For Emily, who loves Jim Beckett as much as I do.
In the end, only Jim gets through to her. The only one with the ability to cut through the dark, heavy shroud of grief that wrapped around her as one of the Hamptons detective drove her back to the house. He was the one who took the visitors while sitting next to Martha and Alexis, listening to condolences the same way he and Katie listened to them in their living room after their first loss. After, though, he subtly prods the friends to leave, to return to the city without them.
Not long after, the remaining Castles call a car to bring them back to Manhattan.
He follows her when she wanders the house, her hands brushing over the back of the couch and nudging one of the wine glasses into place as a quiet shadow. He doesn't think she notices his presence when she goes down to the ocean and sits in the wet sand, her fingers twisting the single band on her left hand around and around and around.
On the days she doesn't make it out of bed, he drags one of the chairs from the dining table to the hallway with a book and stands watch over her door.
His silent guardianship ends when he comes back from grocery shopping, arms heavy with plastic bags, to find her curled up on the kitchen floor, drowning in Castle's clothes and a bottle of scotch.
"No, Katherine," he says, his voice allowing for no argument as he drops the bags and takes the half-empty bottle of alcohol from her side. She cradles the glass to her chest, the same way she used to when he or her mother tried to take away her book when she stayed up too late reading. Like it was something precious that needed to be protected.
She has no grip strength when he snags the tumbler from her fingers, the amber liquid splashing onto her hand as she makes a grab for it when he pours it all down the drain. The alcohol from the cut crystal glass and from the Dewar's bottle he knows came from Castle's desk.
When he kneels, her whole body tips into his, nearly knocking him off-balance as she twists her fingers into his shirt.
"He's just gone, Dad," she manages between great gasping sobs. "He's gone and it hurts so much. I can't do this again."
Jim hates that he knows exactly what not to say, what to whisper to provide the semblance of comfort in her haze of grief. He strokes her hair, tangled and oily from lack of brushing and shampoo, and murmurs his responses to his daughter as she breaks apart all over again at his side.
She falls asleep on the floor. He has to wake her up, help her over to the couch in front of the fireplace. All the natural grace she had from childhood right up to her shyly twirling in her mother's wedding dress in front of him gone as she drops to the cushions, stretches onto her side, and slides back into sleep. He digs out one of the woven throw blankets from the chest against the wall and tucks each side around her, carefully positioning the top so it rests just over her shoulders.
He finds his book at the top of the staircase, returning to take a seat in one of the overstuffed armchairs in the living room. Her breathing stutters, sighs out too quickly before settling back into a normal rhythm.
When the sun rises, peeking through the madras curtains, he greets her with a cup of water and a slice of toast with raspberry jam spread over it.
She thanks him, the words rough with the sobbing and scotch from the night before. He shrugs, sitting on the coffee table in front of her.
She apologizes and he cuts her off before she has the chance to finish.
"Someone tried to hold my head above water even as she was struggling to doggypaddle to the shore," he explains, squeezing tight to her free hand. "I've gotten better at swimming, Katie, and I'm not letting you get washed out to sea. We're going to make it through this, okay? You're going to make it through this."
She showers and he puts away the groceries, finding homes for the orange juice and plastic bag of green grapes and the huge container of peanut butter.
"Dad, I don't know what…" she trails off when she steps into the kitchen, her hair still soaking wet down her back, staining her shirt stormy grey.
He pulls out the tub of black raspberry ice cream and two spoons. "There's a Mets game on. They're playing the Nationals. We'll watch as long as you want."
She follows him into the living room, standing behind the couch as he flips to the correct channel until he pops the top off the carton of ice cream and stabs his spoon into it.
Kate picks up the silverware, tracing the delicate flower and vine pattern on the handle. "And after this?" she asks softly, glancing over at him even as the voices of the announcers fills the room with noise.
"Then we figure something out. It doesn't even have to be day by day," he replies around the spoon. "It can be hour by hour or minute by minute. But you're going to survive this, Katie. I promise you."
He doesn't have to explain how he has the mystical ability to know this.
She already understands.
He's done this before and he has managed to make it through everything to be sitting by her side on the couch, melting ice cream on the cushion between them while the Mets play not five days after her entire world came to a grinding halt. This is her loss's version of a walk in Coney Park in the dark clothing of a funeral.
Jim doesn't try to hide the barest hint of a smile when his daughter finally leans over to get a bite of ice cream from the container.
At least she's trying on the floaties.