Disclaimer: Castle belongs to ABC. I'm just having a bit of fun.
Coming home was the second hardest thing he had done in his life. Hesitating outside, key in hand, gathering the courage to enter, he could already envision the place he and his family had made their own in the twenty-odd years they had lived there: photos tucked amongst shelves of law books, Russian classics, and travel guides to Kiev; the scent of jasmine candles his wife liked to light; a colorful rug she had brought back from a trip to Nepal. Even though many weeks had passed since he'd last been inside, still every detail clung to him with alarming clarity, right down to the blood splatters around his wife's body.
He grimly forced the key in and opened the door. The soiled rug was gone, though the photos remained to taunt him from their perch. Casting his glance wildly around the room, he noticed a bottle of whiskey that his wife's colleagues had gifted her when she had been awarded a prestigious research grant. Those academic gala receptions weren't his cup of tea, he would always insist to her before the events. But once there, under his wife's skillful navigation, he would simply bask in the shelter of her conversation, free to watch her with that girlish flush in her cheeks, skillfully persuading everyone to her point of view.
Before he knew what he was doing, he had poured and drained an entire glass with a shaking hand. The amber liquid burned down his throat and he welcomed the cheap distraction. A couple of glasses later, he felt settled enough to let the day's events wash over him with detached restraint: being summoned into the police department; the way the long-faced detective shrugged his shoulders; the somber, unsympathetic whine of his voice as he declared the case cold; the consequent flicker of relief on the junior detective's face. Then, there was the stiffness in his daughter's posture, as though she'd been kicked in the spine. He glimpsed in that second betrayal and bitter disappointment flit through her eyes before her features settled into an inscrutable mask. It was as if she had become a stranger to him, and it was, to his surprise, a relief because at least then she didn't resemble Joanna so much anymore.
With stolid briskness, the detective had then handed him a doggie bag containing some personal items Joanna had had on her that day, and stowed the rest of the materials gathered from the case neatly away in a box.
"I'm sorry," reiterated the detective, with a final shake of his head, "but it's a open and shut case: gang violence. You're free to return to your apartment. We no longer regard it as a crime scene."
"So that's it? You're giving up?"
The officer looked squarely at the stiff young woman in front of him and adopted an avuncular tone. "Without proof to suggest otherwise, we simply haven't the resources to continue the investigation. I understand you're upset, but the best thing you can do is to let go. Your mother would have wanted you to move on."
"My mom would have wanted you to do your job properly," growled Katherine, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. Her jaw was set with anger and determination. "Why don't you investigate this for me? How probable is it that the killer managed not to leave a single shred of incriminating evidence in the apartment during a forced entry and struggle? How was a gang initiate that skillful? The real killer's got to be still out there. Do your job."
He marveled at this quality in his daughter, how together and tough she was, when all he wanted to do was block out the world around him. Despite her dean's suggestion to take time off, she had petitioned instead to increase her course load so she could change her major to criminal psychology and still graduate on time.
"Look, young lady, I've investigated dozens of cases like this, and I'll see many more after you leave. Everyone always wants their loved one's death to mean something, but sometimes it don't. That's life," snapped the detective, holding a stack of files as a buffer against the persistent girl. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'll leave you to talk some sense into your kid."
Once the officer had left, sweeping out of the room with a final supercilious glance, it was just he and Kate.
"Dad, don't let him shut the case," she pleaded, her eyes boring into his back. "Please."
He walked away. As he aimlessly rode the subway that afternoon, all he could think about was how neatly the officer had packaged Joanna's death into a box to be stowed away.
And now, he was expected to do the same with her life.
With a sudden abandon that surprised himself, he launched the whiskey glass against the wall. It shattered against a painting he and Joanna had picked out together from a gallery in SoHo. It was part of a set. He had been planning to buy the companion piece for her as a twenty-fifth anniversary gift. On its own, the piece looked incomplete, pointless even.
He tore it down, the gilded frame splintering as it hit the ground. Suddenly, every object in the room seemed like a reminder that she was gone and yet she was everywhere. It was as if the room closed in on him. Books flew, vases smashed, furniture thrashed, yet still he couldn't shake that hollow feeling from his gut.
He had no idea how much time had passed when the door creaked open and Katherine entered, mouth agape. She took stock of the destruction, her gaze lingering on the family photos scattered face down on the floor. It was as if even those smiling faces from long ago were ashamed to have witnessed his outburst.
"Have you lost your mind?" she cried, frantically gathering up the fragments of her mother's possessions. "What were you thinking?"
He shook his head, unable to look at his daughter. Even the police interrogations had been more preferable than her accusatory tone.
"Mom loved these things. They're a part of her."
He finally managed to choke something out. "Having them, it's like reliving her death all the time."
"So you bury Mom's memory, just like the police? Smash all her things so there's nothing left of her memory?" Kate retorted, her voice thick with disgust. "Don't you love her?"
He didn't mean to dissolve on the floor, sobbing, in front of her, but when she knelt down alongside him, picking him up with steady hands, he was reminded once more of Joanna and the way she guided him through all those dreadful gala dinners.
Quietly, apologetically, his daughter took hold of his hands. "You're bleeding."
He looked down to see his palms were red and raw. He must have cut himself, but he hadn't felt it. Without a word, he let his daughter clean his wounds and bandage them. She worked thoroughly, with a detached skillfulness. "You should get cleaned up," she said, when she'd finished. "Take a shower or something."
When the last of his rage had drained away along with the hot water, he returned to the living room to find it empty. The floor had been swept, the fragments collected, the whiskey dumped, the bottle recycled. Katherine had left with all the family photos and the few things of Joanna's that had survived in tact. As he surveyed the room, bare as a cell, he felt both relieved and bereaved.
And for the second time that night, Jim Beckett uncorked a bottle and poured himself a glass.