank you all for joining me today," he said, "Feel free to stay to get your book signed or ask any questions, but do try to keep it quick. I have a very impatient daughter waiting at home."

Daughter? This guy seriously had a daughter? How old was this guy? The way these women were fawning over him he seemed only in his late twenties, maybe thirties. A daughter? Why did she care?

Daughter.

Let's hope he was never m…

God, she had almost forgotten about it, even wrapped up in a story about mu… mystery. Did she feel bad? She did. She shouldn't… she shouldn't forget. Never. She shouldn't forget about the blood pooled on mom's pale blouse, the blood surrounding her mother, the blood just everywhere. The dark alleyway, the bright and shiny yellow police tape a stark contrast to the grimy place. The lifeless body. The cops swarming. The empty apologies, the our-heart-goes-out-to-you's, the empty promises to find whoever did this. The harsh stab wounds in her stomach. The unmoving body, devoid of the life her mother had had just the morning before.

The images swarmed in her mind, blinding her. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe. She felt like crying, raging, begging, sobbing, collapsing unfeeling to the ground, doing something, anything. But problem was, she couldn't move. She could just sit there and suffer through the memories of that day. Frozen in place no matter how hard she tried to break free of the horrible images' hold.

A warm and strong hand on her shoulder finally broke her out of it.

"Hey," said a soft voice, "You alright?"

Startling, she turned to look at the speaker. Blue eyes, dark brown hair, light stubble. It was the author, Richard Castle.

"Y-yeah," she said, shaking her head as the images receded once more to lie in wait for her to fall asleep and when nightmares could take the place of daylight terrors, "I… I'm fine."

"Panic attack?" he said, his hand drawing off of her shoulder, "Am I too much for you to handle?" he added, grinning.

She scoffed, the closest to a laugh she'd gotten in a while, "Not in the least, Mister… Castle, was it?"

"Yes," he said, nodding. He paused, "Wait. You come to my book reading and don't know my name? Harsh."

"Well, sorry," she said, shrugging, "I… I just needed something to take my mind off of something. Didn't think it… didn't think it would come back take over like that."

"Oh," he said, nodding as his celebrity-esque façade fell a bit to reveal something more genuine, "I get it. Needed to get away from something, and words are your escape. I totally understand that."

She nodded, "Yeah."

"I take it you probably have better places to be," he said, backing off from her chair a bit, "Nice to meet you."

Dumbly nodding again, she got up. She didn't realize a small plastic bag fall from her pocket as she maneuvered back to the front of the small store. A little weird, that a clearly well-loved author would do a reading in a hole in the wall like this.

She personally just couldn't believe she'd let the images overwhelm her like that again. The first two weeks had been purely that, but now it only happened in flashes, moments, 'attacks', she supposed you could call them. What time was it? She should… should probably start to head home. No way of knowing what time it was. No watch. Slightly problematic.

"Hey! Hey!"

A voice yelled out from behind her, and something told her it was directed at her. She turned around to see the author running out of the store, a bag in hand.

"You dropped this," he said, holding out a plastic bag to her, "I… doesn't look like something you'd want to misplace."

He held the plastic bag with her mother's ring it. Damnit. She was an idiot. What would she have done if she'd lost it? Killed herself, that was what she would've done.

"Oh," she said, eyes going wide as she snatched the bag back, "Thanks. Thank you."

"Not a problem," he said, smiling widely at her and glancing down at her hands, "Yours?"

"Oh… no," she said, the ring back in a death grip, "Not mine. I… I'm not engaged. Definitely not mine."

He nodded, blue eyes searching hers as if finding an answer there, "Of course. Well, it's been wonderful to meet you Miss…"

"Beckett," she said, not even thinking about what she was saying, "Kate Beckett."

"Hope you have an extraordinary day then, Miss Kate Beckett," he said, flashing her one more award-winning grin before turning back into the store. Jealous looks from the throng of women around her lowered directly on her, but she didn't notice. She simply bit her lip, stared down at the ring, then back at the bookstore, then the ring, then the bookstore.

The first smile she'd smiled in weeks broke across her face as she walked away.