A quick note before we start: I was going to edit this story to take out Teh Sexy Times that occur in the next chapter, which is why updates were so sparse (it's actually been finished since, I don't know, May?) but then I decided I was too lazy. So we're going to up the rating to M. And I thoughtlessly forgot to add this when I updated last night, but, trigger warning, this chapter does contain a brief dealing with domestic violence, if that is a trigger for anybody.

Part III: Summer.

New York City. July, 1925.

Though she paid lip service to God as she had been raised, she wasn't really one for fate or faith. It was a scepticism borne of necessity: the only way to rationalise a world at war and a personal tragedy in her young mind was to believe the universe was randomly cruel. She wasn't alone in her grief. In January of 1919 there were lots of lost sons and fathers. She lost her own father too, though not to the war. She was the sole witness to a tragic love story and she saw how instantly it changed him. She believed in love, feared it, because she had watched it break Jim Beckett. After the loss of her mother living in her father's house had been like living with more than one ghost. Will was a way out, travel-worn and world-weary though the war had made him, shaped him really. She had felt what she guessed she was supposed to feel, but there was no recklessness, no passion that she felt unable to control. It was safe, and it was a relief to have something in her life untouched by Johanna's death.

But six years was a long time, especially the six years between seventeen and twenty-three. She had been tempered by age and experience, shaped by her mother's death, her father's drinking and her husband's nightmares. They both longed for a world before the war for different reasons, and it had surprised her, how easy it was for two people who shared a bed and a home to become strangers. It was the sum of their collective demons she supposed. Will never talked about the war but she knew he had left part of the boy she had loved in France and it was only possible to love a memory for so long even if the associated habits persisted.

She knew plenty of men did it, had affairs, kept mistresses. Johanna had raised her to believe women should be treated equal to their male counterparts: a view society did not share in this particular realm. No one would bat an eye at a married man taking up with a young flapper but a married woman doing something similar was a punishable offense. Part of her rebelled against that double standard, but most of her was principled, and believed in honouring commitments. She still believed Will was a good man. And then there was the fear. In lots of ways it was exhilarating, to know she could feel sixteen again, with all the foolishness that entailed. Castle was fun, and she hadn't been truly carefree in years. But it was more than that, though she made a point of denying it to herself regularly. She recognised something in his expression when she caught him staring at her sometimes. It was the unquestioning, maddening sort of love her father had for her mother, and it scared her. The strength of the pull and the unknown limits of the feeling drove her from it. It was too close to obsession, to madness. She was nothing if not composed. Still, it tugged at her, unbidden, and she knew that eventually it would overtake her reason. She had no idea how she would manage that when it came. Love, real love, had a tendency to make people brave or stupid depending on your perspective. For the most part, she tended to think it was the latter.

And then there was Will.

It was a tale as old as time; she was just ashamed to be a player in it.

For his part, Castle's morals had always been accommodating. He had been experimenting with bending the rules to suit his purposes since he was a child and, having been co-parented by a dozen showgirls, the rules had been lax to begin with. Even when he was sent away to school, he had learned that the flash of his teeth and utilising his gift for words would cure most ills and solve most problems. By his estimation, it was only a minor indiscretion on her part, and as long as they never spoke of it, he could avoid any sense of guilt he might have. He did his best to quell any feelings the memory of the kiss evoked, though his subconscious made itself glaringly known in his writing. There were lots of torn up pages and hastily blacked out lines of dialogue between Nikki and her sidekick. June had been long without her, and he had tried to write to her daily. His desk was littered with forgotten drafts. He could never quite perfect the wording.

Then, on the fourth of July, she received a letter that had her halfway up the street before she quite realised her destination, or that she was breaking all her newly devised rules by doing so. The last time she had made the current journey, it had been a mild day in spring. The sunshine had been smiling down on the new life the snow had revealed, green shoots between cracks in the pavement and flowers starting to burst free of their buds on windowsills. Today it was hot and the sun was glowering down, not smiling. Sweat soaked into her hairline and the humidity was wreaking havoc on her curls. She had pulled them tight and pinned them higher than usual, leaving the nape of her neck free to catch what little breeze there was. The streets were crowded, lined with people celebrating, waving stars and stripes. It made her journey difficult. She weaved amongst the crowds, trying to keep to the shade as much as possible.

They hadn't spoken in over a month when she knocked on his door, six weeks by his count – six very long, very hot weeks. Normally he took his mother and Alexis to the seaside in the summer, but this year he hadn't wanted to leave the city, in case she found it in him to forgive him. For her part, she had been determined never to see him again, embarrassed and unsure how to address what had happened, but in the end, the pull of finding her mother's killer overcame her sensibilities.

He opened the door to a waft of muggy late afternoon air and her shining face.

"Castle," she greeted him.

"May I come in?" she asked, impatiently, after he gaped at her for several minutes.

"Yes," he said, "Of course. Please, do."

"I know you must be surprised to see me," she followed him into his study, "But something came up, something to do with my mother's murder and our investigation," she wrung the envelope between her hands before she realised what she was doing. "Sorry, here. Read this. John Raglan wants to meet us."

"After all this time you finally got through to him," he was surprised, and took the letter from its envelope, skimming its contents. "Well ok. I'm glad you came," he nodded to the seat across from him and she sat, "Do you want to go now?"

"I assume he delivered the letter in person," she said, "It isn't post-marked, which means he sent it today. I'd like to go as soon as possible, so he doesn't have a chance to change his mind."

Their detective lived in a two room apartment in a recently refurbished Civil War-era tenement building just off 14th Street in the East Village. When they reached the fifth floor, she raised her hand to knock before the door creaked, ominously. She looked at him sideways and held her finger to her lips. He nodded, pushing open the door.

"Hell-o?" she called, cautiously.

There was no answer.

The reason became apparent when they tiptoed into the room. Castle ducked into the bedroom off the hall to look for Raglan while she made for the kitchen. She stopped with her hand halfway to her mouth before she reached the doorway. Sitting in the a lone armchair in the centre of the room was John Raglan, with several pints of blood dripping from the single bullet wound in his chest. It was pooling on the floor boards, along with a pile of scattered duck feathers.

"Castle!" she called, "I don't think you're going to find him in there."

"Why? Oh," he trailed off when he rounded her shoulder, coming face to face with Raglan's corpse.

"Is he actually dead?" she asked, "If he left that note today, it can't have been too long. I didn't want to touch him though. The blood is everywhere."

"No he's dead," he pointed to his eyes, "His eyes are too wide and with that amount of blood, I'd say it was pretty quick."

She looked away, "We should look around before we call the police. I know Detective Ryan can usually get us all their information anyway, but what if he can't this time? Raglan contacted me out of nowhere today, of all days. Why? There must be some clue in all this mess."

He nodded and wiggled his fingers, "As long as we're careful about leaving prints. They'll check for those. You start in the other room. I'll work in here."

He was trying to spare her the unblinking gaze of the corpse, she knew. Ordinarily she'd think it silly, superstitious and impractical, but with Raglan, a man who had wanted to tell her something just hours before, she was grateful. She had the odd sense his dead eyes were following her.

"What could be so important they would kill you over it?" she murmured to the body as she passed. Castle was already busy going through the piles of newsprint and mail the deceased had apparently been hoarding.

She passed into the bedroom and looked for any hint of something out of place. It was, in contrast to the living room, meticulously neat. The bed was neatly made, unslept in, and aside from a thin layer of dust blanketing the nightstand, everything appeared to be in order. There was only one photograph in the entire room, a picture of a woman and two children. When she turned it over, it was dated – 1915. She doubted they lived here now, or had in many years.

There was nothing in the dresser, or on the top shelf of the closet. She found his police badge in a shoebox, along with a pistol. The drawers of the nightstand were empty apart from one or two questionable cartoons and clothes. She barely saw it when she lifted the mattress. In fact, she might have missed it entirely if she hadn't struggled so much she had to kneel on the floor to lift it. There was a tuft of stuffing escaping from the smallest of tears. She shouldered the load and managed to manoeuvre a hand in to see what was hidden there. All she found was a small notebook, barely big enough to fit in her palm, and another faded photograph. This one was of the same woman, but her shoulders were bare. She was wrapped in a sheet. Kate replaced the photograph and the mattress, and bent her head beneath the bedframe to retrieve the notebook from where it had fallen between the slats.

It contained notes, names and amounts which she presumed represented monetary transactions. They didn't mean much to her, but she tucked it into the pocket of her skirt and dusted her hands. Her pristine gloves had picked up some of the room's dust. She kept them on in spite of their dirtiness.

In the other room, Castle had found a pile of crumpled up letters.

"He wrote back to you every time," he told her, "Warning you away from this investigation with various degrees of urgency, but he obviously never sent any of them."

"Well look what happened when he did," she said quietly, gesturing to the body in the leather armchair.

"I didn't find anything else that might be useful, except for this," he held up a few newspaper clippings. "They were tucked into his copy of Crime and Punishment. I looked at it because it was so worn compared to his other novels."

She leafed through the pile, "So he was onto Coonan as well. He's kept the reports of every stabbing in the city in 1921."

"And did you see the last one?"

She brought it to the top and stared. It was the same woman from the photographs in the bedroom. "Mrs John Raglan," she read the caption beneath the picture. "They killed his wife?"

"So it would seem."

"I found pictures of her in the bedroom," she was absently pulling her mother's ring up and down the length of the chain as she considered this new information. She handed the wad of news clippings back to him and reached into her pocket for the notebook, "Along with this."

She deposited her find into his waiting palm, looking at his face expectantly as he poured over it.

"Do you recognise any of these names?" he asked her.

"Not a one," she shook her head. "Did you look in the kitchen?"

"No, I didn't get a chance. I was reading those articles. I'll call Ryan while you have a quick look around."

She heard him informing the detective of the murder as she opened the cupboards and searched between jars of forgotten food for any further clues. Finding nothing, she returned to the scene of the crime to find him wiping the telephone down.

"We should get out of here," she said.

He nodded. "Ryan's people will be here in twenty minutes."

They left the door as they found it and didn't stop until they were standing in the street. The crowds had thinned slightly with the sinking sun.

"I noticed you still have the chalkboards," she was carrying the copy of Crime and Punishment under her arm, "We should update them, sort through this new information."

"Your husband won't miss you?"

"He's working. The holiday is a busy day for them. Did you have plans with Alexis?"

"They'll keep. She might be a little young to run around with sparklers anyway."

When they arrived at his house, his mother was fussing in the kitchen over something that smelled exotic and Alexis was sitting in the front room with her nose pressed to the window, waiting for the first of the street fireworks.

"Mother's been on a quest to master Chinese cooking," he told her, explaining the smell. "One of women at the theatre, an immigrant, gave her the recipes. I hope you're adventurous."

She was about to respond when his daughter launched herself about his middle in a whirl of white stockings and red curls.

"Daddy, daddy, daddy," Alexis sang, "You're home, you're home. I want to watch the fireworks."

"It's not dark yet pumpkin," he hugged her close and lifted her off the ground, spinning her in a full circle. "And I have some work to do with Mrs Sorenson. Say hello."

Alexis gave her a very formal nod and said, with an earnestness only a child could muster, "Hello Mrs Sorenson, please come in."

Kate had to fight a laugh, "Hello Alexis."

"You promise we can light the sparklers after dinner?" the child turned back to her father, who bent to her eye level and nodded solemnly, "But only if you're a good girl."

Alexis smiled sweetly, "I'm always a good girl."

Her father laughed and ruffled her hair, ruining the good work of her grandmother had put in to tame her fiery curls. "Ah, that's my girl. We'll have a tongue on you yet. Why don't you go see if your Gram needs help in the kitchen?"

"Already did," she crossed her arms, "She shooed me."

"Well," he reached under her arms to find a well-known ticklish spot and wriggled his fingers, menacingly. She writhed with laughter. "If you promise to be very quiet, you can bring your book into the study and watch by that window for any fireworks."

The little girl tore off to find her latest reading material, the thrill of being allowed in a usually forbidden room driving her fast footsteps.

"Everyone's home," he turned back to his companion and shrugged apologetically, "So there might be a few distractions."

Kate was staring after his daughter thoughtfully. "That's all right," she murmured, then followed him into the dark study. He flipped the light switch, illuminating the room. Along the right wall, their chalkboards sat undisturbed since he had first shown them to her. She strode purposefully over to them and appraised the sum of their work cautiously. He wisely chose to remain behind his desk.

They worked efficiently, Kate as scribe, adding the information uncovered in Raglan's apartment under his name with a line connecting him to Johanna Beckett's murder and another to the isolated name of his partner. They only got halfway through the newspaper clippings. Alexis had inherited a fraction of her father's curiosity that bordered on nosiness, and while she was more polite, she still had lots of questions. And before Castle was done thinking of age-appropriate answers, Martha announced dinner was served.

Kate tried to make an excuse to leave, but they were only half-done with the work and she wouldn't be missed at home; add the fact that Martha could be awfully persuasive when it came to hospitality and her resistance was token. She found she quite enjoyed Chinese food, even with the added challenge of eating with chopsticks. (They were a gift from Martha's friend, and the actress was seemingly an expert.) They were only half-finished eating when, with the first crack of fireworks, Alexis was gone from her seat despite her grandmother's scolding and at the front window.

Later, Castle retrieved the box of sparklers from its hiding place and beckoned his daughter out onto the porch, showing her how to hold the flammable end away from her. He demonstrated once, then lit Alexis'. It fizzled to life in her hands, and in her surprise she let it fall to the ground. He replaced it with another. This time, she held it at arm's length and clamoured down the stairs into the street to play with the other children.

Kate was watching from the doorway, a silhouette against the well-lit hall. Castle waved her over. "Come on, you can have one too if you'd like."

She shook her head no, but joined him on the stairs. They sat a respectable distance apart and watched his daughter trailing coloured embers behind her.

When the fireworks began in earnest several streets over, he called Alexis back and she dragged him inside and up the stairs by an impatient hand. Martha ushered Kate along with them, into her bedroom on the upper floor. He had already opened the windows to the street and was sitting with his daughter cradled in his lap on a window seat. Alexis' legs were hanging out the window, drumming against the brownstone in excitement, and her hands were pressed against her ears in anticipation. He looked back at Kate and patted the space next to Alexis.

"Am I intruding on your tradition?" she hesitated.

"Not at all," he smiled at her over Alexis' head, "You're always welcome."

At that, the first roman candles burst not one street over, a series of loud cracks followed by golden sparks fading to smoke against the skyline. Kate sat, properly at first, and they watched Catherine wheels paint the sky with colour. She relaxed after the first few rounds of sound and colour though, pulling her knees up beneath her skirt to sit more comfortably on the window seat. He watched more of her face than he did of the light display, though she was too distracted to notice; she stared with the same wonder as Alexis did at the sky. The neighbourhood put on a fine show for nearly a half hour, including a sky rocket that burst just above his roof, fired off almost directly below them.

When there were only firecrackers left, he stood and pulled Alexis into his arms, declaring it time for bed. The child protested only feebly; face already drooping into his shoulder. He excused himself and left Kate with his mother, who was fanning them both with a paper fan she'd stolen from the theatre. They chatted amiably about nothing in particular until something she said reminded the actress of a show she'd worked on in her travelling troupe days.

("BC, as I like to call them," she joked behind her hand, "Before Castle."

Kate grinned.)

The story flowed freely into the next, and Kate found herself entirely charmed by the older woman with her interesting life. She'd left home at fifteen, unhappy with the idea of marrying the son of a wealthy family from Connecticut that her father had business dealings with, and had made a life for herself almost single-handedly. Thirty years later she was back in New York, two marriages and as many divorces and a small fortune behind her, with an adult son and a more legitimate theatre company to her name. Completely accidentally, Martha Rodgers was a model women's rights activist in Kate Sorenson's eyes; she had lived the life she wanted to live and didn't apologise to anyone for it. There was something admirable about that; it took a lot of courage.

Kate was just promising to attend Martha's next production when Castle reappeared in the doorway. Martha gracefully excused herself when she saw her son. She pulled him into the brightly lit hallway before he had a chance to say anything and swatted him with the fan. He turned wide-eyed to ask what warranted the assault, but never got the chance.

"If you're thinking of using your family to charm her I've got news for you kiddo; that woman is smarter than you, and don't you ever forget it."

"I wasn't!" he was affronted by the suggestion, "I. Mother! She's married."

Martha waved a finger at him, "And don't you forget thateither."

"I would never."

"Richard, the way you were staring at her… I know that look."

"Well a look never hurt."

"Well, make sure you look with your eyes and not your hands."

A melodramatic line about looking with his heart came to mind. His mother probably would have appreciated it, but he kept it to himself. He wasn't ready to become a hack.

"I always do," he informed her primly, trying to maintain an air of insult as he re-entered the bedroom.

"I'm sorry to get so distracted from the things we found in Raglan's apartment," he said, joining her again at the window sill. He sat beside her, further away this time. She let her hand trace the space between them absently.

"Couldn't be helped," she looked over at him with a small smile, "Besides, you have a good view."

She gestured to the skyline which was still intermittently lit by exploding bursts of colour. Her fingers were clutching at her mother's ring again. He wondered if she knew that she did it.

"What's that?" he asked on impulse, reaching out to take it from her hand. The touch lingered and he saw her falter for a second, before she pulled her hand away quickly, leaving the gold band with its single diamond resting in his palm.

"It was my mother's," she said simply. "It's… it's an heirloom in my father's family. The oldest son has given it to his wife since before anyone can remember. I ruined the tradition," she was pensive. He looked over, questioning.

"Oh, by being a girl," she explained, "And I was their only child. There were … complications. My mother couldn't have any more children after I was born. But that never seemed to bother my father. He carried on all his traditions through me just the same as if I was a son."

"Is that how you learnt how to shoot?"

She laughed. "Among other things. My mother was meant to give this to me on my wedding day," she leant over and traced the band with her finger, "But she died before Will and I were married."

"Why don't you wear it?" he let her take it back from his hand and slip it down her front.

"I don't know," she held it flat against her chest with her palm, "Because she was meant to give it me, she was meant to be there. And at the time, it seemed like wearing it would just be a reminder that she wasn't."

"And now?"

"Well now I have this one," she answered lightly, over the sound of one last round of firecrackers from the street. The air was thick with smoke and gunpowder. It stung at his eyes and in his throat. He caught the wink of a diamond on her hand as she waved her fingers at him.

"It's late," he stood and offered her a hand, "We can finish sorting through our new clues ctomorrow."

She stood and smoothed her skirt, confused by his abrupt dismissal. "Ok. Goodnight Castle."

"Goodnight."

She missed his usual until tomorrow and let herself be confused by it all the way home.

The next day was a Sunday and Sunday meant church. Church meant a blue dress so light it was almost white with a modest hemline and far too many tiny buttons along her back which required a contortionist's effort to fasten. She was distracted during the service, gloved hands gripping the hymn book in her hands absently. The wooden pews were hard and uncomfortable, no matter which way she twisted and turned. She had the strong feeling that she was being watched. She glanced around once, furtively – there was no need to give the old ladies more to talk about – but couldn't see any one's eyes on her. She turned next to her, to observe Will, but he was concentrating on the preacher's words. Stilled by guilt, she closed the hymn book and folded her hands and tried to still her undevout limbs. Even the fear of God, which was more habit than the product of an intellectual belief, couldn't quell the hairs on the back of her neck. It wasn't an uncomfortable scrutiny though; it felt familiar. And with that, she whirled around and caught him looking, six rows over and across the room. He smirked when their eyes met and nodded ever so slightly.

She gave him a glare, and stubbornly refused to look back for several minutes.

When he caught her looking back a second time, she actually felt herself blush. She was furious at everything for several minutes; at him for following her here, at her traitorous biology for giving way to her embarrassment, at her pride and at the stupid service which was moving with all the speed of a lazy snail. She took a few deeper breaths, and tapped her foot, impatiently.

Then, determined to ignore him, she tried to focus on the words of the bishop, instead of just mumbling the automatically appropriate responses at the correct times. As a motivator, it turned out the obstinacy in her nature was more powerful than her faith. She briefly wondered what that said about her as a Christian. Nevertheless, she managed to avoid his eyes until after the processional hymn when Will turned to the family behind them and greeted one of his friends. She shot one last, particularly scathing glare in Castle's direction and shook her head firmly.

The message, she thought, was clear. Don't talk to me here.

She silently prayed he understood her. It was the place for it, after all.

Most niceties and social graces were reserved for outside the church so at length they joined the crowd of people pouring into the aisles. She was halfway to the door when she felt a hand on her arm, pulling her aside.

She looked around. Will was no longer behind her; in fact, Castle had quite effectively yanked her into one of the many alcoves in the cathedral. The sun shone through the stained glass window above them. She pulled her arm free of his hand. "Whatare you doing here?"

"You're mad," he looked suitably chastened; "I hoped you wouldn't be mad."

"Castle what if someone sees? Don't you know that if they'd run information through church-going women, the war would have been over in months?"

"Well, just," he groped around at the small pile of candles in front of the stand in front of them and fumbled with a matchbook, "Pretend you're lighting a candle. I'm told people do that. It could be for your mother."

She looked at him sideways, feeling the unique blend of frustrated and touched he always managed to evoke. "Fine. That doesn't answer my question though. What are you doing here? And don't tell me you're here for the service, I've never seen you before."

"We're an equal opportunity family when it comes to religion," he shrugged, "Which means that usually we ignore all of them equally."

"Well then?"

"I came to talk to you," he said, like it was obvious, lighting his own candle and placing it on the stand next to hers, "We never finished talking about Raglan last night."

"Well I was escorted out in a hurry," she followed his lead when he clasped his hands and bent his head as though praying, though they probably looked anything but subtle and completely ridiculous. His attempts at subterfuge appeased her slightly.

"I'm sorry," he sounded genuinely contrite, "That was rude of me."

"Well. You still shouldn't have followed me here. It's hardly the time or the place to continue talking about a murder."

He shook his head once. "Maybe my candle is for Raglan."

"If you're going to light one for each of our victims, you'd better find a quarter or two to put in that collection box. Besides, if he was murdered, he must have been involved somehow."

"Even murderers, if that's even what Raglan was, deserve candles Mrs Sorenson."

"For a self-confessed secularist, that's very Christian of you Mr Castle."

"Or just very decent of me. You're right though, this isn't the time or the place. I've been thinking though, McAllister was Raglan's partner. I'd wager there's a good chance they worked together in their off-duty pursuits too, but that aside, he's still the only person I can think of who might be able to tell us more about Raglan until Ryan works his magic."

"And how are you suggesting we find McAllister?"

"I've been practicing my poker face."

"That place again?" she tapped her toes against the floor, "I can't go tonight. Will leaves at the end of the week."

"Speaking of, you'd better be on your way. End of the week… so I'll see you Saturday?"

"I…" she hesitated, "Ok. And you'll let me know if Ryan finds anything in the meantime?"

"Of course."

She paused in the archway, hand trailing along the stone walls of the church. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to stand here a while longer."

She left him bent over their candles.

The oppressive heat of the day had waned slightly, leaving a thin layer of dew over grass, leaves, railings and car roofs. He'd had to wipe it off the windshield. The haphazard path of his hands across the glass left their view of the dark street framed by a glistening layer of moisture. The alleyway was empty as it had been for the two hours they had spent watching the exit of McAllister's building.

She was wearing a blue-green dress embroidered with pink roses. It had a fashionable hemline that made it difficult to sit both modestly and comfortably. She adjusted her skirt and the leather of the seats crunched beneath her.

"I don't think he's coming," she absently picked at a stray thread sticking out of her upper thigh.

"Just a few more minutes," he promised.

He'd been promising for half an hour. She'd started to seriously doubt his word.

She looked over to tell him so but paused at the comical sight of him peering through the same binoculars ladies used at the opera. She allowed herself one huff of air that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

"What?" he looked at her sideways.

"Nothing," she turned back to what they'd long ago decided was McAllister's window. The lights were still on, but she couldn't see anything. "Do those actually work?"

"Well enough," he pulled them from his face and turned to her. Their faces were closer than he realised and for a brief second, she thought he was going to close the distance. She recoiled at the idea, pulling back slightly, but her heart betrayed her, picking up the pace of its rhythmic pumping. She made a face at herself which he thought was for him.

"I'm sorry to bore you," he managed to sound the slightest bit wounded.

"A necessary evil," she told him. "I'm just not sure McAllister isn't doing exactly what I'd like to be doing right now."

"Oh? What's that?" he gave her the wicked look that had become so familiar to her. She didn't have the heart to tell him he had a wildly overactive imagination in that department. Besides, it was better to keep him guessing. She was honest though; his stomach for scandalous remarks was much stronger than hers.

"Reading in bed," she said over her shoulder at him, turning her body to look out the window.

"I could tell you a story," he offered.

"Another one of your theories?"

"No, I'm still working on that. But I do this for a living. I'm sure I could think of something."

"By all means, go ahead."

"On the brilliant morning following a tempestuous night, a body is uncovered on a country estate..."

"Always murder with you," she interrupted. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why the literary and sometimes real fascination with murder?"

"Well, what else is there?" he asked, "Seriously though. There's love, but what could I write about love that hasn't been written before? There's sex, but the censors don't like that. And then there's death."

"What about life?"

"No one can really write about life," he said, "That's what happens when even writers aren't paying attention. Besides, I don't write about murder because I'm fascinated with death, no, quite the opposite. I write about death because it's a way for me to write about how the living cope when we're reminded of our inescapable fate."

"And love?"

"All stories are love stories," he was being smart with her, but in that irritating way he had of being right when he did it, "Inescapable fate remember?"

"You really think it's that simple?"

"There are truths to our existence, my little detective," he'd taken to calling her that. She supposed that as pet names went, it was better than honey. "And one is that nothing is simple. But love, real love, sure, that's inescapable. Even when it seems impossible, you look back and see that the universe lays down its obstacles and its aides at exactly the right moments and the sum of your life has led you to a point."

"And that point?"

"We all control our own destinies," he shrugged and turned away from her, "As much as we can. There's always a point where you make a choice. Sometimes that feels inevitable, I think that's especially true when you really love. But it can be complicated. There are other choices, honour and duty and justice, to name a few."

"What would you choose?"

"Oh," he looked pensive, "I've never been one to deny myself an indulgence. I've chosen love many times, probably when I shouldn't have."

"Alexis' mother?"

"Mmm, among others. I won't tell you. It will insult your principles to hear it and it'll insult my pride when you lecture me. Suffice to say even Ryan teases me about being sentimental."

"Really?" she gave him a disbelieving look.

"I know right? It's embarrassing. Ryan, of honey milk infamy, thinks I'm the romantic."

"Are you?"

"Oh no," he shook his head, "My dear, you will have to try harder for that confession."

"Don't tempt me," she said, peering out to see the nary a shadow grace the window of McAllister's apartment. Nothing had changed.

He grinned at her, appreciatively. He always liked it when she threw a proper innuendo his way.

"There's no need to pretend to be shallow," she said, settling back in her seat.

"We all have our armour, the things we hide behind."

"I," she hesitated, her senses halting the sentence on her tongue. You don't have to hide from me. "What happens next in your story Castle?"

He told her, weaving the tale expertly. It was slightly Shakespearean – he'd borrowed almost all of the plot from Macbeth– and when she didn't call him on it he realised she was starting to fall asleep.

"Should I take you home?" he asked her, nudging her awake gently.

"No, no, what if he leaves?" she blinked up at the window, which remained lit and empty.

"I can wait," he offered.

"No, I'll sleep now. Wake me when you get tired."

She pulled a shawl from her purse and wrapped it around her bare shoulders. "Well, continue your story. I'm just dying to know if the president's daughter uncovers her husband's treachery."

"Oh you know she will."

He talked until her head dropped against the back of the seat then unconsciously slid closer, unable to resist pushing the wave of her hair behind her ear. He pulled his hand back almost immediately but she didn't stir. His momentary alarm faded, and he settled down to watch her sleep, keeping one eye on McAllister's apartment.

He'd come to the startling realisation he was completely in love with her. He wasn't sure exactly when it had happened. Certainly, he'd been fond of her since the moment he'd met her. She'd been a puzzle – a beautiful puzzle with a sharp mind and a sharper tongue, all qualities he prized in a woman. But it was more than fascination, more than fondness, and it had been for some time. He had realised it when she tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. It was sudden, but as soon as it struck him he felt as though he must have always loved her. He'd opened his mouth to tell her too, but then remembered everything, her husband, her mother's murder and most importantly, the way the reality of their situation might sting worse than the slap he was sure would follow any confession on his part. So instead, he contented himself with trying to please her in small ways, devoting his attentions to her mother's murder and his book, since she had become an avid reader.

She made a sleepy noise of content and shifted, so her head rested against his shoulder. He looked down, considered his options and decided letting her kill him when she woke up was worth it. He let his head rest against her hair until McAllister's light went out.

The next morning, she blinked the sleep out of her eyes and stretched her stiff neck until she felt the resistance of his head. Surprised, she cautiously pulled back, careful not to wake him until she had shuffled to a more respectable distance. The windshield was once again covered in perspiration. She whacked him in the shoulder to rouse him.

"Huh, what?" he sat up and looked reproachful. "What was that for?"

"You snore," she said pettily.

"I do not."

"How would you know? Besides, you were meant to wake me."

"Sorry. Do you think he's still there?"

Her stomach growled. "I don't know, but I'm starving."

"There's a bakery down the street. Wait here, I'll be back in a second."

He was out the door before she had a chance to protest, but he darted back to hand her something. She looked over to see the binoculars being thrust in her direction.

"Fat lot of good that'll do," she muttered to herself, getting out of the car to wipe the windshield with her shawl.

He returned comically balancing two ceramic cups of black coffee and a paper bag between his hands.

"What on earth have you got there?" she called through the window.

"Breakfast," he grinned. "Now open the door for me."

She obliged, and took the cup he handed her.

"There was a diner opposite the bakery," he said when he'd slid back into the driver's seat. He lay the paper bag between them. "I convinced them to let me keep the crockery for a generous tip."

She inspected the spoils of his journey quizzically, and, finding the bag full of donuts, procured herself a sugared treat delicately. "For breakfast? Really?"

He picked one out and dipped it in his coffee. "Why not?"

"It's like eating popcorn for dinner," she ate it anyway, "But I'm too hungry to care. I didn't see McAllister. Maybe he likes to sleep in."

That proved to be untrue though. Their policeman emerged shortly after they'd finished their breakfast. She put the empty coffee cups in the paper bag and lay it at her feet as he started the car. They lurched forward, following McAllister at the agonising pace required to keep a respectable distance. Luckily, there was no traffic behind them. She felt the strong urge to fidget as they did, but settled for clenching her fingers together just once; then, again, she was the picture of composure.

They were both thinking two steps ahead, wondering where McAllister could be going. She searched the crowds for the back of his jacket and held it, picturing the street.

"The station," she exclaimed, just as he did.

"Well we'd better ditch this car," he said.

She was already gathering her things into her lap and as soon as he'd slowed to an almost stop, she opened the door and fell onto her heels, running after McAllister. He hastened his movements to catch her, and it became a comical three-part chase worthy of their own silent film. He could imagine the pianist hammering on the keys as he wove through the crowds. He lost sight of her after he ran down the steps into the subway station, but continued his pace until a fierce tug at his jacket pulled him against the wall. She jabbed a finger in McAllister's direction.

"He's buying a ticket for the 4 train," she informed him, "But we have to be careful. He might recognise us."

"The Sea Beach Line? I'll buy us tickets. And it's fine if he does recognise us, so long as it doesn't look like we're following him."

"Sure, and you're about as inconspicuous as a bull in a china shop, so I see no problem with that plan," she muttered under her breath, but he was already off to make the purchase. He came back with two tickets to the end of the line and a newspaper to loiter behind. "To make us feel like proper detectives," he told her.

She rolled her eyes.

McAllister took the train all the way to Coney Island. They followed him down Stillwell Avenue to Surf Avenue, past Feltman's down to the Bowery. Ahead, their quarry side-stepped a freak advertising a side show and slipped into Steeplechase Park.

The fairground was loud and littered with popcorn and cigarette butts. Children, sticky with cotton candy, ran underfoot, screaming from one diversion to the next. Jaunty music advertised each attraction in turn. Beyond the Ferris wheel was a small hot dog stand, and beyond that, McAllister had taken pause. He was smoking a cigarette. They paused and observed him through the gaps in the metal, the rotating cars periodically swaying through and obscuring their view. She pressed up against the fence surrounding the wheel, hands gripping the metal bars, and craned her neck until he pulled her back, lightly, by the top of her dress.

"You'll lose part of your face doing that," he told her, "And it's a nice face. We wouldn't want that."

She stuck her tongue out at him, good and proper, suddenly overcome by the urge to be childish.

He nearly laughed. "Look, we can see well enough from here. No use getting closer and spooking him."

"I suppose you're right," she conceded, unhappily.

"Oh look, who have we here?" he remarked, drawing her attention back to their mark. McAllister was meeting a man. Their body language was terse.

"Obviously not good news," Castle remarked.

Kate nodded. The face of McAllister's companion went so cold upon hearing whatever was related, she imagined a chill down her back. The man was stern featured, with a crop of red hair cut in military fashion and a severe beard. He looked incapable of happiness. He did smile at McAllister after a fashion, but it was more of a sneer. She tensed when he reached into his jacket. Castle and McAllister mirrored her stance.

When he began to run, she was already chasing him. Castle was behind her again. They pushed through the line to ride the Ferris wheel roughly, yelling apologies in their wake. The man had a gun tucked into the waistband of his pants; she could see it when his jacket flapped up behind him in the wind. His hand was on it, but he had yet to draw the weapon.

She had to run with her weight on her tip toes lest her heels sink into the soft ground. It made her slower than she might have been. Castle caught up, slowing to a trot beside her. She picked up her pace.

McAllister and his hunter took a sharp right, down past a series of ring toss games and clowns with open mouths and rotating heads. The various tunes emanating from tinny speakers grew louder in her ears as she passed them, in pursuit. The men they were chasing pushed several children out of the line-up for a haunted house. By the time they made it inside, there was no sign of them. Castle yelped, girlishly, when a skeleton fell from the ceiling to greet them. She looked back, lips twitching, but refrained from commenting. Pushing through the cobwebs, they were heralded into the next room by cackles of ghoulish laughter and one, angry expletive yelled from the room beyond. She threw her hands out to steady herself when they found themselves on a bridge surrounding by a rolling cylinder. Clawing their way across, they faltered down a set of stairs until finally, they found themselves in a hall of mirrors. She stumbled forward but found her hands pressing against glass. Disorientated, she felt along the surface, looked down at her feet then back at her companion. Castle was transfixed by their warped reflections.

"Where'd they go?" he asked her, absently.

She grabbed his sleeve, "This way."

They fumbled through, finally finding the steps leading through a curtain and into the light. Castle tapped her shoulder as they descended quietly, gesturing behind him, indicating that he would go first. She gave him a look, and peered out through the curtain into the daylight. The attraction emptied into a grassy row, lined with closed attractions. It was deserted, and surprisingly quiet. She held her hand up to the glare of the sun and inspected the neat rows of tents extending in both directions.

"Which way now?" her companion asked.

Overhead, a gull cried and drew her attention to the soft roll of the ocean in the distance. "I don't know. We must be heading away from the park," she said. "You go that way and I'll go this way."

"I don't think we should split up," he argued.

"I…" she was about to protest, and vigorously, when the crack of a gunshot down the hill a ways drew their attention.

Castle drew his finger to his lips. She nodded. Pressed against the side of the silent amusements, either broken down or newly ready to be unveiled, they approached the source of the sound. They dramatically rounded several corners to find themselves still alone until finally, they found themselves at a gap in the fence. He pulled back the wire and ushered her through. The roads around this part of the village were quieter. Most of the tourist attractions were closer to the main boardwalk or the subway station. Her heels seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet.

It made them both uneasy.

They crossed the street and were unsure of how to proceed until she pointed wildly at a large blood stain. The trail led down a narrow alley, which was deserted but for McAllister's body at the end of its length. He had slumped back against a dumpster and slid to the floor, leaving a dramatic trail of blood in his wake. It had been recent; the blood hadn't dried. Kate covered her mouth with her hand, but didn't flinch. She stepped closer, peering down at the body. Castle lingered behind her.

"Don't," he said. "He's definitely dead."

"I know," she looked back over her shoulder, bent at the waist, "I want to see if he had anything interesting on him."

"You'll get blood on your gloves."

She swiftly removed them, and carefully peeled back McAllister's jacket. A gurgle of air escaped his dead lungs as she searched his body. Castle looked away. Her fortitude wasn't in vain though, and she emerged clutching a single scrap of paper containing an address.

"What do you think it is?" she asked him.

He took it from her and watched as she wiped her fingers against the dead man's collar. When they were clean, she replaced her gloves.

"I don't know. It's in New York though."

"So?" she looked over at him, "Back we go?"

"We'll get the next train," he agreed.

They set off back towards the fairground at a brisk pace, the page stuffed firmly into her purse.

The bullet came from behind them. She jumped at the sound. It whistled over her head and shattered a window. Castle pulled her to the ground. They fell, hard. She felt the protest of her knees as the gravel tore through her stockings and into her skin.

He pulled at her hand.

She fought to her feet and ignored the sting of the fall, shuffling along pressed to the side of the ride.

"Come on," he urged her onward.

She followed, blindly. They were running outright now, still low to the ground.

"I couldn't tell where it came from," he told her, "But when we get to the open ground, run as fast as you can when I tell you."

They paused for cover behind a car and he searched the windows overhead for any sign of the shooter. "He couldn't have much range," he continued, musing out loud. "It was a hand gun that killed McAllister, not a sniper's rifle. And I can't see him. Come on. Go."

He let go of her hand and she lost track of him for a few moments, sprinting with a hammering heart across the road and through the gap in the fence and across the expanse of grass between it and the fairground proper. There was the crack of shots behind them. One whizzed past her ear close enough that she felt it. She didn't stop running. He was at her back when they reached the row of deserted attractions. He pulled her by the shoulder back through the rows until they were facing the summer crowds again, backs pressed against the stairs that led to the entrance of the house of horrors they had run through earlier. She found her breath coming quickly and took a few deep pulls of air to steady it.

He looked down at her, panting himself, eyes wide. "He must have seen us."

"He didn't follow us," she chanced a look back the way they had come.

"No," he agreed, "I expect he shot at us from quite a distance when we ran across the street. From the looks of McAllister he had decent aim too, so that's probably all that saved us."

She nodded, dumb with the thrill of fear, her hands still behind her back and pressed against the splintering wood of the attraction.

"Kate!" he said suddenly, sounding more than alarmed. "You've got blood on you."

"I," she pressed her hand to her stomach, "It's not mine. It must be McAllister's."

"Are you sure?" he reached over and felt along her bodice, "You don't feel faint?"

"I'm fine," she reiterated as he pulled her against him in a brief hug. His hand smoothed over her hair and she froze, unsure of how to respond, as he held her under his chin. He released her just as quickly as he'd grabbed her and took two steps back.

"I'm sorry," he stared at his feet. "I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you because of me."

"Don't be silly," she folded her arms, "I'd be here with or without you. You probably saved my life just now."

"We should get out of here before that fella gets it into his head to come looking for us."

"Yes," she agreed, "I'd quite like to get home."

He stared down at the stain on her dress. "I'll have to buy you a new outfit. There's no way it won't draw attention, catching the subway with that on you."

She shook her head and brandished several yards of fabric from her purse. He wondered how they all fit. "I brought a shawl. That ought to cover it."

She arranged it less-than-fashionably, but so it covered her entire middle. She nodded for him to appraise her work. When he gave his approval absent-mindedly, she reached over and snapped her fingers in front of his face. "Come now, we're hitting on all six after today. The worst that's happened is I've torn my stockings. Stop fretting."

"We were nearly shot," he said, "How can you be so calm? What about my mother and Alexis?"

She suddenly felt incredibly ashamed. She'd been so busy distracting him from his concern for her that she hadn't even thought about his family, or him. She let her hand rest against his arm, "We're fine. It could have been worse, but it wasn't. Let's just be grateful for that and go home."

They rode the subway back to the city in silence. She was searching for words and he was arranging them for the page in his head. He was aching for his daughter, she could see it on his face, so she told him she would walk home. The apartment was empty. She slipped out of her shoes at the front door and pulled off her stockings. Barefoot, she carried them into the kitchen and buried them in the trash. She went into the bathroom and ran the water until it scalded. The shawl was salvageable she thought, unwinding the cloth and inspecting the underside for blood. The stain would soak out. Her dress, on the other hand – she turned side to side, inspecting the damage in the mirror – well, she could hardly make it worse. She tested the bath water with her hand and stepped in, fully clothed. The water turned to rusty red as she lay back, dress heavy with water and scraped knees stinging, and closed her eyes.

Hal Lockwood was finishing a whiskey in a private corner of a more reputable establishment than he was usually accustomed to frequenting. The man across from him was wearing an impeccably tailored suit and used his words sparingly. He reeked of power, confidence; he commanded a room. A Republican Party pin winked over at Lockwood from the crisp white hint of his collar peeking out from beneath the other man's dinner jacket. The whiskey was the good stuff, straight from Canada. The city by the lake had its perks.

"How long do you expect to be in town?" his boss asked him.

"After we get the call," he shrugged and ran his fingers through his red curls, "Not long. Once this is done, Pulgatti is the only loose end left, and I'll need to be sent to Sing Sing to finish the job."

"Which means a crime, on the streets of New York," the senator curled his fingers around the gilded handset as though commanding it to ring.

"And then a daring prison escape," he nodded, "And a comfortable retirement down in the Caribbean, as we arranged."

"Pulgatti is a problem," he scowled, "Should have sent him to the chair when we had the chance."

"He's a businessman," Lockwood countered, "And he owes you for not killing him sooner. He might be persuaded to see things our way. I've heard he has an in with that pesky woman and her writer."

"It's too big a risk. Besides, I was assured you could take care of things."

"If necessary," Lockwood stared at the amber liquid in the bottom of his glass. "It's also my job to keep you abreast of your options, share my expertise in this area."

"It's my experience that there is no honour among thieves," the other man told him plainly.

The telephone ringing cut their conversation short. Brief words were exchanged; that was his cue. His mark was on the move. He nodded to his boss and took his leave.

The Windy City was living up to its sobriquet. Roy Montgomery had to hold his hat to his head as he made his way back to the flophouse serving as his temporary home. He'd known they'd be after him. As soon as he heard Raglan had been killed, he'd run across the country. He was waiting a week until he could sneak away to Canada out of the reach of the senator and his men. His wife and children had gone ahead, but he'd had business to attend to, lucrative business that would ensure they could comfortably re-establish themselves north of the border. He wrestled for the key in the pocket of his coat, sneaking a glance over his shoulder. He didn't think he had been followed, but you could never be too careful.

The lock turned when he jiggled it just so, and he took the stairs two at a time, not pausing until he was safely inside the sparse room. He threw his coat down on the bed and removed his purchase from the front pocket. On the desk in the corner was an envelope, already addressed and containing several similar items. He tucked the pièce de résistance inside and licked the glue. It tasted chemical on his tongue. As he pressed the seal closed, a knock on the door distracted him.

There was no peephole.

He answered it with his weapon drawn, expecting one of his business associates or their messenger, running by his payment. Instead, his eyes met with the steel gaze of Lockwood. He moved to close the door but wasn't fast enough. Lockwood prised it open.

They stood, eyeing each other.

"Are you going to make me shoot you in the hallway Roy?" Lockwood asked, "Because I'll do it."

"I should ask you the same question." He stepped aside and let the assassin into the room, all his self-preservation instincts screaming. He ignored them. The boss wanted blood, and if the past decade had taught him anything, it was that his boss had a bloodlust that was not easy to ignore. He thought briefly of his family as he had last seen them, waving through the window of the train. He had told his wife not to write; he hoped they had made it across the border.

The tension in the pause stretched to breaking.

His finger itched over the trigger.

In the end, it was quick. Lockwood moved first, firing two shots into his stomach. He managed to squeeze off two shots, one of which met its mark and embedded itself in Lockwood's shoulder; the other found a home in the hardwood of the door. He felt himself fall to the floor. The world slipped out of focus at the edges. He saw Lockwood looming over him and concentrated every last thought on sending impulses through the nerves in his trigger arm. Initiating the movement seemed to take an age, but when he finally moved it was surprisingly fast. He emptied the weapon in Lockwood's general direction. The loud curse that punctuated his efforts told him he hadn't missed. It was peaceful after that; he felt consciousness slipping away and recalled the familiar words of scripture until they died with him.

Lockwood stepped over the body, avoiding the pool of blood seeping out from beneath the dead man and stumbled over to the open window. He clutched his chest, trying to still the bleeding, but coming up short. His own blood made the window sill slippery. He managed to climb down the fire escape, leaving bloody hand prints, and fell to the street with a dull thud. Above him, he heard the manager of the flophouse beating on the door which he had locked behind him. He tried to stand but felt faint. He pulled open his shirt to inspect the damage and there it was, staring back at him, a gaping hole in the usually taut flesh. There was no plugging that. A crowd of people had started to gather around him. He hoped to God he died. His boss would never forgive the spectacle. With that thought, his head fell back, muscles slack, and he passed out.

In the small room on the first floor, the manager had finally succeeded in prying open the door.

"Mio dio," he stared at the ceiling, "Not another one."

He yelled for his assistant to telephone the police then followed the blood trail to the window. There was another body in the street below. He sighed at the crimson stains covering the room; blood was so hard to get out of the carpets. He stooped to make sure the tenant was properly dead before carefully appraising the contents of the room. There were no valuables, no surprises there, but he lived in hope. Gangsters on the run should have to pay an upfront cleaning fee, he thought. They never had anything on them to make their untimely deaths worth his while. In his search, he found the parcel on the desk addressed to a Katherine Sorenson in New York City. He tucked it under his arm and went downstairs to meet the police, leaving it with the other mail on his way out.

The address she had lifted from McAllister's body proved to be in an office building down in the business district. After much collusion and debate, they decided mounting a break-in after dark would be safest. They were feeling cautious after the near-shooting at Coney Island, and neither wanted to risk snooping during the daytime. They both wore gloves, and she went as far as to wrap a scarf around her hair. He'd discussed, hypothetically, with Ryan what the downfall of most criminals was. Ryan said it was getting cocky. They doubted that would be their problem.

A sign on the door greeted them, saying the office was closed for business for several weeks while a Senator Walter Robert Brown was out of town. The lock gave way easily with a little pressure from one of her hair pins. He stared at her.

"One day you're going to have to tell me where you learned to do that," he murmured as she pushed the door open.

"Not likely," she through a smile over her shoulder. "Well, I think we're alone."

He closed the door behind him and waited until she drew the curtains before tugging at the light switch. One thing was apparent after they blinked off the shock of the light: they weren't the only ones who'd had the idea to stop by the senator's office while he was out of town. Files were strewn everywhere. The desk drawers had all been opened and rifled through and in one corner of the room, a safe lay with its door open and its contents missing.

"Oh," she said in surprise.

"At least we won't have to be as careful to leave everything as we found it," he always saw the upside in a crime.

"That's true," she let her fingers sink into a gash that tore through the leather of the desk chair, "Someone went to great lengths to find something. Look."

He nodded. She sank into the chair and began to look through what was left in the drawers, while he busied himself with the rest of the mess.

"The problem is, we don't know if they found what they were looking for," she said, "Or if they found anything useful."

"By the look of the safe, my guess is that whoever was here before us was interested in financial gain, not information." He sifted through the files on the floor, but left them all over to one side when he was done, "And it looks like these are all legitimate. Have you found anything?"

She was fingering the picture on the desk, a man and a woman with their three children. She turned it upside down suddenly and shook her head, "No. He has personal correspondence here, but none of it is remarkable. There's more though. I'll keep looking."

Castle gave up on the mess of the floor and turned his attentions to the bookshelves and the safe. The books were mostly legal texts and legislative acts, typed and bound and covered in dust. He wondered if being a senator actually entailed reading them all. Flipping through one was more than enough to prove that they were dreadfully boring. He continued along the wall, but none of the books had been disturbed in what seemed like a long time. He was careful not to leave finger marks in the dust. The safe was, as it had appeared on first inspection from across the room, empty. A small box that looked as though it had contained money had been upturned, and the senator's cheque book was on the floor. If anything else of value had been stored in the hole in the wall, it was long gone and he couldn't speculate on what senators might keep in their safes. He rested his hands at the base and felt along the edges of the metal for any hidden compartments. Tapping lightly, he finally came across a section at the back that sounded different from the rest. The previous thieves must have been in a hurry if they had missed it.

"Ah ha," he carefully eased out the false panel and pulled the small notebook he found out carefully.

She was looking over the bookcase in the opposite corner of the room. He looked over and saw her intently studying the titles, the position of the light casting a shadow across her face. She didn't look up. "What did you find?"

"Not sure yet," he turned back to the book and opened it. The pages turned of their own accord, finally settling in the middle. He ran his finger down the columns of information – names, dates and numbers. It was a record of transactions. The names included some of the most notorious rum runners and still operators in the city. He was just about to tell her they'd found some proof of the senator's criminal ties when he saw it. It was the last entry on the page, Will Sorenson, 18th March, 150. He stared for several seconds before he heard her moving across the room.

She inspected the front of the safe visually and with one finger, tracing the hole in the metal lightly to avoid catching her glove on the sharp edge. "Not an amateur box job," she remarked.

"Yeah, they didn't use nitro-glycerine, which probably means they didn't want to damage what was inside."

"Speaking of, did you find anything?"

He had already snapped the book shut and tucked it into his coat. She peered over his shoulder into the empty safe.

He looked down at her, saw the question in her eyes and made a snap decision. "No," he responded, hastily, "There's a false panel in the back but whoever took the rest of its contents must have already found it."

She sighed in defeat. "Well I guess this was a waste of time."

"And your lock-picking skills," he agreed. "I suppose we should get out of here."

"Should we tell Ryan the place has been tossed?"

"No need to let anyone know we were here," he held the door for her. "Besides, something tells me that if Senator Brown is mixed up with McAllister and Co. he's not going to want the police snooping about in his business."

"If the senator is mixed up with McAllister and Co., what makes you think he doesn't own a few cops?" she countered, pulling her gloves off and replacing them with a more fashionable pair as they walked out a side door into the alley behind the building. It was a humid night, and the smell of garbage greeted them. She wrinkled her nose.

"True. You know, I think we should go back to where this all started," he subconsciously let his fingers rest against the notebook in his front pocket. If investigating the senator's connection to the case was going to lead to uncovering Will Sorenson's involvement, Castle didn't want to be blindsided by what they were going to find. That meant he had to redirect their investigation until he had time to get Ryan to look into the matter. Besides, going back to her mother's murder and reconsidering it in light of all they had learned could prove useful.

"You mean my mother's case," she half-stated, half-queried.

He nodded, "I do."

There was a short pause that felt longer to him than it really was before she nodded herself. "We'll start in the morning.

The next morning, in Castle's office, they pored over the chalkboards, staring at the information they had collected. It was slow work, and it was well past midday before they made any real progress.

"It just doesn't make any sense," she mused, tapping the autopsy photographs that were linked to her mother's by two white chalk lines labelled National Woman's Party. "Killing my mother and Mister Murray, I understand. It makes sense. They were onto the cover up of Armond's murder. But these other women… how were they involved?"

"You've got me there. By all accounts they don't know each other, though they did work at the offices at the same time. Of course, the party is only the most obvious connection. There might yet be something we've missed."

"We need to talk to someone who was active in the party back then, who would know how Dianna and Jennifer were contributing."

"Why do I get the feeling you know exactly who to ask?"

She grinned at him over her left shoulder, "I do. She's retired, mind, and I don't know how thrilled she'll be at seeing us. But she was heavily involved in the party and she was from New York so it's just a guess, but she may have known our victims. I know she knew my mother."

"Oh?"

"They were arrested together once, while I was still at school. Mother spoke very highly of her. But she retired from the movement and political life after women won the vote. The last I heard was that she had moved back to Brooklyn to care for her niece who was newly an orphan."

"And you know where to find her?"

"I have a hunch."

"Then lead the way."

It was an unusually cool day for August, and the wind was cold against her back as they descended from the station to the street. The church was a short walk from the subway but the sun had started to sink into the skyline when they climbed the stairs, the spires casting long shadows down onto the street. It was a Catholic church, but it smelled familiar – the polished wood of the pews, wax from burning candles and a faint hint of frankincense. Castle was unusually silent behind her. The afternoon sunlight was catching the stained glass windows that lined the place of worship's western aspect, sending brilliant coloured long shadows down the length of the building. She held a hand up to her eyes to block out the dazzling effect it created. She was focussed, instead, on the few inhabitants saying afternoon prayers.

One such devout Christian was who she was looking for: a short, modestly dressed woman with her hair tied in a severe bun beneath her hat. Her hands were clasped and her head was bowed in prayer. Kate pointed her out to Castle with a single, white-gloved finger. Miss Laura Burns made the sign of the cross before she stood, and then strode with purpose towards where they lingered at the entrance. She didn't see them though, and Kate had to hurry after to her to match her pace.

"Miss Burns?" she called, following the woman out onto the front steps of the church. "Miss Burns?"

Laura Burns turned back, looking sour, but her face rearranged itself into somewhere between shock and horror when she saw who was calling to her. "Johanna?" she asked once, blinking off her surprise.

"No, I'm sorry to startle you," Kate hopped down the few stairs that separated them, leaving Castle hovering between the first and second steps behind her. "My name is Katherine Sorenson. I'm Johanna Beckett's daughter."

"Of course," the older woman shook her head and broke into a kind of smile. She had a stern face though, and you had to know where to look to see mirth in her features. "I had forgotten that Johanna had a daughter. You were very keen to get involved with the party if I recall, but your mother didn't want you protesting with us until you were older."

"And then my husband wasn't particularly pleased by the idea either," she made a face, "Not that it stopped me. Luckily, there wasn't a lot of picketing to be done after we were married."

Laura Burns looked displeased by her words. "Is this him up there? I'll have a word with him about men interfering where they're not wanted."

Kate laughed, "No. This is Richard Castle. Castle," she beckoned with one hand, "Come here." Behind the same hand she added, "He's quite obedient as you can see."

Castle shook hands with their source and flashed her his most charming smile. He had always felt incredibly nervous around the more militant of the suffragettes. He had the sense they didn't like him simply for being male, which wasn't entirely fair. There were few less loyal to the cause, at least in mind, than he was. He'd always thought very highly of women and he'd met some mighty interesting ones behind stage doors and under dressing tables. It was just that the women's rights movement attracted incredibly serious types and he was a grown man who loved to play.

Laura Burns appraised him for a second and let her lips turn upwards at the corners for a brief, merciful second. He took it for approval.

"Now if I remember rightly Johanna's family was Protestant," Laura released Castle's hand. "So what brings you to a Catholic church?"

"Actually," Kate took the opening, "I was hoping I could ask you some questions about my mother's time in the Party."

"I don't much like to talk about that these days," Laura Burns half-sighed, "But you have a purpose about you, which makes me think you wouldn't give up even if I asked politely."

"I'm sorry to trouble you," Kate did look contrite, "We're investigating my mother's death and it's come to our attention that two other women from the Party were killed around the same time, along with a lawyer my mother was friends with. We think the deaths are connected to another case, and we were wondering if you know how either of these women might have been connected to it."

"I knew Johanna had her causes," Miss Burns said, "Some of them the women took interest in, but most of us were passionate about one thing and one thing only back then, and that was getting the vote. Johanna was different though; she wasn't so single minded, just as passionate, but she had a mind for justice, for fairness. Tell me the names of the other two women who were killed."

"Diana Cavanaugh and Jennifer Stewart were the other two women ma'am," Castle spoke, "We don't think they were overly familiar with Johanna Beckett, but maybe they came by important information by some other means."

"Well Jennifer was a plucky young thing, emphasis on young. She was barely out of secondary school but wanted to be involved. She used to answer the phones at the office in New York, gathered our correspondence and re-directed what was important to the headquarters in Washington DC. I remember her quite well as a matter of fact. She wrote to me in prison. I don't know how she'd be involved in some murder case though. "

Castle's mind was turning over. Kate saw it in his expression. "What are you thinking?" she asked him.

"Well," he turned to Miss Burns, "You say Jennifer Stewart worked in the offices, redirecting correspondence? That would mean she opened all the letters received there."

"It often did yes, particularly if they were addressed to members that were in prison. Your mother was jailed around the same time as I was, for a much shorter amount of time. Scott Murray was her lawyer. He sweet-talked the judge into being lenient. And you are correct Mister Castle; any mail Johanna received at the office would have been re-directed to her in prison or to the family home by Miss Stewart during her stay in Occoquan Workhouse."

"So she might have read my mother's mail?" Kate mused out loud.

"Yes, and that might have meant she knew things. We can confirm by looking at the addresses on the letters from Scott Murray."

"What about Diana Cavanaugh?" Kate pressed Miss Burns.

"I confess, I don't remember the name, but I didn't know all the girls. It's possible she worked in the office as well."

"We still have some records from our previous work," Castle reminded her, "We can go over them again and see what we find."

Kate nodded. Turning to Miss Burns she offered her hand to the woman, smiling warmly, "Thank you so much for all of your help. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"No, no dear. It was an awful thing that happened to your mother. She was a good friend to me. I hope what I've told you helps. If you need anything else, I can be reached at this number." She relayed a telephone number which Castle hastily scrawled on the notepad he carried with him at all times. It was probably full of ideas for his next public foray into making her look ridiculous. The manuscript of the first novel had gone to the publisher, despite her renewed protests, and he'd allowed her to read it after a lot of legal fuss. She had begrudgingly enjoyed it, but she still wasn't too pleased to be the inspiration. Her fictional counterpart had looser lips, amongst other things.

Laura Burns shook her hand firmly, and then Castle's before continuing on her way.

Her companion was lost in thought. She watched him mull over their new leads for a second before letting her hand rest on her hip, staring at him questioningly.

When he noticed, it did prompt an explanation on his part. "I was just running over the chalkboards in my mind, trying to see if I could remember anything about Diana Cavanaugh that might link her to the murders, and I think I know how they were both involved. Jennifer Stewart forwarded on correspondence detailing the conspiracy in place to cover up Bob Armond's murder. Someone must have found the correspondence, or at least, known that your mother and Mister Murray were sharing information via the post. Anyone who knew anything about how the party was operating at the time would know that Jennifer opened the mail, and so they'd know that she knew whatever Scott Murray and Johanna Beckett knew. Diana Cavanaugh on the other hand worked as a clerk at the courthouse where Joe Pulgatti's trial was held. I'd be willing to bet that Scott Murray filed an appeal with the court, or tried to, before he died. The senator probably sent a crew to break into the courthouse and steal the file before it was seen by a judge and Diana Cavanaugh was killed so that the appeal never made it to court."

"That's a detailed theory," she took it all in, "And it makes sense. The only problem is that we have absolutely no proof whatsoever."

"There'll be proof," he asserted confidently, "We just have to find it."

Before any further progress could be made on the case, Castle's novel was to be published. He'd invited her to the unofficial launch party he was throwing. It was a private affair and she felt silly intruding, but Ryan and Esposito and even Lanie had accepted their invitations, and so, she took pause at the street entrance to the speakeasy they frequented. She let her hand rest against the railing as she descended the rickety staircase into Javier's, expecting the usual smoky atmosphere and worn tablecloths thrown across hastily arranged tables. Instead, she was surprised to realise that the basement bar actually did have adequate lighting. It revealed a slightly worn, but still unexpectedly fashionable interior. The rich mahogany wood of the bar had been polished and the tables were sporting crisp linen and crystal glassware. The crowd was smaller than she expected, but still full of those she didn't recognise. Self-consciously, she brought a hand to her head, checking that her hair was still in place, and scanned the crowd. Lanie was in the back corner giggling with Esposito and Detective Ryan. Castle's mother was entertaining a few of Esposito's staff with theatrical gestures. Castle himself was doing his best to play a good host, sparing a word for each cluster of guests. He was deep in conversation with an elderly gentleman she didn't recognise when she entered.

He looked up almost instinctively and saw her framed by the doorway, wearing a deep red dress that clung to her hips like he found himself wanting to when he saw her in it.

She smiled in greeting.

He excused himself from his conversation and crossed the room to meet her.

"You came," he sounded pleasantly surprised.

"You assured me I would be the guest of honour," she let him help as she shrugged off her coat. He laid it carefully on the pile behind the bar.

"And you are," he offered her an arm, "Come on, I'll introduce you around. I'm sure I know some people you might like."

When he had introduced her around and left her with Javier and Lanie, he saw Ryan waving him to a darker corner of the room. He made his apologies, picked up two whiskies off a passing tray and joined the policeman.

"What have you found?" he asked, correctly assuming the cop wanted to talk about Will Sorenson.

"Well, I couldn't go through official police channels without arousing suspicion, and I'm sure you know that the dragon you're chasing has bite, though off the record, he's been spotted a few times down in Chinatown with some people who might interest you," he pulled a series of police sketches from his coat. The pictures showed clear resemblance to Raglan, McAllister and their mysterious assassin. "Hal Lockwood," Castle pointed to the face of the man who had shot at them down at Coney Island. "This is the man who shot at us."

"A few of my cousins, the black sheep of the family, who run with a group of Irish bootleggers down in the Bowery told me Will Sorenson's been on the senator's books for years. They say he comes round there a bit, never busts them up."

"So maybe this is just about protecting business interests," Castle quickly pocketed the sketches, "I mean, he works for the Bureau of Internal Revenue, the senator gets a lot of his money from less than savoury means, most of which involve liquor… maybe it's just a coincidence."

"Thought writers didn't believe in coincidences Ricky," Ryan nudged him, following Castle's gaze across the room to where Kate Sorenson was being charmed by his mother. "I know what you're thinking, and if I thought there was even a chance we were wrong about this, I'd tell you not to tell her, but you know how she is. She'd be mad as hell if she thought we were keeping her out of the loop to protect her feelings. And besides, my cousins reckon Sorenson's been on the pay roll since before prohibition."

"How exactly does one bring up that topic of conversation?" Castle muttered, "Hope you're having a good time at my party, by the way, your husband is somehow mixed up in this mess we've been investigating?"

Ryan clapped him on the shoulder. "You're the one with the way with words Ricky. Can't say I'm not glad it's you not me though."

"Thanks Ryan."

"Not a worry. If I hear anything else, I'll let you know. Now, I have to get over there and ask Jenny to dance before someone else does."

"Godspeed," Castle nodded and inspected his whiskey for a moment. He was distracted by someone leaning their weight against his shoulder, "Hey there stranger."

He smiled instinctively and looked down at her carefully made-up face. "You're waterproof you know," he told her.

"Maybe," she turned away, "It's the fashion."

"I didn't mean anything by it. You look lovely as ever."

"Then why haven't you been bugging me to dance with you?" she half-teased, but he sensed a genuine desire for his answer behind her tone.

"I'd have thought your card was full."

She pursed her lips pleasantly and gave him a small laugh. "I'd make room."

"Really?" he regarded her for any hint that she was playing him. "Normally it takes far more cajoling to get you out onto the dance floor."

She nodded as she tipped her champagne glass to her lips. "Mmhmm, really. Perhaps I'm just feeling agreeable tonight."

"Perhaps you've had too much of that champagne."

"I'd forgotten what the real stuff tasted like," she confessed, twisting the stem of the glass between her fingers. "It's quite good."

"Celebrations don't feel the same without it."

"So, shall we?" she offered him her hand, hopefully.

He hesitated. "Are you sure? Normally, you'd be lecturing me about inspiring gossip."

"There's no reason we can't dance Castle," she said, pulling him out onto the small space cleared of tables.

"No," he was in accord; "I suppose you're right."

She hooked one arm over his shoulder and brought her head down under his chin, stopping just short of resting it against his chest; her other hand clutched his. Their feet were barely moving. It was more of a shuffle than a dance. It was mesmerising. Everything faded into the background, except for the soft lull of the piano, the weight of his hand at her waist and their gentle, rhythmic swaying. She let her eyes slip closed.

When the song ended, she pulled back a little but didn't release his hands. Opening her eyes, she found him staring at her.

"What?" she let her teeth sink into her lip, self-conscious.

"Nothing," he said, too quickly.

"You're staring," she nudged one of his feet with the tip of her shoe, "And we're not dancing anymore."

"No," he agreed. He became acutely aware of her proximity, how easy it would be to kiss her. It was a matter of inches. He remembered the last time, the softness of her mouth and the deftness of her tongue and the perfect balance between kissing and being kissed she had managed that day in his study. He felt the memory as an ache in his chest.

She didn't make any attempt to disentangle herself before the music started up again, more lively this time. She also didn't seem to mind that he ignored it and just stood, watching her.

"What were you and Detective Ryan talking about like partners in crime before?" she smiled, fondly.

That brought his thoughts of a pleasant seduction to an abrupt halt. Instead, he was faced with the very real idea that telling her of her husband's involvement in the conspiracy they were slowly uncovering might mean she had no reason to protest if he did kiss her. More likely, it would spark a curious mix of hurt and anger and she would lash out at whomever was closest; he had been observing her closely since the moment they'd met and he hadn't learned nothing. Still, he knew he should tell her, knew that if she ever found out he was keeping it from her she would find it hard to forgive him or trust him.

The moment wasn't right, or it was too right and he didn't want to spoil it.

He gave her a wide smile, "Nothing."

Then he squeezed her fingers and dropped her hand, "Excuse me, I'm going to go check on the bar."

She blinked after him when he walked away, affronted. She had thought she was a part of something happening between them and felt immediately foolish. Katherine Beckett Sorenson didn't like feeling a fool; she buried the feeling and focussed on being properly irritated with him instead, allowing herself to confide her frustrations in another glass of champagne

Confirming his theory about Jennifer Stewart's involvement turned out to be quite simple in the end. While pouring over the letters between Johanna Beckett and Scott Murray, she had noticed that the addresses on Mister Murray's letters to her mother were different to the addresses that adorned the outside of the envelopes they were in, and the files they had taken from the National Woman's Party confirmed that it was Jennifer Stewart's handwriting. Castle, emboldened by this successful round of hypothesising, tried his hand at the rest of the loose ends in their investigation. His theories grew wilder by the hour. She had attempted to divert his attention to more practical matters, but his imagination would not be denied. This meant that the afternoon's work spilled into the evening, which was fine, as Will was away in Atlantic City again, but she was beginning to feel frustrated.

She let her hand rest against the cool surface of the chalkboard, careful not to smudge their intermingling scripts, and tapped her fingers in irritation.

He looked over in the middle of a sentence, contrite. "I'm sorry, I know you think I'm wasting our time."

"That's because you are," she declared pettily.

"Perhaps I am," he admitted. "I think the connection between the women is obvious now, though we have no proof. I'm at a loss as to how we could find any proof of Diana Cavanaugh's involvement but we almost don't need any. Anyone watching would put the circumstantial evidence together just like we have: she was in the same political party as your mother and Jennifer Stewart and she worked at the courthouse where Scott Murray was trying to file an appeal to have Joe Pulgatti's conviction overturned. These men don't seem to require a lot of hard evidence to order a killing."

"That's true," she picked up a piece of chalk and underlined Senator Brown's name, "I want to know how the senator is involved in all of this. He knew McAllister, and probably Raglan. The question is who is pulling the strings? Was he their boss, or just an associate? And are the players being eliminated to prevent the conspiracy from leaking or as revenge?"

"Maybe we should focus our attentions on the murders themselves," he tried to divert her attention from the senator yet again. He was striving (and it was painstaking, fighting his nature so completely) to keep his attempts subtle, but he knew it wouldn't be long now before she figured him out. In fact, he was surprised she had remained in the dark so long.

"But we don't know anything about Senator Brown," she protested, "He's an obvious lead that we haven't followed. We've been over the murders again and again."

"And we find something new every time," he pointed out, enthusiastically. "More to the point, you know I want to know how he's involved as much as you do, but a man like that? With his connections? It's no accident that all these people are dead. Besides, I doubt there's any tangible trail."

"So you think he's behind all of it? And you're suggesting we let him get away with it?" her eyes flashed furious. He wasn't doing a good job of talking her down this time.

"No, that's not what I'm saying at all," he stood and backed towards the door, "Look, I'm going to make tea. I just think that we should start from the crimes and work forwards instead of starting from the senator and working back. I think the trail will be clearer. You saw his office. There was not a thing connecting him to any criminal activity. He's smart, so we'll just have to be smarter."

When he returned she was flipping through the leather book he'd hidden in plain sight.

"What is this?" she said, icy and pointed.

He faltered. "Just… nothing."

"Castle. Don't insult me. We both know I'm not a fool."

"I found it in the safe, when we broke into his office. I'm sure you recognise some of the names."

"I do."

"I think… it's a ledger. It's payments received and owing."

"So all this time, you've been saying we should focus on the murders, when you've had proof the senator was involved in more than a little criminal activity the entire time?"

"There's nothing in that book that directly links him to your mother's murder or any of the other killings," he set down the cups he'd brought from the kitchen and held out his hands for the book, "I promise. I would never hide something important from you."

"Really? So what do you call this?" she waved it in his face. "Is this unimportant? Why? Why would you hide it?"

"I just wanted… more time. I … Ryan is running down some of the names. When he's done, we'll have more information and I wanted to wait until then to show you."

"That's," she closed in on him like a circling shark, "Bull. And you know it."

"What else am I meant to say? I'm sorry. I am. But I didn't think you'd want to believe me if I showed you right away."

"And now? Now what am I meant to believe?" she stalked away from him and began gathering her things, tucking the ledger under her arm. "No, don't answer. I don't want to hear it. We are done Castle."

She picked up the duster and drew it over the chalkboard erratically, leaving half their work behind. Chalk dust settled into her hair and onto her fingers. She turned to him again, "So that's it? You have nothing to say?"

"You told me not to say anything," he exclaimed, "What do you want from me? I already apologised. I told you. I just wanted Ryan to make sure it was true before I told you."

She didn't know what he was talking about, but she was too hurt to ask.

"I can't believe I trusted you," she raised her voice just enough so he knew she meant it, but not enough to wake his family. She pulled open the door to the study and strode into the hallway, slamming the front door as she went, carrying her coat over her arm. Once she was in the street, she paused to put it on and to pull on her gloves. The chalk dust and her tears stung in her eyes. Staring at her feet, she tried to be properly enraged with him again, tried to blink away the evidence that she cared at all, but it was no use. By the end of the block, she was sobbing outright and the streetlights blurred into watery fuzz.

She was grateful for the empty house to return to when she finally managed to sink the key into the lock, grateful that Will wasn't home to ask questions. She stripped off her coat and gloves in the hall, and took the ledger into the bedroom. There, she tucked the leather book beneath the mattress. Stepping back, she let her dress fall to the floor and stared at the circle it made around her feet. She didn't have the energy to pick it up. Kicking it aside, she let herself sink onto the bed, pulling the covers around her. She hugged the pillow against her body and wiped away the last of her tears. It had no right to hurt this much. He was … what? Her partner in the many crimes they had committed in the course of their investigation, crimes which he had never once shied away from or spared an expense to cover up? Her friend? Someone who had begged, borrowed and stolen police files as an excuse to be a part of her life? Someone who, despite her protests and her determination to keep him at a distance, had become her confidante, her equal, someone she had counted on as constant? All of the above, she realised with a miserable sigh, and more, more than she would willingly admit to anyone. She had known almost from the start that she was playing a dangerous game, and it had only become more dangerous when his teasing, his flirting with her, had gained a serious edge. And then hers had too. And when he had kissed her, God, she felt it in her toes. It came to mind unbidden sometimes.

She had known she wanted him in a way she shouldn't for quite a long time. It was the impetus behind her self-imposed exile, it was the reason she made excuses for him to dance with her longer than was necessary at Javier's, it was the tug she felt at parts of herself she had never shared when they were alone. She had not once thought it much more than an intellectual and physical infatuation. But the sting of his secrecy, the way it had hurt to leave, made her realise something bigger. She was probably in love with him, in a way she had never loved Will, or anyone else. That was bad. She was married, and she had always prided herself on being a one-and-done kind of girl. Morality aside, he was… he was Castle. She shouldn't love him. Loving him would be incredibly foolish. She had always thought it. But there it was, plain as anything: love and her heart aching more than she had ever thought possible.

She had created an almighty mess, she decided, and this was the best possible outcome, wretched though it felt. She clutched at the pillow and, despairingly, waited for sleep. Tomorrow, she thought, she would hate him again, and tomorrow, she would stubbornly refuse the hurt that overtook her. Tonight though, she was too exhausted to fight it.

As the lethargy of August slowly gave way to the chill of September, Kate Sorenson spent most of her days in the public library, searching through newspaper articles for any mention of Senator Brown. She learned that he had been elected to office in 1913, after fighting rumours of corruption circulated by the papers. Many claims were made by respectable publications, but all came into doubt with the very public arrest and trial of Joe Pulgatti. After Pulgatti was shipped up the river, all allegations against the senator went with him – the public had a way of mistrusting journalists, especially when they were proven to have made a mistake – and the senator had since been a media darling. He had posed at orphanages and schools, with war heroes and suffragettes, and was the subject of any number of puff pieces. It enraged her quite thoroughly. After reading one such article about his campaign for party leadership going into the 1920 federal election, she clenched her hand into a fist and brought it down against the heavy mahogany table. It echoed throughout the library which was, for the most part, deserted. A librarian shelving books and a college student studying at a carell opposite her glared; she tried to look apologetic as she shoved the articles back where she had found them, a little more forcefully than was necessary.

Her biographical research was, objectively, of little use to the investigation, if their goal was to bring the senator to justice. It did help her to understand his motives. The man had used criminal ventures as stepping stones to legislative power. That came with certain inherent problems. After pinning the murder of Robert Armond on Joe Pulgatti, he had enjoyed several successful years in office but his future again came into jeopardy when her mother had started asking questions. She knew her mother: no financial incentive would appease her; her conscience would have demanded that an innocent man not be left in prison. And so, he'd had her murdered. When that piqued Scott Murray's interest, he too had to be disposed of along with anyone else who might be a weak link in the chain. It was all a cover-up, all an attempt to preserve one man's career, his power. She felt sick.

She couldn't stand to look at any more facts. The senator had a wife and two children. They lived on the Upper East Side. He was widely regarded as holding the safest senate seat in the country. She felt the pressure building behind her temples as she recalled each piece of information.

She left the library earlier than she usually would, before midday, and was scrubbing the ink from the newsprint off her hands when Lanie came by with a package. She opened the door for her friend and waited until she was inside the apartment before asking where she'd come from.

"Javier's," the other woman said, tentatively, "But before you throw it in the trash, I have it on good authority that you want to open that."

She stared at the familiar handwriting that addressed it to her and gave one proud and stubborn shake of her head. "I don't Lanie, I swear I don't. He was hiding things from me, digging around behind my back. I don't trust him and I don't ever want his help again."

"Would it help if I told you it's not just from him? Detective Ryan put a few things in there himself, and I'm sure you wouldn't want him to get in trouble because you tossed out the police files he stole for you in a fit of misplaced anger."

"Fine," she looked mightily displeased, but slumped beside Lanie on the sofa and opened it slowly. She pulled a collection of documents and sketches and a single newspaper clipping from the envelope.

"Did they tell you what was in it?" she asked as she began to sort the new information into piles on her skirt.

Lanie shook her head, "Just that it was important. What is it?" she had noticed the change in Kate's expression.

"Lanie," she breathed. "This is all concerning Will."

"What do you mean honey?"

"I mean that … Castle says in his letter that he's terribly sorry, but that he had to be sure before he showed me," she was already up and walking into the other room. Lanie followed, trying to follow her mumbling but failing dismally.

"The ledger," she cried, disturbing the pile of papers on the desk by the window, "Where is it?"

Finally, her hand emerged victorious, clutching a small leather-bound notebook. She flipped through, eyes searching through all the names. There, on January 18th, 1925 was a payment to Will Sorenson for one hundred and fifty dollars. She turned the pages forward a month. February and March contained identical entries, as did every month after. "Lanie the reason he was hiding this is because he saw Will's name in this book."

"And what is that book exactly?"

"It's… it's a ledger, for the senator's less savoury business transactions. Castle found it when we went to his office last month. I … he hid it from me, and when I found it I was just so angry."

"And now it turns out maybe he was hiding it from you for a reason?" Lanie peered over her shoulder and nudged her side gently. "Girl, you should apologise."

"Like hell I will," she brought her hand to her mouth at the severity of her language. "He should have told me right away."

"He wanted time," Lanie patted her arm, "I understand. I wouldn't like to go around accusing your husband of being a criminal without proof either. You have quite the temper you know," she smiled wryly, "What was in the package?"

"Some police reports. They say more than a few criminals saw Will down at a place I know of, the Golden Dragon in Chinatown. He was with some of the men we suspect are the senator's people. Dick Coonan associated with them too. They're an Irish outfit that participate in the usual organised crimes. One of them was filed by Ryan. I… I don't know what to think."

Lanie clucked her tongue astutely. "Mores the point, I think you do know what to think, you're just not sure what to do about it."

"Well what would you do?"

Lanie took her hand, "Honey, I don't have the faintest idea. But I don't think you'll be able to live with it if you never ask him the truth."

"What if I do? And what if it is true?"

They had known each other for the longest time. In fact, for as long as both girls could remember, the other had been there. They'd pieced together the story as adults: Lanie had never had a father, her mother had found herself in a spot of trouble and a newly pregnant Johanna Beckett had learned enough about how it had happened to talk her husband into allowing their maid to become a full-time live-in servant and nanny to the child they were expecting. In all their lives, Lanie had never seen Katherine Beckett show fear, not when she'd been sent away to school after turning ten, not when Will Sorenson had been missing in action for two weeks after a nasty skirmish with the Germans, not when her mother had been brutally murdered. And in that moment, all Lanie saw was fear.

"You know what Mrs Beckett used to say," they didn't often talk of Johanna, but Lanie had grown up in awe of her, captivated by her teachings, and probably remembered them better than her own daughter. "She used to say that what we have to stand, the Lord gives us the strength to stand."

Kate clutched at her hand, and nodded once.

"And you know, whatever you need, I'm here for you. And your father loves you. And I'd hazard a guess Mister Castle would do unspeakable things for you if you asked. Javier and Ryan, they'd help him. We all love you."

"Thank you," she pulled her hand free and held the small book to her chest. "I know that I'm lucky to have all of you."

"You tell me how it turns out," Lanie said authoritatively, "I have to go see how your father's doing."

"Is he better Lanie?"

"That last talking to you gave him seems to have done the trick, or maybe it was the doctor's warnings. He hasn't touched a drink since."

Temporarily cheered by that news, she spent the afternoon re-reading all that Castle had sent her. She even started to write him a thank you note, but stopped after the first, poorly composed sentence. How could she thank him in a note? None of the words really seemed enough.

Will came home late that night. She'd alternated between pacing and needless tidying to occupy herself while she waited.

She had schooled herself all afternoon, planning how to begin. In the end it all tumbled out. She didn't even respond to his hello before she was in the middle of it.

"Do you know a Senator William Brown?" she asked.

"Who? What are you talking about darling?"

"Will. Do you know him?"

"Yes," her husband stepped past her into the living room where all the papers still lay on the coffee table. He looked over them for several minutes without speaking. She stood in the archway to the room, hands pressed to the wood, her body shaking. She bit her tongue to save herself from saying something she might regret. She was thinking of how to press him further when he looked up at her, realising the sum of the papers in front of him. "What is all this?"

"Evidence," she said. He was angry, she could see it. That sparked a similar feeling in her. It was just like him, to turn things around on her when she had every right to be mad at him. "I've been looking into my mother's murder since you've been away so much."

"What? Katie. We talked about this," he took a step towards her. She held her ground admirably, eyes daring him to come any closer.

"No," she responded coldly. "We didn't talk about it. You told me I wasn't to do it anymore. And years ago, when I was younger and sillier and still nearly sick with grief, I let you."

"So when people have been telling me that you've been running all over town with that writer, I should have believed them?"

"He was helping me Will. We … he had contacts, he made it easier to follow leads."

"And I suppose you know what else they've been saying? That you've been coming from his house at all hours of the night? That he's mixed up with all sorts of people?"

"You shouldn't believe everything you hear."

"I suppose he was the one who told you all this," he gestured to the letter. "That the senator was involved in your mother's murder and that I somehow had something to do with it."

"He didn't have to tell me anything," she was livid, how dare he insinuate that she couldn't make up her own mind about the thing? "We found a ledger in the senator's office, and we found that through an address left on a dead man, a man who was killed by someone who took a few poorly aimed shots at me, mind. He tried to kill me Will. And you took his money," she was disgusted, and nearly spat it at him.

"Well how do you think I afford all those pretty things you like so much?" he asked her, raising his voice. She had always had a temper, though she was cautious about losing it. The way he said it though – and what he had said – were too much. She picked up the vase on the table closest to her and threw it across the room.

"He had my mother killed," she matched his volume and tone, "And you knew, all this time you knew and you never told me."

"What does it matter? You'll never touch him."

"I'll kill him with my own bare hands if I have to," she vowed.

"Katie, calm down," he took a step toward her with one hand raised and she balled her hands to fists.

"Is that why you married me Will? To keep me from the truth? Did he ask you to do it?"

"Of course not, I love you."

"You've been taking money from a man who tried to have me killed," she answered, "So I find it hard to believe you."

"If you hadn't been poking around in things that don't concern you, none of this would have happened."

"Things that don't concern me?" she nearly launched herself at him like she would have as a child. She'd had a habit of using her fists and pulling hair when things didn't go her way. Her mother had told her very strictly when she was five that it wasn't how young ladies were meant to behave. Well, she had thought at the time, that was all well and good, but she wasn't going to let herself be bullied. Still, she settled for raising her chin defiantly when he stepped closer, threatening.

"Besides, you're one to talk about me not loving you. I did all of this for you, because I knew you'd drive yourself crazy with it if I didn't. I took the money to help us make a home. I did all of this for youKatie, and for what? So you could turn your back on all of it and run around with someone else?"

"How dareyou accuse me of that?" she took the insult to her virtue almost as well as she'd taken the insult to her intelligence, "I know where you've been meeting all your no-good friends. I know the kind of women that hang around there. And I know that you probably know all the establishments with the worst reputations down in Atlantic City. So don't you stand here and lecture me about what it means to be faithful."

"Have you been sleeping with him?"

"What if I have?" she glowered, "What if I told you it was the best thing I could have done for myself? After all, no one could blame me: ever since you came back from Europe with the clap you've hardly touched me. I always thought you felt guilty, but maybe you were just getting it elsewhere."

He struck her once, hard enough to knock her dizzy. Her cheek took the brunt of it though, and the crack of his knuckles told her his hand had suffered more damage than her face.

She took off her wedding rings right then and there, back against the wall and husband looking at her, stunned. He was shaking his right hand.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"So am I," she told him in a measured tone. "I'm going now Will and I'm not coming back. And this isn't about you and whoever else you've been with, or me and whoever else I've been with. This is about the fact that you've known for years who had my mother killed and done nothing about it. You, you always talked so prettily about justice and the law... imagine my surprise when you turned out to be a hypocrite."

"I'm sorry," he said again, with the look of a man who couldn't figure out how he reached his breaking point.

"You're going to want to ice that," she offered her last and disappeared into the bedroom, locking the door behind her while she packed a suitcase blindly.

She was out the front door and half a block into a miserable night before she realised she had no idea where she was going. She touched a hand to her aching face and let her bag drop to her feet in the wet street. It was only then that she thought to cry. It was storming good and proper, and her tears were hot while the rain was cold against her cheeks. She wiped them away after a moment, took a few deep breaths to compose herself and kept walking, her hand fingering the letter from her mother in the pocket of her coat.

End Part III