Richard Castle walked down the stairs to the kitchen of his loft where he could smell coffee brewing. As he entered he heard the faint sound of the rustling of the newspaper as his mother skimmed through it, coffee in hand, all ready and dressed for the day.
"Good morning, Mother," he said with a small smile as he leaned down to kiss her on the cheek, his freshly-washed, alpine-scent washing over her, "Where is Alexis?"
"I thought she was still asleep. She went to that party for Ashley's seventeenth birthday last night."
"I know, but she wasn't in her room," he stated, eyes squinting in confusion and worry.
Martha Rodgers expression morphed to match her sons, but, having been the mother of Richard Castle for far too long to be healthy, masked her worry-the work of a true theater girl, and said firmly, "I'm sure she's fine. She's practically a grown-up; she can take care of herself."
"I guess you're right. I probably just got a little over-protective. I have nothing to worry about. She probably just went to the library or an early movie or a walk in the park with Ashley since they both love the sunrise so much."
"Yes, Richard, that's the spirit. Think positively. What's the worst thing that could have happened to her?"
Castle had once told his mother never to say that to a novelist because they were trained to think of the worst-case scenarios. Apparently, she had forgotten that time because as she said this, his imagination was let loose from its cage like a savage beast and once again, worry, fear, and anxiety washed over him.