Chapter Two:
She knew it was wrong as soon as she left the rooftop soiree. She could feel the weight of the world lifting off of her shoulders even as a stronger, more damaging weight settled on her heart. She could feel her breath coming in short spasms, her heart racing, and her hands starting to shake, all the while she attempted to stop the tears from flowing down her cheeks.
It wasn't as though she was unhappy to see her mother, alive and well. For all of the last ten years, in fact, that was all she wanted. But, as soon as she heard Johanna Beckett's voice, smelled her perfume, and saw her face, she was overcome with an inescapable fury.
Even now, sitting in the front seat of her Crown Victoria, attempting to ignore the curious gaze of the author in her back seat, all she could feel is a deep-seated betrayal. So much of her life had been dedicated to finding her mother's killer, and bringing them to justice. She'd put her life on hold, ignored opportunities, given up her dreams, all for a falsehood.
And her dad. Her dad had become an alcoholic in the wake of her mother's supposed death. All of the sudden, a fresh wave of anger, of grief, filled her and before she knew what was happening, she'd pulled the car over, unbuckled her seatbelt, and gotten out.
She looked down at her wrist, where her father's watch had rested all these years, and suddenly the weight of it was overwhelming as the memories of years past flowed through her memories.
Her dad. Oh my God.
On instinct, she pulled her phone out of her pocket, and was halfway through calling his number when it rang. She looked down, just staring at her phone in confusion. Esposito.
She answered on autopilot, not hearing, uncomprehending.
She had no idea how long she stood there, just staring in incomprehension, only brought out of her trance by her phone ringing again, this time ignoring the call as she made her way back to the car. The phone rang for a third time, before, in irritation, she threw it behind her. She ignored the groan of protest that echoed around her, as she turned the starter, and shifted the car into gear.
She had no idea where she was going, no idea how long she'd been driving when the phone rang for a fourth time. She ignored the echoing voice that shattered the silence around her, and the street signs, and the honking of horns from cars behind her. She had no idea how long she'd driven. Or how far.
Finally, though, the car ran out of gas. And with a shuddering breath, a racking cough, and a sudden whimper of anguish, she threw the car door open.
"Detective Beckett," a masculine voice drew her attention, and with a sudden jerk of her head, she turned, and paled. Her eyes grew wide, and a horrified expression filled her face as she ran forward and jerked the door open, allowing her captive to exit the vehicle and stretch his legs.
"Where are we?" she asked hesitantly, her eyes closed in embarrassment and a whimper of exhaustion slipping through the cracks of her façade. In the few seconds she'd had to look around before her embarrassment settled in, she hadn't properly taken in her surroundings. Hopefully, the author had, or she'd really be in trouble. Though she daren't look at the man she had essentially kidnapped.
To her surprise, she felt a comforting hand on her shoulder, and a firm pull, as his arms encircled her lithe, still shaking frame, even as she felt one of his hands stroking her hair. Her sobs echoed around them, and she could feel his shoulder getting wet as his shirt soaked in her tears. She could feel her legs getting weak, from hunger or whatever else.
"We're on McClellandtown Road, outside of Uniontown, Pennsylvania."
She froze in horror, finally opening her eyes. To her disbelief, a roguish smile covered his face, as he said, "I have to admit, if I'd known being kidnapped would end in me holding a beautiful woman, I'd have done it years ago."
She felt her face flame from the shame.
"I," she started, tensing even as she steeled her resolve, "I'm sorry Mister Castle. I know an apology can't make up for it, but I am, and I can only ask you for your forgiveness. I'll plead no contest if you decide to press charges…"
"Rick," he absently invited, seemingly ignoring her attempts to apologize. Her eyes widened, and she pulled back, locking gazes with him, searching for something, before she said, "Let's find somewhere to eat, and I'll explain what I can.
He nodded, "There's an Exxon about a mile back. You can explain on the way there." Then, he seemed to take a deep breath, before handing her a phone, hers. She took it and said, "How did you get my phone?"
He chuckled and said, "You threw it at me."
Paling, she sighed, "I'm never going to live this down, am I?"
"No," he quipped, before dropping his arms from around her. Kate sighed, and said, "It was January 9, 1999. We were supposed to go to dinner together, my mom, my dad, and I. And she was supposed to meet us at the restaurant, but she never showed. "
She paused, looking up and locking gazes with him a second time. Then, steeling herself, she said, "Two hours later we went home, and there was a Detective waiting for us, Detective… Raglan. They found her body. She had been stabbed. She still had her money, her purse, her jewelry. And it wasn't sexual assault… they attributed it to random gang violence. A random, wayward, event."
"And you, what, dedicated your life to solving her murder?"
She nodded. The author sighed. Kate said, "My dad took her death hard. He's sober now, five years. I, I wear his watch in honor of the life I saved. And," she pulled her necklace out of her shirt, and took it off, holding it, and the ring attached, in her hand, "And I wear this for the life that… I thought… I lost."
Then, to his shock, she drew her hand back to throw the ring. On instinct, he stopped her, grasping her wrist, gently taking the keepsake from her, and pocketing it, before she could over think things. She didn't struggle, even as he placed his hand on her shoulder. Kate's shoulders sank, a moment later, and she could feel the anger, the frustration, the urge to flee, returning. It was only the comforting presence of the man whom she had kidnapped, which kept her safe, sane.
Talk about irony.
They made it to the Exxon in an hour, her feet blistering from the combination of sweat and the jagged ground. To her shock, the author was gracious, insisting on paying for the tank, and the gas, before offering to go get the unit. She was hesitant, but when he pointed out, rightly, that she'd had enough stress for the day, Kate really couldn't find it in herself to argue. At this point, with the sun starting its descent, she really wanted nothing more than collapse.
Humiliation and grief were bitches to deal with.
So, as she watched the author heading down the street, she sighed, and pulled out her phone, absently making the call she'd been putting off all day.
She dialed the number from memory, listening as the hard, unforgiving tones of her father greeted her. He sounded bad, she could hear the grief in his voice even as he greeted her, his tone broken and empty. A sudden weight settled on her chest, fear. Fear of the bottle, of the man her father was after her mom's supposed death.
"I want a drink," he admitted after he'd finished self-deprecating, "I want so much to go to your Aunt Theresa, or Joe, or to the local bar, forget all about Johanna Beckett. And then, I hate myself all the more for it, Katie. She said she ran into you."
Kate barely acknowledged his lead-in. "She was waiting in-line at a book signing. I'm so sorry, dad."
She heard him catch his breath, a slow, shuddering, wracking cough expelling from her father's lungs. "NO," he protested, "this is in no way your fault, Katherine Houghton Beckett. Your mom is the one in the wrong, right now. She's the one that needs to make amends, admit that she was wrong. Grovel. All that said, I still love her, Katie."
She closed her eyes, clenching her fist, "I do too. I'm just… I had a panic attack after I saw her, ended up outside of Uniontown, Pennsylvania before I got turned back around."
"Are you alright?" he asked automatically. She blushed, "to make matters worse, I was bringing in a witness for questioning, and forgot all about him being in the car. I don't know if he tried getting my attention, or what, but so far he's been really accommodating."
She heard her dad gasp, and say, "Well, I think the greatest thing about this, is now you can give up solving her murder, even if you never forgive her, you can quit hiding now. Maybe even ask the young man in question on a date? Something. Anything?"
She scoffed, but blushed, before checking the watch on her right arm, and looking up. The sky was dark now, the lights of the small, Pennsylvanian town the only things allowing her to see the street. She got a sudden, clenching, feeling in her stomach, as she realized the author had been gone for almost an hour, the entire time she'd been calling her dad, at least. Just as she was about to hang up, though, her unit pulled up, and the author got out, before walking to the gas pump, placing his card in, and getting enough fuel for a return trip, and filling the reserve up too.
She made here goodbyes, then, telling her dad she'd call when she got back to the city. She was out the door before her dad made his own.