Chapter 4: Bear Up

Disclaimer: The characters of Castle belong to Mr. Marlowe and ABC Studios. I'm merely borrowing them.

She had reached her threshold of exhaustion hours ago, somewhere back on page three of what was fast becoming a report of Biblical proportions. Words were blurring together on the screen, her eyes felt tight and dry in their sockets, and she was fairly certain something fuzzy was growing on the surface of her tongue.

Jesus, when was the last time she'd brushed?

Faintly disgusted with herself, she dove back in with a grimace, submerging herself in the technical, oddly comforting parlance of police reports. She found a sort of solace in the legalese, appreciating the consistency of this task when so little else was in her line of work.

"Beckett," a voice from behind her cut through her concentration, jerking her rudely from her task. She turned expectantly, a little peevishly, but hurriedly wiped the annoyance from her face.

"Captain, what can I help you with?" Montgomery stood leaning against the door jamb, regarding her with something akin to frustration. Oh, she…she was the only occupant left in the bullpen, she realized with some surprise. When had everyone left for the evening? She hadn't even noticed, too absorbed in her work, too mired in her thoughts.

"Didn't you pull a double yesterday?" He asked, his expression indicating he already knew the answer.

"Oh, well...yes, but-"

"Which would mean you're topping 50 hours on duty."

It was a statement, not a question, and from the warning in his eyes, she didn't dare unleash the objections crawling up her throat. "That would be correct, sir," she affirmed quietly.

"Go home, Beckett," he ordered, "there's a 48-hour cut-off in place for a reason. If you're trying to prove your value by working yourself to the bone, don't bother. You're an incredible asset to this team—youngest woman to be appointed detective, allowed to take the PDET a whole year early, passing with flying colors no less—and rookie or no, we're happy to have you. And..." He stepped toward her, his expression gentling and gaze softening in a way that had her eyes burning for an entirely different reason.

"If you're using this, the job, as a distraction...well, I can't support that either. I may understand it, relate to the compulsion, even. But I can't condone it. Detective work doesn't allow for escapism, Kate."

Well, that...frankly, it stung a little. Or a lot. She…liked Montgomery. More than that, she admired him, the kind of man and captain he was, what he stood for. She wanted that positive regard to be reciprocal. Even if she didn't agree with his directive, even if she didn't like it, she would respect it. For his sake. And for the sake of whatever professional—and perhaps personal—relationship they might build.

Tersely, she nodded her affirmation, and he gave her a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes in return. "Good. Now go home. And I better not see you in here for at least another 12 hours."

She blinked owlishly at him, fatigue and the faintest whisper of common sense staying her entreaties.

Go home? To what? The dark seclusion of her mind? Another night spent sleeplessly tossing? Anger rolled through her, bloomed feverishly in her chest, resentment that Montgomery was forcing her hand. Eliminating the small portion of control she had over her life. And yeah, she knew she was reacting disproportionately, that Montgomery was in the right, that her anger wasn't justifiable. In all likelihood, it was sleep deprivation and no small amount of shame from the dressing down she'd received. Perhaps that's what had her so riled? Honestly, she was too drained to spend energy analyzing her motives.

Fine. Twelve hours and not a minute more. She'd give him that much. Four hours of restless sleep followed by a solid eight combing through paperwork and files she'd paid good money to obtain.

Time to bow out gracefully. Or at least not leave in abject humiliation. Was that still a possibility? Wordlessly, she rose from her lumpy desk chair and collected her paperwork and meager belongings from her workspace, hurriedly stowing them in a battered leather cross body, flicked her eyes to Montgomery in a pathetic parting gesture as she strode toward the exit.

"And, Beckett," he interjected, his voice imposing and piercing, halting her progress. A pause then, as he patiently waited for her to meet his gaze. Oh…he was back to looking serious and tense. Unnerving her.

"If you're going to dig into your mother's case...keep it quiet, understand? Cover your tracks. And don't do anything stupid. You're a good detective—have the potential to be one of the best, matter of fact—and I would like to ensure you have the opportunity to realize that potential. Are we understood?"

Shit. Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Her heart doubled its pace, her breath leaving her body in hot, heavy puffs. Horror raced down her spine, sucked the moisture from her mouth, made her weak-kneed, start to tremble like a junkie. Because shit. She'd been certain no one had known, thought she'd been so damn careful. Because if she wanted to continue investigating, no one could know. How the hell had he found out?

"Paul, down in records," he murmured, answering the question she was too cotton-mouthed to ask. "Good guy, keeps me well-informed. Fifty bucks doesn't buy the silence it used to, Kate. You shouldn't have been so stingy if you were looking for him to keep his mouth shut. Well, and he's pretty damn loyal to me. Has been ever since I got him the job."

Right. Loyalty. Heat flooded her face at the implication, at the remorse that rushed through her. He was standing there talking to her about loyalty, looking on with this paternal expression, without a trace of condemnation. And all after she'd gone behind his back, had bribed a city official, had broken more rules than she could possibly count. He just...let her. Seemingly understood that her life was no longer hers, that this need had overtaken everything. Prudence, ethics, any sense of self-preservation or personal safety—it had died with her mother.

God, she had to get out of here before she forfeited the very tenuous control she had on her emotions. And it was a fast losing battle. Her guilt was flooding her eyes, clogging her throat. Or was that suppressed grief? Plenty of that to go around.

Her mother, her father, now Montgomery...she just kept letting people down. She kept failing.

"Y—yes, sir. I—I'll—I promise not to embarrass you. Or the department. And I'm sorry for—for not telling you. For not being up front. And...I...thank you, sir. Good—good night."

And then she fled in blind desperation, the coalescence of her pain and guilt and anger and overwhelming fear threatening to drag her down a bottomless rabbit hole from which there was no crawling back. She could lose herself in this. Might have already done so. Lost in her mother's murder, her compulsory "pursuit of truth", her need to fill this aching void in her chest with something. Anything.

Miraculously, she'd managed to successfully wend her way through the labyrinth of streets and subway tunnels, arriving at her stuffy little fourth-floor walk up in one piece. Physically, that is.

She'd even grabbed her mail on the way up—force of habit, muscle memory, the desire for normalcy, who knows why. But in a day full of crappy decisions and even crappier outcomes, this was...well, it was something good. She needed something good.

And his letters were always good.

She didn't even make it to the couch, just dropped her bag and the remainder of her mail, envelopes fluttering, scattering as she lowered herself to the floor. Alex Rodgers, how did you even know? He was some kind of mind reader. Had to be. The way he wrote…it was like he'd known her for years. Despite never having actually met her.

Fingers still trembling from adrenaline, from guilt, she tore into the envelope, and drank in his familiar handwriting, the bold pen strokes, clutching the expensive paper too tightly.

K. Beckett,

You shouldn't feel obligated to apologize to me about this. Or to anyone! I may not know the particulars of your situation, your pain, but what is clear to me is that you suffered a tremendous loss, and no outside spectator should be permitted to dictate what you feel or how you cope. They're not in this, and you are.

Speaking to your self-imposed distance, your compartmentalization—I believe that every painful experience is unique in its own right, and by that same logic, that it is inherently isolating. Pain inspires loneliness. We try to understand the suffering around us—we listen, we comfort, we grieve alongside others, and we do our level best to empathize. But regardless of our best efforts, we can't possibly comprehend the depths of outside pain, all the moving parts and constituents. Not fully.

Truth be told, we can't even wrap our minds fully around our own pain, as I'm sure you know. We wrestle with it, struggle to subdue it. Sometimes for the entirety of our existence, we fight to conquer it, to come out on top. But grief? It's a force of nature, breaking and remaking us. The pain never leaves, it just fades with time until we learn to live with the ache. Rose Kennedy once denied the adage 'time heals all wounds', insisting "the wounds remain. In time, the mind protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone." I'm wont to agree.

So you fending it off this way? By selectively communicating it? Is commendable. Not something that necessitates an apology. It's a step forward. A little scar tissue. And I for one am honored to be a very small part of the process. No more apologies, Kara.

And you should know that you're not alone, not entirely. Although ours is a…unique situation that prevents me from being physically present in your life, I like to think that I'm still a companion of sorts. An undeniably strange one, and really, really unconventional. But here for you, all the same. Keep talking, keep healing, I'll keep listening. Promise.

I had planned on writing this much earlier in the day, but circumstances conspired against me, and now it's 1:45 and I'm afraid my words lack their usual clarity. Tonight was…a strange affair. I should be sleeping but instead I'm writing, decompressing from this nauseating gala I compulsorily attended. Everyone was loud and too smiley and vying for attention and financial backing, and all I could think about was how I really wanted to be home with my sick kid. And your letters. Instead, I fended off the professional—and personal—advances of a contemporary, and was too uncomfortably warm in my overpriced tux to choke down any of the tasteless food they offered. All in all, it went pretty much how I expected…Kaitlyn?

Maybe not. You don't seem like a Kaitlyn. But color me astonished, Ms. Beckett! You also didn't seem like the kind of girl who would assign stereotypes based on names alone! Your vocabulary is spectacular, but I'll have you know I once had the pleasurable acquaintance of a woman named Bambi whose IQ put Mensa members to shame. The letter i is a perfectly charming vowel, no different than e or a, and o sorry, now I'm rambling, aren't I? Y is that? U think I'd learn to stop while I was ahead, but no. Verbose to a fault!

I apologize for the puns, I'm a bit ashamed, I'm blaming it on the hour. The wordplay is keeping me awake in the absence of coffee. It's nearly two in the morning, and I've, rather unfortunately, caught my third or fourth wind. At this point, I've lost count. I'm also blaming my daughter, who kept me awake for much of last night, held in the throes of a vicious stomach flu. When she's not projectile vomiting, she's an absolute joy. Honestly, I couldn't have asked for a sweeter, funnier, more intelligent child—which is, I'm sure, what every parent maintains, but in my case it's true! She plays the violin, loves to read, gives stellar advice, and is a charming contradictory blend of caution and curiosity that never fails to intrigue me.

And you, K. Beckett. You intrigue me, too. Whatever mysterious force is compelling this atypical honesty…let it compel you! The last close relationship I had ended disastrously—my daughter's mother is best described as tornadic in nature—and suffice to say, for me, heart-to-hearts have been no-man's-land (or no-woman's-land, as it were) for quite some time now.

Speaking of, you're not married, are you, Kendra?

Stay well, keep healing, and keep writing!

All the best,

Alex

When she finished the letter, her head slipped back, her crown coming to rest against the cool metal of her front door.

Alex. Good with words, good with puns. Good for her. And...she was too involved. Instinct told her to get out now, to tuck away the letters, look back on them fondly and chalk up the experience to curiosity. A whim. But that was the problem with this no-strings-attached correspondence—the unanticipated catch 22. She was already too involved. Maybe more so than if she'd met him conventionally, through a face-to-face encounter. Too entangled to simply walk away at this juncture, despite not actually knowing the man. He was funny, and accepted her dark, twisted issues, and quoted Rose Kennedy, and talked about scar tissue. She liked Alex. She liked that Alex liked her, even though she shouldn't.

Enough, she groaned, and heaved herself to her feet. Deliberations regarding Alex would have to wait until after she'd slept. And her slowly developing murder board took precedence to letter-writing. She had new information to add, new truth to pursue. Setting the letter aside, setting herself aside, she gathered up her bag of files and made her way to the kitchen table. Hoping something might finally give way, that some piece of damning evidence might finally surface. Hoping, not for the first time, that she wouldn't let her mother down.

Sleep had been elusive, but she'd gotten some good work done on the timeline, combed through witness statements for inconsistencies and new information, stared at the crime scene photos until she felt numb and bleak and unbreakable, but also triumphant. Because she was doing this. Working what everyone insisted was a cold case, making a little headway, and not falling to pieces in the process. What a cause for celebration, she mused dryly, and ate some chicken ramen to commemorate the inauspicious achievement. Halfway through the bowl, her scuffed phone vibrated against the formica tabletop, and she started at the sound, flipping it open with a curt "Beckett" in greeting.

"Katie," a voice slurred, "'s me, honey."

Her eyes fluttered shut, spoon clattering against the bowl as she pushed away from the table, nausea taking the place of her already limited appetite.

"Dad, where are you? Are you at home?"

"Yeah," he must have been pressed against the mouthpiece, his voice muffled by labored breathing, " 'm home. Lookin' at pictures, and…miss 'er." His voice broke on a rough sob, and her heart clenched at the sound even as anger knotted her stomach. Again. This was happening again. Honestly, she should have known. Their anniversary was right around the corner, and the closer it drew to that day—to any holiday or notable date, really—the more emotionally volatile her father became, self-medicating with liquor to curb the pain. It started with depression, which prompted reminiscence, which brought fresh grief, which necessitated drinking. And she…she was caught in the fallout.

Correction she was the fallout.

"Stay where you are. I'm on my way," she promised—bitterness sharpening the words, roughening her voice—and then ended the call. There was too much latent rage simmering beneath the surface of her composure, and if she stayed on the line, all of the ugly thoughts and cutting words she had in check would spill over. Words she never meant to say, sentiments she could never take back…her honesty would hurt him because she wanted to hurt him. Just like he was hurting her. And he didn't need that. Not from her. He needed things she couldn't provide. He needed help. It's a disease, it's a sickness, it's beyond him, she reminded herself dully, and then, pocketing her keys, she ran, ran out the door. Because running away? It was kind of her thing. If she ran, she didn't have to think. And if she didn't think, she didn't have to feel.

When she arrived at his apartment, the door swung open with a gentle push, no key necessary, and she walked in calling his name. A half-empty decanter of brandy sat on the coffee table, a crystal tumbler beside it, photos scattered carelessly on the floor, her father absent from his recliner. "Dad?" Her voice sounded tired, hollow. No reply. She swept through the main circuit of rooms—den, kitchen, dining room, wondering if he was even still here. Coming up empty handed, she made her way into his bedroom, slipping into the master bath and…oh, god.

She dropped to her knees, a shriek ripping its way free of her chest as she thudded gracelessly to the floor. Blood and vomit seeped through the fabric of her jeans as she leaned over his prone body trying, trying to control her shaking as she pressed her fingers against his neck, searching for a pulse. Please be alive, please be alive, please…I need you to be alive. Her only lucid thought, as the panic crowded her mind, was of her mother. Of the night she died, the stoic lines of the officer's face, the way she so utterly lost control of herself, the way her grief actually hurt—bloomed in her eyes, her chest, her stomach. It was such a physical, visceral response, and in the moment, she hadn't known if she would survive it. Hadn't really wanted to.

Losing her mother had broken her, but losing her father…it would end her. There would be no coming back from that.

Hours later, parked in a tweed hospital chair, she tried to find her equilibrium. He was going to be okay, some young ER doctor had promised, his eyes too kind, too compassionate as he explained her father's condition. Alcohol poisoning, he confirmed unnecessarily, bandying about vaguely familiar medical jargon—nasogastric tube, intravenous drip, catheterization, CT scan, subdural haematoma. Apparently, when he collapsed, he'd struck his head—hence, the alarming amount of blood—and they wanted to keep him overnight for observation. Did she need anything? Was she staying here? Going home? Pity welling in his eyes, pity lacing his words. Since when had she become an object of pity? Somehow she managed to string together several coherent sentences, informed them she was going home but that she'd be back, and then left after they wheeled her father in for his neuro consult.

The walk back home was strangely reminiscent of her post-Montgomery dash the night before—mindless, anesthetized, surprisingly swift. One minute she was ambling out of the hospital's pneumatic doors, the next, swaying in the middle of her den. The silence cocooned her, wrapping around her until all that existed was the rasp of her own breath, the waning afternoon light glinting off of dust motes. She needed to call in to the 12th, report her absence, cite a reason, but all she had energy for was breathing. In, and out. In, and out.

Unaccountably, it was Alex that came to mind as she stood there like a sapling in a storm. Thinking, he wouldn't shy away from this, from me, as she gasped a breath in, sobbed it back out, and finally, finally felt the tears come. They rolled off her face unchecked, landed on the scuffed leather toe box of her boat shoes, coming from some deep, wounded place inside of her. And she just…let it happen. Cried until her face was swollen and her eyelids were pink and raw and she was too fatigued to continue. She felt…better? Maybe that was the wrong word, because the grief was still there. But she felt empty, kind of scraped clean, and weary to her bones—almost like she'd done sprints or gone a couple rounds in the ring.

Wrung out, endurance somewhat restored, she stumbled to her little secretary desk.

Dear Alex,

Unfortunately, I'm going to have to keep this brief. My day has been hell—a rather unfortunate perpetuation of the past five years, in fact—and I'll be hard pressed to respond at length for at least several days. Time for a little brutal truth. My father drinks. Often. And excessively. Currently, he's in the hospital, in pretty bad shape but expected to recover nonetheless. I'm telling you this not to garner sympathy, but because…I need to tell someone. Someone who understands. And you seemingly do, which was—I feel I should tell you—a notion buoying enough to carry me through the day. These letters help, and I value your…friendship? Words? I'm not certain how to categorize this thing we have, but I like it. So, if a week goes by and you don't hear from me, realize it's not me ignoring you or breaking contact. Far from that. I'm just…I'm at my limit, struggling to even breathe right now. But this will pass, I will respond, and I'm—rather presumptuously—banking on your kindness and understanding nature. Please don't go anywhere, Rorschach. I'll be back. Promise.

Faithfully (cross my heart hope to die),

Kate

It was right, giving him her name. It felt right. Despite the events of the day, despite her grief, and despite herself, she felt the beginnings of a smile. Because he was going to be beside himself. Karli Beckett? Really, Alex? Katherine Houghton Beckett, thank you very much. Only Kate for now, though. She had to maintain a little mystery, keep him guessing. He clearly thrived on it—the thrill of the chase. And well, running was kind of her thing. Huh.

How complementary.

She showered—grateful to be free of her sticky, fetid clothes—and packed an overnight bag before heading back to the hospital, dropping Alex's letter into the post box on her way out of the building. The next few days passed in a blur of sea foam scrubs and test results, punctuated by awkward one word exchanges and tentative glances between Kate and her father. Gradually, the swelling in his face and head subsided, leaving behind bruises and a crusty laceration the doctor said was likely to scar. But they didn't talk about it. She read, he watched baseball or CNN, they discussed her promotion, his cases—masterfully evading what had grown from one proverbial elephant to a whole herd.

Until the day he was to be discharged, that is.

The doctor handed Jim a list of wound care instructions, discreetly raised the subject of rehab, and quickly moved on to well-wishes and parting handshakes. After the doctor's departure, they sat together stiffly in the expectant silence, looking everywhere but at each other. She heard him suck in a preparatory breath, and steeled herself for a justification, or worse, another meaningless apology. She'd been on the receiving end of so many the word, as she'd ranted to Alex, had lost all significance. "I…I'm sorry," he murmured, and she bit the lining of her lower lip, distracting herself with the pain, anchoring herself. Faced with her silence, he continued stiltedly. "I don't know why I…uh…" she saw his throat bob in her peripheral vision, wondered if he was craving a drink right now, "I don't know why I need it so badly…why I…" He trailed off, folded his hands, finished lamely with another "I…I'm sorry."

She let his words fade, allowed the silence to settle, and opened her mouth to deliver a pat acknowledgement, absolve him the same as always—"It's okay, dad"—but when she opened her mouth, honesty came spilling out instead, clipped and bright and livid.

"Don't tell me you're sorry. Don't you dare say you're sorry when we both know you're going to turn right around and have another drink as soon as you're out of my sight. Before your stitches are even out. You're not sorry, dad, because you're still drinking. You say you're done, but you're not. Sobriety is a hobby for you, dependent on your mood, your memories, the upcoming holiday. Well, I'm sorry you're hurting—honestly, I am—but I'm hurting too. I'm aching, and I am alone. And all you can say is I'm sorry. Your actions are so deafening I can't hear your apologies—voluntarily destroying yourself, abandoning me emotionally, forcing me to pick up your pieces when I'm just as broken, and…and you're sorry? You're not sorry. Fuck your sorry."

From his speechlessness, she knew she'd shocked the hell out of him. Quite frankly, she'd shocked herself. Because this, this is what she worked so hard to hide from him—her naked pain—in an effort to shield his fragile emotions, to keep from adding to his burdens. This is why she was so damn closed off. Well, she was done. She was too angry, too worn out to continue pandering to his needs. And if she sounded jaded, if she sounded resentful, it's because she was.

"Stop saying you're sorry and do something about your problems, dad. I can't be your crutch anymore, because it's kind of killing me," She finished brokenly, focusing hard on the wall in front of her to keep the tears at bay. He didn't speak, didn't respond, so she took her cue from his silence and started gathering her things, feeling his eyes on her as she stuffed a book, a sweater, striped socks into her duffel. "I called a cab for you," she informed him over her shoulder, "should be here any minute. I'm going to walk back to my place, clear my head, but I'll talk to you later." Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she finally turned to face him. He met her gaze levelly, pale but steady. "Thank you," he replied softly, and dropped his eyes, intently studying his interlaced fingers as she wondered where they went from here. How did you move on from something like this? Could you?

Her walk didn't provide any substantive insights, but she did treat herself to a latte on the way back home, sipping slowly at the frothy beverage, trying not to fixate on her dad and their rapidly fragmenting relationship. By the time she reached her apartment, she was all but vibrating from the caffeine and sticky from her walk, eager to be home, to shower off, to get back to the precinct. She had only just closed her front door, was in the process of toeing off her shoes, when someone buzzed her apartment. Really? She didn't have time for this. Whoever it was would have to come back another day, she decided, but they were persistent. Obnoxiously persistent, she grimaced. Honestly? Peevishly, she stalked over to the two-way and answered with a churlish "Beckett."

"Finally. Lady, let me up. I've got a delivery from a…a freaking Renoir." She actually laughed at that, a real one with teeth and a smile and everything, and then she buzzed him in.

Alex, what are you playing at?

She swung the door open, trying to tamp down her enthusiasm and failing miserably. A swarthy, surly teenager stood balancing a massive floral arrangement in one arm and a brown paper bag in the other, regarding her blandly from beneath a flat brim cap as she accepted the items. "This is my second day here, sixth time total," he groused, stuffing his hands into capacious pockets. She narrowed her eyes at him, "Your second day?"

"Yeah," the kid shrugged, "Renoir's instructions were to keep coming back until you showed. Said your schedule was 'unpredictable' and to be 'persistent in my attempts'. As long as it takes, he said. So, two days I've been hauling this big-ass bouquet across town, three times a day. Paid really well, though, so guess I shouldn't complain," he added hastily at her scowl. Exchange made, he beat a quick, wordless retreat, and she kicked the door shut before setting the bouquet and bag on her desk. In what she assumed was an attempt to mimic Renoir's vivid, blowsy, impressionism, the arrangement was bursting with disheveled peonies, frangible roses, and muted camellias. The effect was stunning, and she let her fingers run over the velvety petals, savoring the coolness against her skin. Trying to reign in her growing smile and the fluttering in her stomach, she busied herself with moving the vase into the kitchen, but—as long as it takes, Alex?—and she was helpless to the warmth that spread through her body, all the way down to her fingertips and toes.

Digging into the paper bag, she found a bar of expensive Swiss chocolate and another letter, both of which she promptly opened. Elbows braced on her countertop, she popped a square of chocolate into her mouth and eagerly began to read.

Dear Kate,

Words don't seem an adequate vehicle for my feelings on this matter—sometimes words can't touch our pain—but I will say that I know you to be strong and insightful, and I venture to guess resilient as well. As you're walking through this season with your father, I hope you cling to those truths when you lack the desire, the will to persevere. And I hope you continue reaching out, to me and to others. Burdens this heavy should never be carried alone. That's the purpose of friendship and community—sharing griefs, bearing up when others cannot. And despite what you may feel, I don't believe honesty in this is a selfishness. Quite the opposite. Choosing to reveal your brokenness to others, it's a gift, especially from you. You hold your pain close like a secret, and the select few with whom you are open with those confidences…well, you should know I consider it a privilege. To know you. To catch even a glimpse of your resolve and forbearance.

Like you, I'll keep this brief. With how chaotic your life is at the moment, perhaps simplicity is best. But I'll leave you with a resource, something I hope you'll draw on in the near future. Remember, you're not alone.

All the best,

Alex

Kate swallowed quickly, the cocoa acrid in her throat, her pulse speeding up. Because under the loose scrawl of his name, there was a phone number followed by a tempting charge—"Call me."

A/N:

This chapter is an angsty little thing, darker than the previous three, and staggeringly long (sorry about that). But Kate, as a character is darker, more broken, and hopefully it reads naturally. I'll bring back the fluff, I promise, but this content was crucial for character development and for building plot. Bear with me, for favor!

Also, I want to thank you for the continued reviews, favorites, and follows—I love people weighing in and providing feedback! Please feed the muse! :)

Up next...Martha discovers the letters and Rick anxiously awaits Kate's response.