-Richard Castle P.O.V-

"Have you heard any news about Sean?" asked Patterson as he laid down $10 worth of chips in the pot. We were all sat around in our poker circle. I raised my ten, and informed him on Sean Watch.

"Nothing. Still M.I.A. Never been on any media website, television show, or radio ever." Connelly tossed his chips in the middle and groaned.

"He writes a murder mystery trilogy, equivalent to the writings of us, and he doesn't even go on TV to brag! I mean, that's part of writing the book is to get known, make the TV appearances, have the interviews." We had wanted him (or her, we don't really know yet) to meet us, become apart of the group, but he has apparently fallen off the Earth never appears on TV, internet articles, and only replies to fan mail. I know this because I have sent him maybe ten letters and he has responded to all of them. Saying he 'respectfully declines the offer' and it does 'means a great deal' to him and finally he'd 'rather stay out of the lime light'. What's a life if you haven't signed a twenty-two year old girl's chest?

"He's crazy," Patterson said, taking a look at his card thoughtfully. He then picked at his earlobe, one of his tells.

"Obviously."

-Haley Guyer P.O.V-

"Are you sure you want to do this, Haley?" God, had I been asked that a lot. That's all I've ever heard when I wanted to do something for me.

"Yes, mom. I'm sure." I said through the phone as I stirred the cookie dough I making.

I wanted to go meet my dad. My mom raised me on her own in Washington D.C. Instead of her not mentioning Dad ever, she would talk about him, and tell stories. Mom never told me his name. Although, I don't think I would've gotten where I am today if I had my Dad in my life.

The only reason I really strived to do anything worth while in my life was to pay my mom back. She raised me all by herself and as a kid I was never grateful. But without that motivation, I wouldn't have graduated high school at fifteen, finished one degree, work on two more, and be sitting on about three million dollars as an eighteen year old.

Now, I want to know who he is. I need to know where I get my brown hair, my blue eyes. Mom said I was almost exactly like him in one aspect. And that was my writing.

I always hated writing class until fifth grade (when I was eight). I won the best persuasive paper in the grade and got a chocolate bar as a prize. I had then thought, if I'm so good, then why not write? I never expected I would be an author.

When I was fifteen, something incredibly amazing happened. I was so happy and all the people around me were happy. It was so, for lack of a better word, fantastic.

About six months later, all that happiness that I had was ripped out of my heart was completely and utterly mutilated. I wrote. And wrote. And wrote. I asked mom to read it. She loved it. So we went to a publisher in NYC and I got published. Since I was so young, my publisher had suggested I use an alias, so I did. And I turned that those unhappy events into three bestselling books.

I lived on my own in an apartment in Buffalo, NY. My mom still lived in D.C, and so did I until a few months ago. I wanted to be on my own as I was eighteen. So I returned to my hometown, and I wanted to leave again.

"Honey, I understand why you want to meet your dad. But you want to move to New York City, where he lives?" I nodded my head, even though she couldn't see it through the phone. I started balling up the dough for the cookies and laying them out on the sheet.

"Yeah. I thought, he could get to know me better if I didn't live six hours away. And it'll be easier for Ms. Cowell if I lived in New York City." Ms. Cowell is my publisher, and she lives in the city, so it would be easier if I lived there too. Especially since my book of short stories is going to be coming out in the next six to twelve months.

"Are you completely sure about this?" Mom asked me again.

"I've been thinking about it for the past eight months, Mom." I told her.

"Really?"

"Yep." I responded.

"Well," I couldn't see her, but I could tell she was biting her lip. It was a nervous habit of hers. "I will tell you his name..." She trailed off.

"But?" I asked, knowing there was a catch.

"But I; one, want you to call more often. I know it's only been a few months, but I worry, I really do. Two, want to speak to your dad about how things are going. I want to hear everything, not just your point of view. Three, I want you to continue your degrees. Four, I want you to make friends-"

"I have friends!" I interjected.

"-your own age." I deflated, because I haven't had a single friend my age since I was sixteen. I have friends, and the one who is closest to my own age is twenty-five. And the one with the most age difference is eighteen years older than me. I groaned at that term that she had picked out.

"I don't get along with people my own age mom. They'll be graduating high school this year. It seems mediocre to hang out with people who are still in high school."

"I don't care. You need to hang out with people your own age. If you keep up like this then you'll be a full on adult while you're still a teenager. You need to have fun and be the kid Haley. Not millionaire authoress Haley."

"Fine. I agree to everything." I told her.

"Everything?" Mom asked, making sure.

"Everything." I confirmed. "Now please, I need to know my dad's name."

"Fine. His name is Richard Castle." I gasped. No.

"I must've misheard you," I played it off, laughing. "I thought I heard you say Rick Castle." My dad could not be Richard Castle. Rick Castle was an author who wrote in the same genre of books I did. Murder mystery. He couldn't be my dad. Rick Castle basically begs me to come join his poker group, with Jacob Patterson and Steven Cannell.

"Yep, you heard me right." Mom said, pulling out all doubts. "Why do you think I had all his books? I said you were like your dad when I read your book, and I was right."

"So my dad is Rick Castle." I said to myself more than my mom. "Great."