Chapter 1

He'd gone.

The elevator doors closed behind his smug smile and that blonde bitch. Ex-wife number two trying to be current wife number 2.2. See you in the fall. Not if Gina had anything to do with it, Beckett thought.

She wiped her face completely blank of her utter shock, ignored her heart as it fractured in her chest and turned to the interested audience as if her world hadn't just turned to dust and ashes around her.

"Let's get to work," she said, and ignored the pitying looks and sharp intakes of breath. "We've got a job to do." Not a hint of her pain showed.

She returned to her desk, and pulled a file towards her.

"Girl," Lanie said, "is that all you gonna say about it?"

"What's to say?" Beckett flipped back. Lanie opened her mouth. "Where's my autopsy?" Beckett continued. Lanie shut up, but her thoughts were written on her face. "How about you go ram a poker up Perlmutter's ass to join the stick there and speed him up?"

Lanie left. She was texting Esposito before the elevator doors had shut.

Beckett flipped through her file and looked up. "Okay," she began. "Here's where we're going to start…" The boys, not being suicidal, bit their tongues, though the glances they exchanged started at what the actual fuck and went sharply downhill from there. Beckett continued to lay out the full strategy for the murder in front of her, and without pausing for more than half a breath moved on to the next file, and then the next. Finally she looked up. "So that's what we'll do. Okay?" Her face was calm, her voice serene. Her eyes…were looking into hell.

At the end of the day, Beckett left for home, just as usual. She'd noticed Montgomery watching, but she had too much pride to stay on and invite him to order her to leave. If Castle didn't want her, then…she sure wasn't going to admit to anyone at all, ever, that she had ever wanted him or that she was in any way upset that he'd gone off with Gina.

At home, she made herself a double strength espresso, downed the scalding liquid in one, and followed it up with a second, which she sipped. Then she changed to running gear, put her gun and shield in full view on her hip, and went out, leaving her phone and wallet, quite deliberately, behind. She had no desire whatsoever to speak to Lanie, who would want to talk. Beckett didn't do talking at the best of times, and this was emphatically not the best of times.

Running would stop her from crying.

And it wasn't as if there had been anything there anyway, so there was absolutely no reason to be upset. None at all. She had her job and her team and Lanie, and that would do just fine. Just. Fine.

Five miles later, she circled back to the precinct, slipped in through the back door, and settled down to work, just as she had intended to do right from the moment she'd left.

Working would stop her from crying, too.

Several hours later, she went home, exhausted enough to sleep for the four hours that would bring her to rising again. She hadn't been hungry: misery balling in her stomach, filling her gut and blocking her throat, so she hadn't eaten; drank a glass of water and slept.

Her dreams were all of Castle, walking away. Sometimes alone, sometimes with Gina, sometimes with Ellie Monroe. In every one, he left her. She rammed down her misery, and focused on the day ahead. In doing her job, she could reinforce her emotional shell. Work was her refuge.

She never thought that work was also her prison, locking her away from feelings and relationships. If she had, she'd have dismissed it as irrelevant, and then reminded herself that work was far more rewarding, far more reliable. (Certainly more reliable than Castle, a voice might have said. If it had, she wouldn't have listened.)

By the time the boys got in, Beckett had worked up a strategy for a further four cold cases, which she explained in mind-numbing detail over almost half an hour. By the time she was done, neither Espo nor Ryan dared to raise the subject of the previous day.

So the day passed. No new cases arrived, and at shift end they all left, without a word. Beckett repeated her previous evening's run and visit to the precinct, forced herself to eat half a slice of pizza and put the rest in the trash, tried not to throw it straight back up again, and succeeded. Just. And then she kept right on working till her eyes closed themselves.

By the end of the week, nothing had changed. Beckett was drawn and gaunt, but on the sole occasion Ryan had, tactlessly, drawn attention to her pale face and shadowed eyes, she'd rent him limb from limb.

She hadn't heard from Castle. She hadn't expected to, she told herself.

She had expected to. Even just a silly little text or photo. But no. Nothing. The ruins of her world sank a little further, and her mood darkened. She was off shift for the weekend, and suddenly she decided to take her Harley and get out of Dodge. She'd go up to the cabin, and have a silent weekend, no phone, no laptop. The thought was instant father to the deed. She loaded her pack, and was gone thirty minutes later.

She reached the cabin before full dark, and took a breath, easing with the fresher air. Suddenly, she was hungry, but there were always cleaned, ready to cook trout in the freezer, frozen vegetables and potato wedges beside them. She made herself a good meal, and then read until she was ready, finally, to sleep.

Ready, finally, to cry.

Castle drove up to the Hamptons, determinedly happy. Gina had been complimentary about his progress, the plot and writing on Nikki Two; the weather was fine; and he would have a lovely summer away from the heat, stress and unpleasantness of Manhattan.

If only there hadn't been a nagging little thorn that Beckett had preferred that dumbass Demming's invitation to his offer. Well, he'd do just fine without her. He remembered all the good times he'd had with Gina, and this was starting off well.

He carefully forgot that the first time had started off well, too, and drove on, humming along with the stereo, and absolutely not thinking about Kate Beckett at all.

Beckett came back from her weekend away to six missed calls from Lanie, two from the boys, and absolutely nothing at all from Castle. Any tiny vestiges of improved mood drained away instantly. He'd probably spent the weekend in bed.

Okay, she told herself, it's all over. Whatever it might have been, it isn't. Wasn't. And won't be. So get your ass in gear and get to work. That's what you've got.

Just like she'd always had.

Fortunately, so Beckett thought, there was a sudden rash of murders, and she threw herself into solving them.

It started small. The suspect ran, and she chased him and took him down, landing hard on the unlucky man. She knocked the breath out of herself, but the satisfaction of the arrest overwhelmed the slight pain, and later a hot bath with scented lotions cured the aches. She didn't think anything more of it, except that doing her job had very satisfactorily stopped her thinking about Castle all day.

Unfortunately, the effect didn't last. By the next morning, she was just as miserable and unhappy as she had been, wishing that Castle was there, wishing that, hurt from his night with Ellie Monroe, she hadn't taken up Tom Demming's offer of a date. She should have known that rebound relationships were never a good plan, and now she was hurt, Demming was hurt, and Castle was gone without a backwards glance.

For the rest of the week, she worked, went home at shift end, and then went running, ending up back in the precinct when nobody – that was, Captain Montgomery – would spot her. She ate, or at least bought her lunch and made her dinner, but all too often most of it went uneaten: her appetite missing. On the odd occasions that she was hungry, she ate. Mostly, she increased her coffee consumption and kept on rolling. The solve rate kept on rising, too; hot and cold cases alike. Montgomery rubbed his hands with glee; Espo and Ryan didn't dare to comment; Lanie was herself too busy to notice as the Manhattan murder rate rose with the summer temperatures and the ME's office became frantic.

Come the weekend, Beckett, off shift again, went back to the cabin on her Harley. The weather was filthy, and the journey conducted in driving rain. Safely there, the concentration and adrenaline rush of success left her hungrier than in a week and not thinking about Castle at all until after she'd eaten, when she tried, and failed, to force back her tears.

She thought about texting him, and even picked up her phone…but then she thought that if he was getting back together with Gina, obviously he wanted that, and her texting would most likely cause a fight. Gina and Paula weren't precisely keen on him spending all the hours there were in the precinct, and she wasn't going to screw up his love life by pushing into his non-research time.

She put the phone down again, and wished she'd left it at home.

She wished that she'd left it at home even more when it rang. Her heart bounded – and then she saw that it was Lanie.

"Hey," she said, biting back disappointment.

"Girl, I thought we could go out for drinks."

"Uh, I'm not in Manhattan."

"Where are you? Don't tell me you went off with that Demming guy. Or" – Lanie's voice rose excitedly – "are you in the Hamptons with Writer-Boy? He saw sense at last and ditched the blonde?"

"No. I'm at Dad's cabin."

"Oh," Lanie drooped. "Why?"

Beckett pulled on some game. She might be heartbroken but she didn't have to let it show. "I'm practising meditation, yoga and inner peace – with good food and wine." She didn't have any alcohol with her, but Lanie didn't need to know that either.

"Bo-oring," Lanie jeered.

"Just because you're as flexible as a steel bar," Beckett jeered right back.

"I don't need to be flexible to have fun."

"Just chocolate sauce and whipped cream," Beckett said conversationally.

"But no caramel. Too sticky."

"Anyway, I'm out of town. Flexing. So you'll need to have drinks with someone else. How about you call Espo and shake your booty at him, like usual?"

Lanie screeched. "I do not!"

"You so do. I've seen you."

"I hate you," Lanie grumped. "I'm going to pour myself the biggest drink I can lift."

"Enjoy." Beckett forced a grin into her voice, and cut the call. Scrolling through her phone, it was as devoid of any communication from Castle as ever. She looked at the twilight, and decided that as long as it wasn't full dark, and she took her phone for the flashlight app, a run would be just fine. It would be a nice change from the sidewalks or paths of Manhattan. A slight tinge of sense had her also wearing her gun. There wasn't, as far as she knew, another soul within ten miles, but she shouldn't be dumb.

A tingle of adrenaline at the thought of a late evening run coursed down her nerves, and washed out her misery. She set off, and swiftly discovered that she had to concentrate to avoid the small hazards of a forest path: ruts and fallen branches, muddy puddles and treacherous footing.

She loved it. The harder and more hazardous the run became, the more her adrenaline spiked and the better she felt – or at least, the less she remembered the ruins into which her life had fallen. She'd take the forgetfulness, and adrenaline always sharpened her wits. Finally, and finally tired out, she turned for home, and loped back to a hot shower and thankfully dreamless sleep, at last.

In the morning, she had coffee, as usual, and contemplated the empty day ahead. It occurred to her that the run had really helped her. She'd go for another long run now, and then worry about the afternoon when it arrived.

In daylight, she could avoid the lumps, bumps and ruts; the fallen snags from the trees, and the puddles and slippery mud. However, instead of taking that as a warning that running in the half-light might be dangerous, she felt only triumph at her success, timed her run, and decided that she'd go out again later. A little self-competition would keep her sharp. And if it would stop her mind circling back to Castle, walking away from her, that was just a nice side-benefit. She just needed something to concentrate on, and she wouldn't think about anything else.

It worked. By Sunday night, home in her Manhattan apartment and dismally contemplating the pizza she'd ordered but didn't really want, exhausted in body and mind, she couldn't think about anything, which was just what she wanted.

Except one thought, which didn't really hit her conscious mind: a little risk keeps you sharper, better; stops you worrying about extraneous factors; keeps your mind on the job and only on the job.

"Yo," Espo called as he and Ryan began their day. "What've we got?"

"More murder," Beckett said. "Everyone's shooting each other."

"Must be summer in the city."

"Yeah," Ryan agreed with Espo. "So where do we start?"

"This one." Beckett indicated the left hand side of her murder board. "Gym nut and body builder, beaten to death outside his apartment block."

"Thought you said shooting each other?" Espo quipped.

"Figure of speech, which you'd know if you ever got your head out of Ammo Monthly," Beckett snipped. There was enough annoyance behind it that Espo backed off, raising eyebrows at Beckett, who raised hers right back.

"What've we got on him?"

"Not much yet. Arnie Bukowitz. Ryan, you start running him. Espo, you start looking into his gym. You know what to look for. I'll get financials and when Ryan's done we'll go look at his home."

"How about his gym?"

"That too." She smiled nastily. "I guess you'll be looking for steroids and other drugs?"

"Yeah. First up, their membership, I guess. I'll run it and see if there's a pattern."

They set to. Beckett put her head down and worked, and missed Ryan and Espo's exchange of looks and nod towards the break room, where they shortly appeared. Caffeine, it was true, was the stuff of life and homicide investigations, but more concerning was their friend.

"She doesn't look great," Espo said. "That asshole" –

"He thought she was going off with Demming," Ryan said. "She never told him they broke up."

"Huh? He didn't know?"

"Nope. So cool your jets a bit."

"Anyone tell him?"

"No – unless Lanie did, but I don't think so."

"She'd'a told me."

Ryan smirked.

"Anyway," Espo said, "he doesn't know, and Beckett looks like she died a week ago. She must've lost ten pounds already, and I bet she's hanging out here after hours."

"Mm," Ryan said. "Likely. Least she's eating."

"Still getting thinner."

"Stress." He pondered. "We could tell him."

"Tell him what? He's off with Gina, so what's it going to change?" Espo asked. "He'll be back when he's written enough or he needs to see us."

"If he gets in touch" –

"If. We'll worry about it then. Better worry about Beckett. If she gets any thinner she'll be hiding behind lampposts."

"That'd fool our perps," Ryan grinned.

A few days into the summer, Castle belatedly realised that he hadn't heard from either Espo or Ryan. He hadn't expected to hear from Beckett, who was undoubtedly taking her relationship with Demming to the next level. He firmly pushed that thought away. He was doing just fine with Gina around. Well. It was okay, even if they weren't, um, well... Still, it was odd not to be exchanging dumb jokes with the boys, and he felt a little guilty that he hadn't.

He sent them a suitably dreadful joke, and waited for the reply.

"Okay, let's go see this gym," Beckett said to Esposito. "Ryan, you go supervise CSU at Bukowitz's apartment. Call us if there's anything interesting."

"Why're you going to the gym?" Ryan complained.

"Eye candy," Beckett flipped back.

"We're the handsomest men you'll meet," Espo preened.

Instead of ragging back instantly, Beckett blanked for a second, and then simply said, "Let's go."

Behind them, Ryan frowned, and then jumped as his phone beeped, suspecting more orders from Beckett. He opened the text, read it, and groaned at the dreadful joke; sent back a laughing emoji and a quick note that he was on a new case, return jokes later when Beckett wasn't on his ass; and fled to meet CSU.

In Beckett's cruiser, much to Espo's disgust – especially when he discovered the broken spring – talk was all of the case.

"So, we know that there were a few reports of steroids at the gym, but nobody found any real evidence," Beckett summarised.

"Yo."

"Okay." She pulled up. "Let's go talk to the manager."

Espo looked at her expression and found no reassurance at all. He thought, though normally he scorned anything that might be emotional, that the light in her eyes was more than just the thrill of investigation. She seemed almost hyper, with an edge of expectation and something more, something darker. He'd seen that light in others' eyes: before an operation, out in the desert. He'd never seen it in Beckett's face before.

If he'd been able to explain, he'd have said that it was the expression of someone with nothing more to lose.

"How d'you wanna play it?" he asked.

"Start easy, ask about the victim. See where it takes us."

The gym was gloomy, with an aroma of old sweat that wrinkled Beckett's nose. Espo ignored it. Corpses in the heat smelt far worse. Looking around, he saw a few guys that could give him a good match, and a few who looked like they knew a lot about the seamier side of life.

As they passed through the gym, Beckett was aware of the sidelong looks and leers, the half-noticed ogling, the stares. Her stride turned to a stalk, and her normal cool serenity acquired an edge of danger. When she took a longer stride to be half a step ahead of Esposito, the gym stilled. Big men pulled back, smaller men tried to become unnoticeable. Command presence spread, but it carried a strong feeling of I will kill you as soon as look at you. Don't get in my way.

She didn't knock on the manager's door, just walked in, radiating arrogance.

So here is my Summer ficathon entry, rather later than I'd hoped. Posting Thu/Sun/Tue as usual.

Thank you to Lord of Kavaka for the amazing cover picture.

For anyone who might have missed it, my fourth book, Death in Frenzy, is out on Amazon, under SR Garrae. Do give it a go.