Chapter Two:

Dear Castle,

I can't stop thinking about you. I don't know where you are, I don't know what you're doing. I wish I could see you. I miss you so much… I hope you're not too worried about me. Though I've been hearing my name in the alleyways so I assume that means you are, and that there are about twenty private investigators on my tail. I just want you to know one thing: This isn't about mom.

When I promised you I would leave it alone, I meant it. Though I admit, after that big fight at that book party, I thought about it. (Remember that fight? It was in the morning paper.) I almost called Espo to ask him for the files that night when I stayed at my dad's. But it had been so long since I'd even thought about that case. It just didn't feel right anymore. So I called you instead and apologized.

I love you, Rick. I chose you, I promise.

Love,

Kate

Castle stared at the journal, running his thumb over the flourish of her cursive 'e'. What now?

What did he do now?

There were over 200 letters in this journal, one for each day she'd been away from him. Some were only one line, others were five or six pages. Castle hadn't gotten through all of them yet; he'd started from the beginning. The 11 year old boy in him yearned to skip ahead, to pass the plot twists and suspense so he could just get to the part where some bastard killed his wife.

But Rick Castle, the writer, had enough respect for the story and for Kate. Some things just had a certain order to them.

Castle looked back at the journal and rubbed the 'e' again. Kate…

"Kate?" Castle took off his jacket and hung it on the hat-stand that now lived in his apartment since the wedding. Who gives a hat-stand as a wedding present?

"Kate, I'm home!" There wasn't any answer. "Are you hiding from me? Because you know, I am an excellent seeker." A bit of boyish humor tinged his voice as Castle called out into the silent apartment.

"Is this about the milk? Because I swear, I wouldn't have let you drink it if I knew it was spoiled." Rick crept towards their bedroom door and leaned against the frame of it. "Okay, honey. You got me. I set you up with the milk." Still no answer.

"That's it, I'm coming in." He said through a chuckle. Castle knocked on the door.

It swung open with a creak. A hint of worry slipped in to the writer's voice. "Kate?" He checked the bathroom. "Kate?" He checked the closet. He checked the kitchen. He checked upstairs.

With each room his voice raised an octave and by the end he was yelling. "Kate? Kate, answer me!"

It was his worst fear coming true. It was a fear he'd gotten a taste of only a couple times. He hadn't felt it since 2 ½ years ago when she chose her mother's murder over him. When she left him, blind with revenge. Of course, that time she'd made it up to him. It involved door slamming and…the rest of it was pretty much a glorious blur.

But now she'd really done it.

She was gone.

He dialed 911, but it was in vain. He knew they wouldn't be able to help. Because he knew his wife. He knew Kate.

And he knew no one could stop her.

He never said it out loud, but 11 months ago, Castle had been convinced that Kate had found some new lead on her mother's case. And he was sure she'd left because she didn't want to face telling him.

He'd thought she was a coward.

But he was wrong. She'd been loyal to him and to her promise. He was the coward, and his insides squirmed with guilt at the thought.

But if it wasn't Johanna, what was it?

What killed Kate?