Author's note: Hello again. It's been a little while. I was lying awake the other night, introspecting about how a writer is a creature who constructs narratives about everything, very much including real life. Possibilities, scenarios, potential outcomes. It can be crippling, in fact.
It occurred to me, in the way that things do when your mind is neither entirely awake nor asleep, that Castle would have foreseen so many possibilities for how Beckett would react when she found out about his secret. I think he would have written it down, in some form, just to get it out.
In this particular pocket universe, he does that very thing. I think this story will consist of three relatively brief chapters, then I really must disappear again... for a while.
Castle leaned back in his chair, looking slowly around his silent office. It was early afternoon on a Saturday, and grey light filtered in through the blinds. His gaze came to rest on the darkened flatscreen monitor hanging from a wall bracket nearby, and he sighed.
After a moment, he turned his attention to his desk. His laptop was closed and pushed to one side, and there were only two objects directly in front of him: a large, lined notebook bound in black leather, and an elegant, midnight-blue fountain pen.
He glanced up again, looking out through the open doorway into the main part of the loft, but there was no movement out there. Martha and Alexis were on a spa day in a luxury hotel, and wouldn't be back until tomorrow. He'd arranged it all, so that there would be no interruptions.
The notebook's cover was soft and supple, often-opened. In one of the low cabinets behind him, protected by a combination lock, there were dozens more, all identical. In the next cabinet along, he had another stack of the same notebooks, blank and unused.
Each one had a dark red fabric bookmark sewn into the spine, and the notebook in front of him was laid open, with the bookmark drawn up, snaking across the polished wood of his desk. The left-hand page was blank, and was about a third of the way through this particular volume.
On the right-hand page, in the top corner, he'd written today's date.
He glanced at the clock, and nodded to himself. Beckett would be here in a couple of hours, as he'd also arranged. He had enough time. The ticking of the clock seemed unnaturally loud, and he thought it was appropriate.
He picked up the pen, and after only a brief pause, he began to write.
Today, it all ends.
A couple of hours from now, Kate will arrive. I asked her to come over so we could talk about something. She has the weekend off, but she agreed readily – and that's no surprise. Things have been changing, slowly but surely, for months now.
She smiles more. She lets her fingers brush against mine when I hand her a cup of coffee in the morning. She spends more time here, with me, and with mother and Alexis. She lets me help her into her coat, or pull out a chair for her, and she stands closer to me than she used to.
I've thought about what she said in the park – on the swings – so many times that it's taken on a mythical quality; every word laden with subtext and allegory. But really the message was simple: we may have a future together. In time, once she gets to where she needs to be. Then, we could have a chance. It's happening, too – a little more each month. It's coming closer.
And today, it all ends.
I've been writing these journal entries for almost seventeen years now. Since… Meredith, and afterwards. For this notebook, today is just another page; after yesterday, and before tomorrow. I wonder what I'll write, the next time I pick up this pen? I wonder if there will be a next time.
I've been dreading this day. A couple of hours from now, she'll walk in here, and I'll take her coat. She'll smile at me, most likely, in that particular way that she smiles at me lately. Eyes wide open and sparkling, dark lashes against her cheek, head tilted slightly. She'll smile so that I can almost hear the words behind it. The words I've wanted to hear for so long.
And then I'll bring her into this room, and I'll tell her that I've been looking into her mother's case, whilst keeping her away from it. I'll tell her about Smith, and about the phone calls, and the meetings in the parking garage. About the agreement, and about the danger to her life if she starts looking again. I'll tell her everything, and I'll give her all the information, and I'll beg her to set it aside, and live instead.
I'll tell her that her mother wouldn't have wanted her to die for this. I'll tell her that there's another future for her, and that I can be part of it, if she'll let me.
But it'll still all end.
Because she'll feel shocked, and angry, and hurt, and betrayed. She'll be furious that I've taken hold of something so intensely personal to her – something that in many ways defines her, even though it shouldn't – and lied to her about it. She'll hate me for having leads that I haven't shown to her, even though they've dried up and there's nothing more to do. She'll be sick to her stomach about me bargaining for her life, without even involving her.
Every moment we've had recently has been bringing us closer and closer to a point where the wall inside her would come down, and she'd let me step over the rubble and finally stand beside her in the way that I want to. But today, the wall that had been crumbling will start to be rebuilt. Bricks and mortar, reinforced with steel.
The worst part for her will be the sense of personal betrayal. That will be the transgression she won't be able to let go. It's funny, in a sad sort of way, because I've known for a while now that she remembers everything I said to her that day, at Roy's funeral. I've allowed her to take the time she believes she needs. I haven't pushed. I've bit my tongue, and stilled my hand a thousand times.
Even when she reaches out to me, and straightens a lapel, or picks a piece of lint from a sleeve. Even when her fingers brush against mine. Even when I lift her hair out from her coat, or lay a hand against her back. Even then, when it physically hurts to not be closer to her.
Those moments are like air to breathe. I've cherished them, and replayed them, and hoped for them every morning. But they've also been tinged with sadness, because I know that each one brings the day just a little bit closer when I'll have to shatter what we have, before we've ever really had it.
That day is today.
What I did was necessary. It was necessary. I can never apologise for keeping her alive – how could I? I literally couldn't do anything else. I tried to take the bullet myself, and I failed, and I don't think I'll ever figure out how to forgive myself for that, but this time at least I could be her shield – quietly, silently, without her knowing. And now I'm going to tell her anyway, because I can't live with even a lie of omission any more. Some people can. But I can't.
She'll hate me, and she'll maybe even tell me so. She'll feel betrayed, and alone. She'll storm from of this room, and across, and out. The door will slam. There will be silence.
And that'll be it. I'll be here, still in the office. The murder board will be on, and I'll switch it off. I'll pour a large glass of the whisky I've already put in my desk drawer, and I'll drink, for as long as it takes.
As afternoon becomes evening, and the darkness gathers, I'll drink to say goodbye to the life we might have had.
It would be so easy to just stay quiet, but it would also be impossible. She has to know. It's the most important thing in her life, as she's regularly made clear. It's her white whale.
So I'll tell her, and I'll give her the truth, and the few meagre pieces of new information I can provide. I'll give her those things, and pay for them with the future I dreamed of.
I won't have the chance to actually say goodbye, so I suppose I should do it now.
Goodbye, Detective.
You're more than an inspiration. Your strength, your courage, and your sense of justice have taught me what it means to make a difference in the world, and to fight for our beliefs.
Goodbye, Katherine Houghton Beckett.
You're the most extraordinary woman I've ever known. You're still a wonderful mystery. You're fifty different women, and you're like no-one else. You've made me try to be a better man.
Goodbye, Kate.
I love you more today, on our last day, than I did on my own worst day below the blue sky, down on the green grass, with your life flowing away between my fingers. You're still alive, despite what they did, and I'd like to think that a small part of the reason for that is what I did.
I loved you then. I told you because it was true, and I needed you to know.
I love you now, as it all ends. I've written millions of words, but I never knew what those three meant before I met you.
Tomorrow is dark. I have no idea where I'll be, or what I'll do. I wish I could turn the page and see. My future is blank.
But I can promise you this:
I will love you… always.
The slam of the door still echoed around the loft, and was only slightly muted through in his office, where he still stood just in front of the desk.
The long shadows of the last hour or so of sunlight stretched across the floor. Silence descended, the only sound being the faint buzz of the electronic murder board as it bathed the room in blue light.
Castle slowly walked over to the device and switched it off without looking.
Her last words repeated over and over in his mind, as if they were still echoing around the room.
We're through.
His eyes were unfocused. His pulse was surprisingly regular, given the brief but very heated exchange that had ended only moments ago. It already seemed like hours had passed.
He felt… what?
Nothing. Nothing at all.
Like a blank page, he thought.
He took an unsteady step, and then another, and a moment later he dropped heavily into his chair.
He pulled open a drawer, lifting out a bottle of whisky and a single crystal glass, and he poured himself a drink.