Chapter 1: Anger
He's angry. He's so angry he feels as though he could rip the city apart, building by building, throwing cars out of his way, knocking down the careless pedestrians who get in his path. He's imagining it, his writer's mind trying to spin it, desperate for some sort of release. But the idea is not enough. And he can't very well throw a Hulk-like tantrum in the loft, not when he'd have to explain the destruction to a very concerned mother and daughter.
At least they're not here to see this, he reminds himself as he tears through the loft, slamming doors, drawers, throwing anything he can find that won't shatter on impact.
He's feeling reckless, feeling pained, feeling like absolute destruction personified, and throwing pillows around is not enough. That phrase alone shoots through him. He's the school's funniest kid, but it's not enough. It's never been enough and, apparently, it'll never be enough.
This uninvited train of thought causes him to momentarily collapse, and he finds himself, dazed, on his couch. He blinks, looks around, tries to steady his breathing, tries to at least decide if he is more angry or more depressed. Both of these emotions at war with one another are too dangerous. Feeling the anger pick up again, he stomps back into his office, pours himself a drink, chugs, pours, chugs, pours, chugs. Then he wills himself to sit, to wait until the strong amber liquid kicks in and brings him something other than the overwhelming agony of defeat.
He wakes up, confused, blurry-eyed, to his phone buzzing noisily on his nightstand. He reaches for it, doesn't even open his eyes.
"Hello?" he mumbles, dazed.
"Castle?" It's Kate. Damnit. Not who he needed to hear from. Now or ever. He clears his throat, sits up, glances at the clock. 4:13 a.m.
"Beckett, it's the middle of the night. What do you want?" His voice comes out angry, slices through her like a knife. He hears a sharp inhale on the other end, and feels the strong pang of regret. He starts to apologize, but then he remembers he's not supposed to care about her, not supposed to want to soothe her when she's upset. So he waits.
"Castle, I'm sorry, but I need you to listen to what I'm going to say, and I need you to listen to the entire thing before you react. Can you do that?" Her voice is unsure, wavering, and he's suddenly nervous, his heart thumping hard in his chest. He breathes deeply, again, reminding himself that he has to remain immune to whatever she says, has to keep his distance, no matter what. "Please say something so I know you hear me," her voice, barely a whisper, breaks at the end.
"Yeah, I'm here," he responds gruffly, thinking that he shouldn't be here, not for her. He hears her gulp down some air, swallow, breathe.
"There was a party going on at some kid's apartment on the Upper West. It got a little out of hand. Cops were called in when a neighbor heard shots fired." She pauses, breathes. Castle is unbelievably confused. She called in the middle of the night for a body drop? Doesn't she know better than that right now?
"Beckett, I'm not going to be tagging along to a murder scene right now. I just – I can't." He sighs, hopes she doesn't hear the catch in his throat.
"No, Castle, you don't understand. It was a graduation party. For Marlowe Prep students." She stops again, hoping he starts to catch up soon, because she doesn't want to say it, can't bear to say it out loud, not to him.
"Alexis?" He thinks he hears himself ask. His thoughts are flying through his brain too fast for him to get any of them out through his mouth. Shots fired. Graduation party. A little out of hand. 4:13 am. Body drop.
"She was there, Rick."