She waited until he was back inside the beach house before turning on him.
"What the hell was that all about?" Kate demanded.
Rick went straight for the kitchen, filling a tea towel with ice from the freezer. "I wanted a drink."
The anger bubbled over at his flippant reply. "Castle, if you want my help … damn it, if you want to come back to the Department at all, you tell me the truth."
He stared at her, seeing nothing but honesty in her eyes. "Okay. You want the truth? I was angry."
"Angry? At what?"
He stormed into the living room, knowing she would follow, and pointed at the wall. "That. I should be able to see it, at least feel the edges, and I can't. All I have are threads, and every time I pull on one it unravels."
"So you … what, thought solving some other crime would help?"
"It's …" How could he explain? That it was his past, the first thing he'd ever bought himself that cost more than a hundred dollars? Or maybe he should admit it was his link with another time, his reminder that it could all be taken away from him. Or he could be honest. Instead he went with, "It's my watch, Kate." That, at least, was the truth.
"It means that much to you."
"More."
She glanced down at the man's watch on her own wrist, her father's, remembering when she'd told him about it, when he'd had it fixed after the bomb blast. "Okay. I get that. But you could have been seriously hurt."
"You don't call this serious?" He motioned towards his face.
"No. I call that a scratch compared to what might have happened."
"Then it's lucky Mother's gone back to the city."
"She has?" He was trying to distract her, she knew, and for just a moment allowed it. "When?"
"We took her to the station on the way to the bar," Rick explained, heading back for the kitchen and the improvised ice pack. Leaning on the counter he placed it against his cheek, feeling it taking down the heat with painful certainty.
"It's not your fault," Kate said, leaning on the door jamb. "I told you that. You didn't kill Althea."
He glared at her, something he so rarely did it made her breath catch. "Then how come it feels like that? That, if I can't figure out who did it, I might as well have?"
Now the irritation was growing, and there was too much of it for her not to scratch. "You really want to wallow? Fine. I'll call Buckman – I'm sure he'd be pleased to throw you in the cells for a while. And I'll go back to the city and leave you there."
"That's what you want, is it?"
"What I want is for you to stop this."
"Stop what?" His blue eyes bored into her, biting through her skull to turn her brain to jelly. "Worrying about a case? This from Kate Beckett, who's been known to chase the bad guys for years?" The instant the words were out of his mouth his lips slammed shut, but it was too late.
"If you're talking about my mother, don't." Her voice had lowered, promising retribution if he didn't comply.
"Or what?" He stepped into her personal space. "What, Kate?"
He had to get angry sometimes. No man could go through life on a perfectly even keel, so she knew he had to feel the raw and aching pain occasionally. But she knew he kept it hidden, inside, probably letting all that bile and corruption out on the page rather than throw things in real life. On the outside he made light of things, skirted around issues, pushed them away until they decayed to nothing of their own accord. Only now he couldn't. Or maybe he'd had enough and he wasn't going to take any more.
Her own anger drained away like a stopcock had been opened, and she'd run dry. Maybe he was concussed from the fight, or perhaps this had been coming on for a long time, but she understood. "Come on," she said, taking his arm and wrapping her hand around it.
"Where?"
"Just to sit down. Come on."
He allowed himself to be led, albeit ungracefully, back into the living area, and pushed gently into the lounger. In those few steps, though, his attitude changed. "Sorry, Kate."
"What for?"
"Being me."
"Castle, I'm not sure all the apologies in the world are going to make up for that."
He laughed, then looked surprised, as if it had been forced out of him. "You know, I think you're right."
"Anyway, it's okay to get angry. Just don't do it at yourself. Do it at the bastard that killed her."
Shaking his head, he dropped it back onto the leather. "But I don't know who that was." He stared at the ceiling. "This case has got to me. I don't want to leave it half done."
"Did you think I was going to make you?"
"I don't know. Maybe." He looked at her. "I'm not a cop, Kate. And no matter how much I want to, I can't do this by myself." He realised water was dripping from the towel, and quickly rearranged it before pressing it to his face again, wincing slightly.
"You don't have to," she said softly, perching on the arm of the other chair. "I'm here."
"Yeah." He smiled slightly. "Thanks."
"You're welcome." Standing up she went to the French windows, opening them and letting the salt-tinted air inside. "I still think Buckman was right, though."
"What about?"
"You should be in a hospital."
"I hate those places."
"Me too, but if you've got concussion –"
"I don't." He grinned, more like the Richard Castle she knew than before. "Believe me, I have plenty of experience of concussion, and right now all I have is a headache. Admittedly, it feels like Mother's old chorus line doing a tap dance in miner's boots across my forehead, but that'll go."
"Castle –"
"No, Kate. No hospital. But I wouldn't mind some tea."
She narrowed her eyes at him, but went into the kitchen anyway.
"That's better," Rick said, putting his empty mug down. "You make a good cup."
"My mother taught me. She always said if a woman can make decent tea, then a man would overlook any other idiosyncrasies."
"And did your father?"
"Always."
"You'll have to introduce us one day."
"You think there's going to be a one day?"
His blue gaze lasered into her again. "Are you saying there won't be?"
"I … I don't know." She suddenly felt flustered and stood up, gathering the tea things together. Then something made her say, "You left, Castle. Walked out with Gina."
"I said I'd be back."
"I'm not sure I believed you." Or that you could do that to me. With her. Words thought but not spoken.
"I didn't think you'd miss me. You had Demming."
"So you needed someone as well?"
"Maybe I didn't want to be alone."
His words brought her up short. Was that honestly it? Not some kind of cruel tit for tat, but just so he didn't have to be on his own? "You didn't have to leave the city at all." Not what she wanted to say, but safer.
"I did. It's traditional. Just because Alexis had other things to do, and Mother was off playing the ingénue …" He stopped, licked his lips. "I thought it would be okay."
"But with her?"
Rick couldn't help it – he laughed. "Oh, Kate, you have no idea how much I've wondered why myself. My little black book is overflowing with women wanting to be with me, so … maybe it was the devil you know."
"You could have stayed. Worked. Helped."
"And felt like a fifth wheel?" He shook his head. "Not my style."
Martha had nailed it, Kate realised. He thought he was being the big man, stepping to one side, when in reality all she wanted him to do was – what, exactly? Take her in his arms and tell her he loved her? Unlikely. Throw his coat over the nearest puddle and declare undying loyalty? Closer. Roll over on his back so she could rub his belly and make his leg twitch? Absolutely. She tried to squash the smirk that threatened. "So you came out here and worked on Naked Heat instead."
"Finished Naked Heat."
"Really?"
"Well, mostly," he admitted. "Needs tidying up, of course."
"Only there's an awful lot of notes on it lying around. I wondered if you were blocked." She was changing the subject, and happy to do so.
"Not blocked. Never blocked." He waved his hand. "Just … trying different things."
"Right."
"Honestly."
"I believe you."
He smiled at her, then moved his jaw around gingerly as the cuts and bruises made themselves known. "There goes my ruggedly handsome looks for a few days," he sighed.
"Only a few days?" she quipped.
"Cruel." He waved a finger at her. "Very, very cruel." He laid his head back again. "So, your visit to the Maidstone Club … what did you find out? Is Eric a murderer?"
"I don't think we asked."
"Gut reaction."
"I don't know." She worried her bottom lip for a second with her top teeth. "There's something he's not telling us, but at the moment …"
"Tell me what happened."
"You sure?"
"I like your voice. It's … soothing."
Soothing? She shook her head. "You're worse than you thought." But with a slight smile, she began to go over the details as they knew them, from Eric Mackintosh insisting he didn't know Althea Banks from Adam – or, more correctly, Eve – to Faraday's revelation of possible erotic asphyxia, and the dress turning out to be genuine.
The she waited. And waited some more. "Well?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
"Castle."
Again nothing.
"Castle."
The only answer was a gull outside defending its territory.
"Rick."
"Yes, Mother?" He lifted his head and blinked a few times.
"I'm not your mother," she pointed out.
"Good thing too," he said, rubbing his neck. "Considering some of the dreams I've had in the past."
She ignored the comment and said instead, "Stand up." She got to her feet.
"Why?"
"You're going to bed."
"With you?"
"Alone."
"I'm not tired."
"Did you actually hear the last few things I said to you?"
He thought about it. "Not sure. Were you offering to give me a fully body massage?"
"No."
"Then I must have been dreaming."
"Must have." She pulled him to his feet. "Come on. You need to rest."
"Ow." He pressed his hand gingerly to his side. "Don't worry," he said quickly at her look. "They're not broken. Just bruised. Like my ego." He shook his head. "I should have been able to take him."
"From what Buckman said, he had a couple of inches and twenty pounds on you."
"And a pool cue. Don't forget the pool cue."
"As if I could."
He'd made her stop as they reached his bedroom door, proclaiming that he'd been getting himself ready for bed for some time, so she should go and enjoy the rest of the day.
"I think there's a costume or two somewhere," he added. "Unless you want to skinny dip."
"I'm fine."
"Kate, you're at the beach. Do something spontaneous. Enjoy yourself." He'd dipped his head at that and planted a soft kiss on her cheek before disappearing into his room and closing the door.
She stood in shock for a moment, then wandered slowly back downstairs. Then up again to change into the bikini Lanie had forced her to bring. Might as well, she told herself. Be a waste otherwise.
The water was cold, making her almost regret her decision, but as it reached her thighs she jumped up and dived neatly under, swimming strongly and coming up some distance from shore. Looking back at the house, it struck her once again just how much Castle had to have in his bank accounts, to be able to afford a place like that. And he considered he was poor next to people like Eric Mackintosh.
No. Not now. This wasn't the time or place to be thinking about work, or murders, or anything like that. Rolling onto her back she stared into the blue sky, just the tiniest of white clouds dipping their toes in the huge expanse. No. Too nice a day to let her mind run on death.
Turning back she began a strong, economical front crawl, counting to fifty before turning back the other way. Again, then again, until she could feel her muscles starting to complain and she stopped, treading water. Looking shorewards again, she was surprised to find she was a lot further along from the house than she'd expected, and she began to breaststroke back.
Glancing at the unfamiliar bungalow opposite, she realised she wasn't making any headway, and her stomach flipped a little. She pulled harder, but it seemed she was moving backwards, away from Castle's home.
Panic tried to edge into her mind, but she pushed it ruthlessly away. Maybe she was caught in a rip current, something that was going to disappear as quickly as it had arrived. Even if it didn't, she had plenty of opportunity to pull for the shore. There was no reason she was going to get washed out into the ocean.
Like Carly.
The little voice in the back of her mind was making it hard to think.
Stop. Calm down. Deep breaths. She trod water for a moment, but it was obvious she was still being swept along. Okay. Fine. Then there was nothing for it.
Putting her face back in the water, she began the front crawl again, this time pulling much more powerfully, tilting her head to take a breath, kicking hard as she angled towards the shore. Her muscles began to burn, and reminded her that she hadn't been swimming in a long while, at least not in the ocean, just as other memories crowded in. Her father had taught her that year they'd come to a place very like this. She could still remember his hands under her chin, holding her head out of the water, encouraging her as she doggy paddled forwards …
If she hadn't been holding her breath she would have laughed. Her life really was flashing before her eyes.
Suddenly her foot touched something rough, something that moved under her toes. She lifted her head. Sand. Sand underfoot and in front of her. She was barely a dozen feet from the water's edge.
She tried to stand, but for a moment her legs wouldn't hold her, and she sat back down with a splash. She could feel grains getting inside her bikini bottoms as it shifted beneath her, and she rolled onto her hands and knees, ignoring the scraping against her skin. She pushed herself upright, and walked out of the sea.
She leaned forward, her palms on her thighs, trying to get her breath back. Close. Too damn close. Finally feeling enough strength leaching into her to stand upright, she looked around. And this time she did laugh. There, almost within touching distance, was Castle's beach house. She'd actually overshot it by a hundred yards or so.
Feeling the sand scrunching under her soles, the sun burning down on her exposed skin, she walked slowly to where she'd left her towel. She shook her head, water droplets flying from the ends of her hair, and she pushed it back away from her face. Picking up the towel she wrapped it around herself and hurried up to the house, dropping into the lounger Martha had left out, waiting for her heartbeat to slow to something resembling normal.
Then it spiked again as her cellphone rang.
It was hard getting to her feet, and her legs felt like rubber as she walked into the blessed coolness of the house, but by the time she'd found her phone and pressed answer she was at least in better control of herself.
"Beckett."
"Boss." It was Esposito. "How did it go at the morgue?"
Of course, they'd be wanting to know whether the information Fabrigazi had given them was enough to tell if the dress was real or not. "It's the original," she said, wiping at her shoulders with the end of the towel.
"So it got from Carly to Althea."
"Yes."
"Beckett, you okay? Only you sound … shaky."
Damn. "I'm fine. A touch of heat, perhaps."
"Yeah, that'll do it to you. Need to take more water with it."
"I haven't been drinking." Although that sounded like a fine idea.
"I believe you."
She could tell he was smiling, and was about to say something snarky when her eyes were caught by Castle's makeshift murder wall. And the photo of a young, dead woman.
"Esposito, I need you to look into Althea Banks. We've been so caught up in a thirty year old murder we've forgotten how this started in the first place."
"We can look into her background," he assured her. "How far do you want us to take it?"
"As far as you can. Siblings, parents, grandparents … her resemblance to Carly, and now the dress … there's way too many coincidences piling up for my peace of mind."
"You got it." Esposito paused, then went on, "You think this is why he became a writer?"
"What? Carly?"
"Yeah. Eight years old with a murder mystery right on his doorstep … could be."
"I'm not going to ask."
Esposito chuckled. "I wonder what he was like as a kid."
"Pretty much the same as he is now," she said. "Just get back to me when you've got something."
"Will do."
She hung up and took a deep breath. Just that brief conversation had given her body time to get back to normal, and she felt strong again. Better, too, now that she knew they were back on track, and not being distracted by coincidences.
She rubbed absently at her cheek, then stopped. He'd kissed her. Just a peck, and it wasn't as if it was the first time, but he'd kissed her. She could still feel his lips on her skin …
"Shit," she muttered. "Stop it, Kate. This isn't the time or place to be acting like a schoolgirl with a crush."
Better to do something, anything, rather than think about his closeness, the cologne he wore, that god-awful shirt she was going to burn if it was the last thing she ever did. Her eyes ranged around the room. Ah. The laptop. Its little light suggested it was merely asleep, and as she idly pressed the power button it bloomed into life.
She glanced up towards the bedroom, then picked up the computer and settled into the lounger, feeling the leather stick to her still damp skin.
It was open onto the default desktop, but there, large as life, was a shortcut icon saying Naked Heat. With one last glance to the heavens, she double clicked it open and began to read.