Writing the Wrong
Author's Note: Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy. I own my imagination and the laptop on which I write, but nothing else involving the world of Castle.
Chapter 1
He pulled a leather bound binder from the top of his study bookshelf, looking for a distraction from writing.
As a New York Times bestselling author, he had received letters from fans for years, often from young writers looking for advice or women looking for a good time, but every once in a while, he received letters that touched his heart. For Father's Day one year, Alexis had bought him the leather bound binder to keep the special letters, and there they lived tucked safely away.
Castle set the binder down on his desk and started turning pages. After the first line or two he recalled the crux of the note, smiled and moved on to the next page. After about twenty minutes, he stopped sharp a couple of lines down one particular letter. He knew this handwriting. He started at the top again, noting the date and read the letter again, this time in a whole new context.
Dear Mr. Castle,
I'm not sure why I'm writing this letter. I know nothing can change what's happened. My mother is dead. This is the first time I've written those words and though they are hard to write, they're even harder to read. She was killed, though we don't know what happened or why. I think that makes it even harder.
My mother loved your books. I found a few of them in her room under her bed. I've gotten in the habit of taking her pillow to my room, wrapping up in her bathrobe and reading them. I know it's not going to bring her back but it makes me feel closer to her.
Though it hurts to accept it, I know the smells will fade from her pillow and robe, but you're still here and hopefully, will continue to write. Your books give me hope that we will find some justice, some closure to her death.
You'll probably never even read this but I wanted to let you know that your books are for some, like me, more than just entertainment. They're hope for the future, hope that every day won't hurt as much as it does now.
Sincerely,
Katherine Beckett
Castle couldn't do anything but stare at the brief note. He knew he'd read the letter before, but that was before he had known Kate. He leaned back in his chair and tried to process it all. His Kate, who he knew so well, and yes, in his mind he could admit that he loved, had been in so much pain. She'd reached out to him, which was so incredibly not like her, and exposed her heart. Did she remember writing it? Did she feel that kind of deep pain when she thought about her mother?
"Richard, I'm heading out," Martha stuck her head in her son's office but paused once she could tell he wasn't paying attention.
"Richard?"
"What?" Castle looked up.
"Is everything okay?"
He shook his head and motioned for her to come to his desk. "Read this."
After a few moments, Martha placed her hand on her chest. "Oh my goodness, Poor Kate."
"I didn't know mother," he whispered, the look of guilt obvious on his normally happy face.
"Of course, you didn't. You couldn't have, but it touched you, even then, right? You saved it."
"Yeah, but I should have made the connection."
"Richard, her mother was killed and this letter was sent long before you met her."
"I know." Castle stared at the letter, "What do I do?"
"Go talk to her."
"And say what?"
"You're the wordsmith of the family, I'm sure you'll come up with just the right thing."
To be continued…
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