She watches him leave a note for Alexis, the blocky script almost shaky in his haste. Or dread.

Or arousal. She sees that too. She's not stupid.

It might be a little bit her fault. She does like to tease him. Well, of course it's her fault. The idea of another murder isn't what's got him flustered.

Kate hides a smile and wipes a hand across her mouth, sets her face.

Donna Gallagher is dead. She should have thought of it earlier. Damn, she was distracted by Castle and now someone is dead. God, that's a terrible thought. That's a self-destructive thought, as her psychologist might have said. If she were stupid, she might unwittingly assume Castle is the cause, thus aligning him with things she should avoid rather than things that actually help her.

Donna Gallagher was killed by Jerry Tyson, not by her interest in Castle, not Castle himself. It's not Castle's fault. She hates that she feels the need to remind herself of that. And she's suddenly really grateful for Dr. Connors, who insisted she get that lesson drilled into her head every session. Your mother's death is not your fault.

"Ready," he says and reaches out as if he's going to hold her hand.

Getting distracted by Castle might not be the reason Donna's dead, but it doesn't mean she's going to hold his freaking hand on the way to a murder scene. "Are you kidding me?" she says and stalks ahead of him to the door and into the hall. She doesn't wait for him to lock it before she's heading towards the elevator and pushing the call button.

He makes a stand beside her after a moment of juggling his keys and phone, and then he snags her hand, tightly, and squeezes it. "Not kidding you."

Kate arches an eyebrow and looks at him, but his courage must only go so far: he doesn't meet her eyes; he steadfastly studies the approaching elevator as it lights up the floor numbers. She huffs out a breath but doesn't pry his fingers off.

In the car, he's quiet. She's grateful for the silence. Grateful, too, that he doesn't keep her hand, that he knows enough to let her remake her professional exterior before they confront another murder. He knows her. And she knows him.

Having him silent in the passenger seat makes her both stronger and weaker. She's not sure how she feels about that. Only that she needs it. The strength. And the weakness.

But does it make her a better detective or a better woman?


Rick hears their footsteps on the wooden floor. Her converse sneakers are mostly silent, but his Fly London leather sneakers, even though rubber-soled and quite beautiful (if he does say so himself: he thinks of them as his Firefly shoes), his high-tops screech down the hall. (Hey, he can wear high-tops to a crime scene with his jeans if Kate can wear converse Chucks. Right? Now he's worried about crime scene etiquette. Is there crime scene etiquette? Someone should write a book.)

They travel past the officer guarding the door to Donna Gallagher's apartment. Past the crime tech guy squatting over some tag labeling dust on the chair rail in the foyer. Past the officer in the hallway to the living room.

In the living room. He feels a little punchy maybe because it's her. It's Donna. Someone he actually spoke to and helped keep safe. And now. . .

On the floor, Donna Gallagher is laid out as if for her funeral, hands pressed to her abdomen, eyes closed, strangulation marks on her neck. Castle remembers her from eight months ago, rubbing at her neck where Gates tried to do this very thing to her. Like foreshadowing. But this is no scene in his novel. He squeezes his hands into fists and tries not to look at her too closely.

Lanie stands up, brushes a curl out of her eyes and frowns at them. "I haven't even gotten a chance to start the Haskins autopsy."

"Hi to you too, Lanie," Kate says.

Castle turns as Esposito walks up with his notebook out. "Ryan's canvassing the neighbors already."

"You talk to the uniform who found her?" Kate asks, glancing back to Gallagher. Her eyes trace the scene; Castle watches her take it all in, absorb it. He wonders where it goes when the case is over. Does she have a safe place to wring out all the terrible things she's seen?

That's a Nikki Heat kind of question. He's not sure Kate would even know what he meant if he asked her that.

Esposito gives a look to Lanie, but addresses Beckett. "Yeah, Mike Collins. You want my notes, or you want to talk to him yourself?"

Kate clenches her jaw. "I'll talk to him. I'm the one who sent him over here."

"He's out here. I'll get him." Esposito heads further into the apartment, towards what looks like the kitchen.

Kate is already studying the body again. "Lanie?"

"It's the same, as far as my preliminary investigation goes. Found fibers in the marks on her neck. She's got some skin fragments under her nails, so I'm going to bag her hands, soon as you release the body."

"Your guys photo this?"

"Yup. Just waiting on you."

Castle watches Kate squat down next to Donna's body; she raises a hand and Lanie slaps gloves into her palm. Castle shakes his head when Lanie offers him a pair, instead shoves his hands into his pockets. He doesn't want to touch. Not this one.

Kate pulls on the brilliant blue gloves, reaches down to brush a strand of hair from Donna's neck. Castle watches Kate because he can't look at Donna that long without wanting to destroy something, hit something, make something break. His fists are in his jean pockets but it makes the material strain against his thighs. He feels like Hulk, right before he bursts out of his clothes. It's not a good feeling.

He steps away, turns his back on the scene. Esposito is bringing Mike back from the kitchen. Mike Collins. Good name, good upstanding officer, looks a little pale but not sick, not pissed either, like Castle. Professional.

Kate stands up, peels the gloves off, gives them back to Lanie.

"Mike."

"Detective Beckett," he says, shakes her hand with a nod. Castle is surprised when Mike nods to him as well, including him in the brotherhood. "Mr. Castle."

"It's Rick," he says automatically, shakes the man's hand. Something in his chest eases even while the officer's hand squeezes a little tighter.

"Mike, tell me what you found when you got here," Kate interrupts, pulling the officer's attention back to herself.

"Door looked closed, but it wasn't. When I knocked, it popped open. I pulled my weapon and came in using the Weaver stance, cleared the rooms starting in here first, and then along the hall. She was lying in the living room, just like this, two cups of water on the kitchen counter. But no one else was here."

"Anything feel off or strange when you entered?"

"It felt wrong, yeah." Collins shifts on his feet, which says to Castle that he's not comfortable admitting this. "From the moment I tapped on the door, it felt wrong; before that even. Honestly, when you called, I expected to find her and just sit on her place. Not. . .this."

Kate glances around the room, sizing it up. "You think anyone got past you?"

Collins straightens up. "No, ma'am. No, ma'am. I had the door in view for most of my sweep, did not leave the hallway when I checked the rooms."

"Look in closets?"

"No ma'am. I held my weapon at the ready until backup arrived."

"Check the closets with backup?"

"Yes ma'am, we did do the full search when backup arrived."

"I'm not grilling you, Mike. Just curious. Who was your backup?"

"Kruk, that's David Krukow, and D'angelo Finney. We cleared the scene together."

"Good job, Mike. Thanks. You talked to Esposito?"

The two men acknowledged each other and Mike gave her a nod. "Yes, ma'am."

"Be available for follow-up, but that's all for now."

Castle watches Collins leave the room and then turns his eyes back to Kate. She's touring the living room, looking in drawers, poking behind things. Castle follows along behind her, tries to figure out what she's looking for. He's never been good at thinking like a police detective, but he has been helpful thinking like a writer.

He wanders away from her, his hands still in his pockets. She's touching things without gloves, but the detectives often do that. They'll do a grid for the crime scene and take fingerprints of everyone on the team who responded to the call, and then leave it to the tech guys to sort out the mess. He always thought that it was a clean scene every time, but it seems like that's another television myth. Still, if he were to write about a detective putting her fingers all over the scene, getting her prints everywhere, no one would believe him. His editor would circle it in red.

Kate gets to poke, prod, open things up. He does too, because his fingerprints are on file, and they all know him here, but he still keeps his hands in his pockets. He's not sure why. He usually pokes his nose into everything. He's like that. But somehow, knowing that Donna Gallagher was targeted by Tyson and that now she's dead. . .

It puts a damper on things. No doubt. It pisses him off too. If he didn't have his hands in his pockets, he might break something. It's almost like he feels responsible for Donna's safety and well-being all because he was the one to think of her.

"Castle."

"Here," he says and follows the sound of her voice into the kitchen.

"What do you think about this?" She gestures to the counter, her bottom lip in her teeth.

"Forgot to clean up after herself. Or Jerry was enjoying a friendly visit before he strangled her."

She nods, slowly, but her face is still creased with worry. Worry.

"Why?" He can't fathom why she's so. . .freaked out by this. "Kate. What's going on?"

She shakes her head, purses her mouth, glances around the kitchen. "She let him in. Gave him a glass of water. Why would she do that?"

Castle blinks. How has he missed this? Donna Gallagher knew Jerry Tyson, knew him for the man he is. The police tried to get her a protective detail eight months ago, but she refused it. She knew Tyson targeted her back then; she would never have let him inside.

"The partner," Castle supplies, rubs a hand down his face, feeling weary all of the sudden. "He's admitted to working with a partner before. He's got a partner now."

"A partner who convinced her to let him in, get her some water. How, Castle? How is that possible? This was a woman who let in Marcus Gates and was nearly strangled to death. Eight months isn't long enough to start trusting people again, eight months is not long enough to start letting strange men in your apartment. It doesn't make sense."

"I don't know. I don't have any answers for you," he admits, staring down at the blue countertop, the two glasses, both with a finger's width of water in the bottom. "The partner was here awhile. Say she filled the glasses even half full. He was here long enough for both of them to drink it down."

"Did you see Collins's face when he talked about being first on scene? He made a point to mention the two cups, made a point to mention to me that no one else was here." She talks slowly, leaning a hip against the counter and meeting his eyes. "He was spooked when he came in. I've known Mike for years now, and I've never seen him look like that."

"He found a dead woman."

"He's been on scene with me before."

"Yeah, but he found her, Kate. That's got to make a difference."

"I thought for sure he was going to tell me that he thought someone was here when he got here. That's what his whole set up sounded like, mentioning the two cups, mentioning that no one was here."

Castle straightens up, glances over his shoulder as if someone might appear around the corner. "Are you serious?"

"You don't feel it?"

He shrugs. "No. I don't. But I also wasn't making the connection about the two cups, the unlocked door."

"Remember Kim Foster? Inside her apartment, you figured out that the throw pillows-"

"Yeah, I remember. The whole couch was off, her being an interior decorator."

"It feels off in here to me. Can you look around? See if anything. . .strikes you as wrong?"

It scares the crap out of him that Kate is asking him for help. His heart is pounding. "Yeah. I'll look. I'll try."

Suddenly, he remembers the way Kate looked in the interrogation room with Marcus Gates. Gates himself might not have been able to see it, but Castle had: worry. Kate was worried, even nervous as she first interrogated Gates. The man himself was cool and thought himself so clever, making snarky comments about Kate. It was the first time Castle had seen her nervous, and at the time, he assumed it was because she needed to put Gates at the scene and would lose him if he lawyered up.

Now, he's not so sure. She's got that same worried look on her face. Like this might be too much for her. Like this one might be over her head.

"Thanks, Castle."

But she's still staring down at those two cups, staring and chewing on her bottom lip.