Detective Kate Beckett sat at her glasstop kitchen table, moving a spoon back and forth in a long-empty coffee cup. The digital clock on the microwave read 2:17am. She shouldn't be this tense. The case was solved.

It was more cut and dry than their usual escapades. A walker discovered a dead woman slumped over on a park bench and alerted the police. Beside the woman, there was a two-page letter. Apparently her killer had been overcome with guilt and wrote out an apology - as if her remains could actually read it - before bailing. He'd even gone to the trouble of signing his name - a sprawling, easily read script.

Of course, it could have been a set-up, so they had to investigate. But when they found the man's address with a web search and arrived at his door, not only did he confess, but when he was fingerprinted, his prints matched those on the letter. Also, a gun of the same caliber used to shoot their victim was found in his bedroom with more of his prints all over it. He was taken in for questioning for all of about five minutes and was convicted.

All the facts were straight. Everything was settled. Then why didn't she feel the typical rush of relief she got after a case? Why was she still on-edge and unable to get to sleep? She'd had her coffee about three hours ago, so that shouldn't have stopped her from getting to sleep; wouldn't the affects of the caffeine have subsided by then?

Her cellphone rang, playing its ringtone loudly and making an obnoxious noise because it was vibrating against the tabletop. She hurriedly picked it up and flipped it open. "Beckett," she answered, as always.

"Kate, it's me." The voice of none other than Richard Castle flowed through the speaker. "I need to talk to you."

She wanted to hang up. She wanted to say in her ever-calm-and-collected (and only slightly sarcastic) voice, "Castle, it's after two in the morning. Normal people are asleep by now." or "Are you trying to hit on me...?"

But she didn't get a chance to. She heard a choked breath and then, "It's Alexis." His voice was smothered in a sob and his daughter's name came out with a dismal squeak. "She never came home tonight. I don't know where she is... I just--"

"I'll be right over," she said, trying to sound soft and reassuring, before closing her phone.