Who he was, he was. If he honored Beckett for herself, Castle knew he also had to be truthsome about himself. And he hadn't needed his mother to spell it out for him; in her own way, she had great integrity and he had absorbed it with the Sidecars and the greasepaint in her blood. You don't lie. You do what your nature demands, and you try to be truthful, face the music and dance.

His nature, unfortunately, resembled the Elephant's Child, or a proverbial cat, or Edmund Hillary: he wanted to know because It Was There. This made him a wonderful source of trivia, very entertaining at parties, a terrible nerd, and a wide pool of very shallow knowledge. And too dumb to know when to stop.

Sooner or later he would find out if he was right about who his father was, but that was not currently of much interest. It was long ago, and in another country, and besides, the guy was dead.

"Christ, Ricky, this is not about you, it's about Kate," he remonstrated with himself. They argued a lot. "What's your integrity against her peace of mind? What the HELL kind of integrity bases itself in screwing with someone else's defenses?" And in nine women out of ten, he was right –

"Like your sample is so broad?"

No. If it was Alexis, or his mother, he knew where his duty lay. They had clearer sight than he did and they wanted accuracy (even if they might not intend to do anything about it; his mom was unrepentant about her drinking and her morals and Alexis was unrepentant, well, about everything, and he hoped being sans peur et sans reproche would carry her as far as she needed. He knew he was both avec peur – he feared to lose his loves, his riches, his beauty, his wit – and avec reproche – just because everyone in sight wanted to sleep with him did not mean he was being generous to all those whom he allowed to have him (he kept to women; he seemed not to be able to lie about his preferences to please anyone. Pity, really).

Okay, but for most people, he would have let a dog lulled to sleep at enormous cost lie. Not Kate. Not Detective Beckett. He admired her mettle/metal; not just the way she approached life, but the core of steel with which she approached unpleasant duties. He had not exactly asked for this cup to pass from him; he had gone out, borrowed and copied the file, and sought out the contacts fifteen years of writing and schmoozing (he did both well) had given him. And the pathologist had borne fruit. It was not all that surprising.

It was really awkward.

It was a foregone conclusion.

He hated the whole thing.

Alexis came in from school. "How's it going?" he asked.

"The English teacher says I am wordy and antiquated."

Rick blinked. "I thought this was a good school."

"It is. We just don't like each other."

She was certainly prettier and richer than her English teacher, not that at least one would be hard. "Apart from that?"

"I am the only person in the class who likes what we're reading, and she still hates me. We're reading Franny and Zooey," she explained, before he needed to ask.

"Probably most of the kids in your class don't know much about Eastern religion."

"Or Western, either," she agreed.

"Alexis."

"What, Daddy?"

"Would you rather be a person like Franny, who only liked bunny rabbits, or Zooey, who wants to give her a cobra with a bow tied around its neck because he loves all animals and can't understand why anyone wouldn't love it?"

"Well, I'd rather have a bunny, but I really understand where he's coming from. No snakes, Dad, please."

"I'd have trouble feeding them mammals and crickets are messy, you're safe." Rick was quiet for a moment. His daughter was not under too much stress, angry at him, or thinking about someone else. She was listening, and she answered.

"Are you planning to give someone a cobra? Is she expecting a present at all?"

"No, and she's been very clear that I am not to bring her anything more lively than chocolate."

"But there's a cobra."

"Mmm."

"Were you shopping for her?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"I'd rather have the cobra. You know it's going to be slithering around the room until you point it out."

"That is not a reassuring metaphor."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Maybe not, but when it blows up in my face I'll let you give me cold towels."

Alexis smiled at him. Everything he had ever done right pounded him on the back and said Good job, old boy! "You promise?"

"When have I ever been able to lie to you?"

"I could give you a list, but not a very long one." She came and hugged him.

"I am the luckiest man in the world," Rick said. He liked her hair. Not even in a creepy way. Sometimes he felt well-adjusted. "Except possibly for Owen."

Alexis smiled but it was clear this was not a discussion she was about to let him pursue. "Is this about Detective Beckett?"

"I found out some rather disquieting things about her mother's death."

"Did you talk to her partners?"

"Yeah, well, one of them. Esposito gave me the file in the first place. She told me if I investigated her mother's death we were OVER."

"But you already did?"

"Of course."

"What did Esposito say?"

"Nothing. In capital letters, italic, bold. He couldn't have been clearer."

"So you'll talk to her?"

"So, I will."

"I'll get the cold towels ready."

"Wow, thanks for the optimism."

"Owen or not," Alexis said, on her way out of the room, "I hope I find someone who loves me that much."

"I hope you won't need to," said Castle, and he meant it before he realized what they had admitted to one another.