What began as a monthly ritual soon turned into a weekly affair after her outburst that resulted in having the first actual conversation with him in five years.

He'd gotten to her. His tears, his words. His defeat. There were moments over the last few years in which she'd hoped she was wrong. Wished that he wasn't guilty. It was the stories he'd tell her, the letters he'd recite from his daughter, now ten years old and living in Los Angeles after her mother had won sole custody. She was too far away to ever visit but a few times a year. His mother, now living in his loft after divorcing her husband, would bring the young girl around on holidays. He got to speak with her for an hour from a chair seated behind a thick sheet of glass.

Before, it was all one-sided conversations he'd give to her, and she would only listen. Hoping to find something hidden beneath the words. His guilt, a reason for his crime.

But it never came.

He was a master storyteller, she'd tell herself. He became a millionaire by making things up and putting it on a page. He was a best selling author. It would be so easy for him to spread lies that were simple to swallow.

She was a trained detective now. Her clearance rate was already fast approaching the highest of the NYPD. She could solve even the most complex murders; even the cases that made seemingly no sense at all. A rising star in New York's finest.

But she still couldn't get the answers to the most important thing in her life. Why did Richard Castle kill her mother?

Why did none of it make sense?

"You cut your hair."

He was already shackled to the table on that day, staring up at her wide-eyed. Mesmerized.

"Felt like a change," she offered.

"It's cute on you," he said sincerely. "The red. I like it."

"I'm not here to talk about my hairstyle choices; I'm here to talk about my mother's murder," she bit back, inwardly kicking herself for the blush she knew was tinting her cheeks.

Kate sat down, and then her spine went rigid. She hadn't noticed it when she walked in the room. Now it was glaringly obvious. He had a knot on his forehead, just above his eye, swollen an angry red, and mottled in shades of black and blue around the vicinity. His hair had grown longer recently, he hadn't seemed bothered to have it cut, and it flopped over his forehead, concealing the injury at a distance. Now that she was seated across from him, she could see the wince in his eye, the bruising. The extent of the damage.

"What the hell happened to you?"

"Oh, this?" he gave a half grin and involuntary wink, gesturing to the injury with a flick of his eyes since he couldn't really move his shackled hands beyond jerking a thumb in the direction of his head. "Present from a friend of yours."

"A friend of mine," she said flatly, bristling at the implications.

"Jacob Hughes ring a bell?"

It did. She'd had Hughes locked up about a month ago. Crime of passion. The man had actually thanked her for saving him from himself after she'd put him in the back of her cruiser. He'd nearly wound up on the other end of her partner's gun until she'd talked him down, got him to give up his weapon and brought the confrontation to a peaceful resolution.

"He's not my friend. I arrested him for murder."

"Well, he seems to think he is. Or thinks he owes you something. Guy took one look at me and next thing I know, I'm down on the floor, waking up with a bloody face as Johnson over there," he gestured with his shoulder towards the door behind him, the familiar C.O. standing just on the other side of it. "Is pulling the guy off me, keeping him from trying to mangle me up any further. Thought he was gonna kill me."

Kate felt horrified. "I didn't ask him to do that. I'd never ask someone to do that to you."

"I know." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and Kate realized that he must have had more injuries hidden beneath the long sleeves of the jumpsuit. Bruises on his arms, shoulder and back, maybe?

"I thought it was kind of cool, actually."

"Cool?" she half laughed out the word. "Another inmate beat the hell out of you and you thought it was cool?"

"Well, no. Not that part. That wasn't cool, or pleasant, for the record. Just that - this guy felt so strongly about you. It gave me an idea of what kind of person you are, and the cop you'd become, when a guy like that comes in here and decides to kick my ass because he thinks I killed your mom."

Kate swallowed roughly. Her mouth suddenly felt so dry. She'd heard of it happening before. Men she'd put behind bars lashing out at other inmates who'd spoken poorly of her. She'd seen it happen down in holding on more than one occasion now. Mostly, they all hated her upon their arrest. Some threatening to kill her. But there was a select few who'd grown an attachment. She'd treated them fairly and, in turn, become like their favorite school teacher.

She'd be putting more and more men behind bars here with Richard Castle as time went on. How many of them would cross his path and take it upon themselves to try and defend her honor by assaulting, possibly even murdering her mother's killer?

"As far as I'm concerned, you did kill her."

"Yeah, I know." He shrugged his shoulders, gave her a weak smile. "Call me a foolish optimist, but I'm still hoping I can somehow change your mind."

She switched tactics as the fifth year went on. Treating suspects kindly and fairly yielded more cooperation, she found, and more opportunities to get them talking during an interrogation. Opportunities for getting information they might otherwise never reveal. Cause a slip up.

It went against all the rules for visiting inmates at the prison, but Kate was determined to get her answers and unveil the truth. Using Riker's admiration for her to her advantage, she got the correctional officer to allow her to bring in a latte to her next meetings with the writer. He'd been going on and on for years about how much he missed a good coffee, and lit up at the smell of it when she'd entered the room.

"Oh my god, is that - " His hands immediately lifted the length of the chain, reaching for the to-go cup, fingers wiggling.

"They're not taking the shackles off and I called in a lot of favors to get this in here, so don't you dare burn yourself or spill it everywhere when you try to suck it all down. Got it?"

"Yes, yes. Please. I won't spill it. I promise. Please, Kate. Please."

She slid the cup across the table and watched as he gingerly grasped it with the fingers of both hands, lifting it ever so carefully to his lips. He had to duck his head a little to make it work with the shackles, but he managed.

The pure bliss on his face, and the unbridled joy and gratitude in his eyes when he glanced her way had her feelings at war with her rational mind. What was this warmth coursing through her veins? The smile that was trying to crack through the surface of the usual scowl she had for him?

"Oh. Oh, it's so good. You're an angel, Kate. A goddess." He took another swig, rolling the flavors around on his tongue before swallowing, moaning with pleasure. "Mmmm, coffee. I've missed you," he told the cup.

"I'll bring you another one next week," she vowed. "Whatever kind you want. But I want answers in return. Everything you know, everything you did the night of January ninth, and the weeks leading up to it. The days after, before you were arrested. You say you're innocent? Prove it to me. Convince me otherwise."

Castle lifted his eyes from the lid of his coffee, the cup cradled reverently in his fingers. His smile turned serious.

"I hope you brought something to write with."

Kate Beckett reached behind her, pulling a pad of paper and a ballpoint pen from her back pocket. She uncapped it, testing the ink on the corner of an empty page.

"Talk, Castle."