He was sitting on the floor with the door open, stymied, when he heard the pitter patter of his family's feet coming down the hall.
"Richard! What on earth are you doing on the floor?"
His mother, Martha Rodgers, was an actress of no little renown, but her question was plainly not a product of artistic license. When he didn't answer, she edged past him, making a disapproving sound. The other member of the party was his daughter Alexis, who seemed a bit more concerned about his plight.
"On the floor - and in the way," she pointed out. After she also shuffled past him, she plopped down to sit beside him with an expression of mild concern.
"What's going on, Dad? Why are you here and - your shoes are out in the hall?"
Castle sighed.
"My shoes are free to go," he told her morosely. "As are my socks, the rug from the kitchen, and my roller skates. It's just *me* who's stuck here."
Alexis had hopped up again to collect the items he'd just enumerated. She dropped them inside the doorway and closed the door as her father grudgingly gave way a couple of inches to allow it.
"So...what are you going to do about it?" she asked, rejoining him on the floor.
Castle stared at her. "Do? What *can* I do? I can't leave the loft until I've finished this book. Apparently you can go in and out...but I'm in quarantine. The spirit said so."
"Oh, Richard," said his mother. She handed him a glass of wine (she always knew just what he needed) and sat down on the stairs. "The same one?"
Castle nodded again, still moping.
"How many times do you have to be cursed before you learn, Richard," she sighed. "You've come this far on your wit charm and no small amount of talent - but you can't charm your way out of a curse to save your life. It's just not in your skillset."
Castle had heard all this before. Every artist needed a muse, not just for inspiration, but to protect him from evil in the form of editors, publishers, critics, and the like. Not that all editors were evil - but one could never be too careful. He'd never had a muse, per se; his mother was right. He'd become arrogant over the years - been cursed more than once and managed to win or weasel his way out of it - but now that inspiration proved elusive, so did any power against this sort of curse. Especially from one who knew both him and the publishing business so well.
Still, he was a grown-ass man, and he didn't want to listen to his mother lecturing him, so he rolled his eyes, gave Alexis a kiss on the cheek, and took his mopey self off into his office, where he could plausibly describe his mood with a proper adjective like "brooding".
He'd brooded his way through a few levels of video-game undead when a knock came at the door.
"If that's Gina, I'm not home," he started to shout, then thought better of it. What if she'd reconsidered and come to lift the curse? He ran to fling open the door to his office, only to see his mother opening the loft door on two men whom he didn't recognize.
"Is this the home of Richard Castle?" one asked. He was fair, smartly dressed, and slightly shorter than his companion, who appeared to be Hispanic and more the rough and ready type. They were both holding up badges which, Castle could see, were from the NYPD.
Martha was just about to respond when Castle stepped forward and announced himself.
"I'm Richard Castle," he said. "What can I do for New York's finest?"
(Martha performed another award-winning eye roll and withdrew upstairs.)
"We're investigating a homicide that took place earlier today," said the swarthy one. "We need to ask you a few questions."
"By all means," said Castle pleasantly, ushering them in. "Murder is my business, you might say."
He turned, expecting them to follow him to the living room area, but they had stopped and were staring at him.
"How's that, Mr. Castle?" asked the same man warily.
"I'm a writer," Castle told him. "Of murder mysteries. New York Times Best-Seller List? Poe's Pen Award? Derrick Storm?"
"Derrick Storm," said the fair man. "I think I've heard of him. Did he star in the movie?"
Castle mentally revised his earlier assessment of these men as New York's finest - but only mentally. Ducking into his office, he grabbed a copy of one of his novels at random and held it up for them to see.
"Richard Castle," he said. "Mystery writer. That's all I meant."
"Well," said the Hispanic fellow. "Can't be too careful, can we? You're not a suspect, though, sir."
The two men sat on the sofa; Castle sat across from them.
"I'm Detective Ryan," said the snappy dresser, "and this is Detective Esposito. There was a shooting this morning, and we think the shooter might have spent some time on the roof of your building. As your loft occupies half of the top floor, we're hoping you might have seen or heard something that will help in our investigation."
"Sure, anything I can do," Castle said.
"Has anyone out of the ordinary come to your door at any time since ten o'clock this morning?"
"No one has come, at all," said Castle, frowning. "Which is odd, actually. I usually get at least one or two deliveries."
"Deliveries? Of - ?" Det. Esposito prompted.
"I'm expecting some new attachments for my laser tag set," mused the writer. "I promised Alexis. And I'm hoping the YOLO people will approve my application for membership - they don't notify you, just show up on your doorstep. It's like Christmas in whatever month you're in."
He became aware that the two detectives were not writing anything down. Nor did they seem interested in his description of goodies to come. In fact, they seemed suddenly interested in the sharp knock on his door. All three men rose to their feet and Castle hastened to open said door.
She had her badge out already, brandishing it nearly in his face as she spoke in a brisk, no-nonsense tone.
"Detective Kate Beckett, NYPD," she announced, walking right past him. "I believe you've met Detectives Ryan and Esposito. Any luck, guys?"
Castle did not hear their reply, and he didn't care. All he cared about was wrapped up in the tall, stylish, brunette bombshell that had just entered his life.
Detective Kate Beckett. NYPD.