Okay, this is the final chapter. I hope you find it a satisfactory conclusion... I just finished reading the last novel in a series I'd been following and was FAR from pleased, so I hope this chapter doesn't inflict that displeasure on any of you. Thanks so much for the wonderful reviews and for reading.

So.

Anyway…

It's been a month since my little showdown with Detective Beckett. I haven't heard a single word about it. She hasn't called, texted, sued…

It's frankly anti-climactic. I mean, once I had time to think about what I had done, I really started stressing. I went off the freakin' deep end.

And now I almost feel… Oh, this is terrible, but I almost feel cheated. Yeah. I said it.

I feel like I deserve some kind of punishment or recognition or something. Anything except this mind-blowing silence. Really, after a blow out like that, I deserve whatever's coming to me... Except, nothing seems to be coming.

And I almost feel as though I should apologize. Yeah, a lot of things were making my life miserable when she came in that day, and most other people probably would have gone equally nuts in my place. Plus, she kinda deserved it. Actually, really really really deserved it. But I'm a therapist and a professional. I really shouldn't have.

Which brings me to my other point.

My life is no longer a pathetic soap opera.

Still soap opera, yes, but no longer pathetic. That's a definite step up.

The way I see it, family drama can be simplified into a few succinct steps. There's death-doom-despair, followed by unredeemable tragedy, followed by pathetic soap opera, followed by just plain soap opera. It gets a little vague after that… But usually something along the lines of Average, then Moderately Happy, then Never Never Land, and then Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies.

But I digress.

After my little blowup, I realized something was waaaay wrong. Even wronger than usual, if you get what I'm saying.

So, in short, I marched on over to my husband's work, kissed him right in the middle of his office and all its inhabitants—well, in his cubicle actually, where no one else was paying attention, but still—and refused to sign those divorce papers. I told him he had said for better or worse, and he was going to handle me at my worst or so help him.

I didn't actually think it would work.

Then we tag-teamed my son. It's gonna be a rocky road, but we'll get there with both him and my daughter.

Oh, and I'm seeing a shrink now. I shoulda done that years ago. I guess it's not great to be counseling people while seeing a counselor yourself, but hey, take what you get.

So, with my life straightened around because of one Detective Beckett (she didn't do it on purpose, but she oh boy does she get results), I'm feeling more and more guilty.

Really, really guilty. And very, very foolish for my blow-out.

And I still haven't filled Beckett's time slot, so I'm sitting here in my chair in the office and reading the newspaper when I see it.

And my heart stops.

Plastered across the right side of page six is the wide, bold banner "Detective and Writer Split."

And then the article full of speculation and gossip.

I won't bother you with those boring details. In short, Richard Castle will no longer be shadowing Detective Kate Beckett. According to the article, the two gave no reason for going their separate ways, other than that Castle had all the information he needed to write his novels and it was time to move on, he was very grateful to the Twelfth Precinct for all the time they'd given him, yadda yadda yadda.

And then the gossip and speculation about problems and jealously and romantic relationships gone wrong and irreconcilable differences.

I shouldn't feel like crying, but I do.

I'm pretty sure this is my fault. I mean, not completely. I'm not melodramatic enough to suggest it was ALL my fault, but a part was.

Did she admit she heard his declaration of love? Did she apologize? Was it too late? Did she refuse to forgive him even after our disastrous session and is this the natural progression of her fury caused by his lie? Or did I somehow doom their relationship by pushing her?

I guess I will never know.

But I don't think I'll ever stop wondering.

Or blaming myself.

But...

I underestimated one Detective Katherine Beckett. Remember when I said that she had a incredible capacity to love but was passionate and proud?

Well she is. Even more than I guessed.

But she's also generous and forgiving.

The next day, I walk up to the door of my office to find a plain white envelope taped to the wood paneling. The only writing on it is my name, written in a neat, looping script that I recognize from the forms that Beckett filled out at her first appointment.

Inside is a single sheet of notebook paper, without a heading or address or signature. Instead of butchering the note by trying to summarize it, I'll let you read it.

I guess I'm writing to thank you. Not that you really deserve it, precisely. I'm certainly not advocating that you try fighting with and insulting your clients on a regular basis. This time, however, it worked.

Perhaps you've seen in the papers that Castle and I are no longer working together. That wasn't exactly our decision. Captain Gates caught me kissing Castle in the break room—or perhaps I could just say "us kissing" because it wasn't exactly a one-sided incident—and banned him permanently from the precinct with a predictable amount of yelling and screaming and a surprising amount of swearing... Although, I think the swearing was directed at me, because I grabbed my coat, ignored the Captain, and followed him.

I'm not too concerned about the whole incident, frankly. The Captain sees the Twelfth as no more than a stepping stone, and she'll be promoted in the near future. As it is, I just see Castle after work and he solves a good third of my cases for me. It's rather strange to be separated from him for so many hours of the day, but I wouldn't go back for anything. Not now, that I went for double or nothing and blessedly received double.

So, as I said, thank you. Your outburst was what I needed to understand a few things. I actually went to Castle's apartment to apologize. I don't think I've ever done that before. Usually he comes to me and I let him back into my life… That's too one-sided to build a relationship on, and you helped me to see that.

Anyway, I simply didn't think it was just for me to let you believe that Castle and I split up forever. I don't know if you actually cared, but you perhaps you did, so I thought a letter was only fair. Good luck, and good bye.

Well. Well well well.

YEAH! Who's a fantastic therapist? ME! I'M a fantastic therapist.

Not to self-aggrandize too much or anything.

And she thinks there's a chance that I didn't really care? Pfft. She's nuts.

And then, a few weeks later, I just happen to see her in a downtown park.

Okay, so maybe happen is the wrong word. Let me try this again.

And then I just suggest to my family that we have a picnic on a random Wednesday afternoon in the middle of a nice, grassy park shaded by lovely oaks and maples that just happens to be right next to the Twelfth Precinct.

Funny how these things work out. (Now that just sounds stalker-ish.)

Okay, so I am actually dying of curiosity. Happy?

Any-who… I see the Detective exit the precinct around noon, talking on her cell phone. She is twisting a strand of hair around her fingers and smiling broadly as she speaks to whomever is on the other line.

I have my suspicions about who said other person is.

Suddenly she pauses mid-stride in the middle of the sidewalk, ignoring the irritated man who is walking behind her and has to juke to the side to avoid running her over. Then she makes this excited bubbly little sound.

The word "squeal" sounds so undignified… but honestly, she pretty much squeals in excitement.

Weird, right? I couldn't really picture her "squealing" either if I hadn't seen the sight—or rather, heard the sound—with my own two eyes—that is, ears.

But I digress. She whirls around, and Castle is standing there right behind her. I have no idea where he came from or when he got there, but the next moment she's in his arms kinda like a cheesy Hollywood scene.

And then they kiss and hug again and blah blah blah. You get the point. They head off to someplace or other, holding hands and if they were any closer they'd be walking directly one in front of the other.

Happily. Ever. After.

Bam! I'm sooo boss.

Why is it that I have to keep reminding you not to reprimand me for my choice of language?

I'll say it again. Bam! Me, I'm boss.

And about eleven months later, there is this big headline splashed across Page Six. Oh boy are the papers/reporters/ journalists mad.

See, apparently famed writer Richard Castle and famed detective Kate Beckett are married. And have been, already, for three months.

Oops. Looks like somebody missed the gossip steal of the year. Tsk tsk… They need to do better than that.

And the rumor sharks jump on the new info, and we get the details about the wedding, the dress, the private ceremony. They discuss how the two finally fell in love (love at first sight), what convinced them to give a relationship a try (destiny), how long they'd been together (various answers from a couple months to four years)… And every bit of information is predictably inaccurate.

Haha. Ha. Ha. Hahahahaha.

So, do you see what I meant, at the beginning of this narrative, about me making a fortune from this? I could! You know I could.

And I could meet Oprah, or Jay Leno, or… You know, I really don't get much of an opportunity to watch TV much. Just accept the fact that I would be soooo famous.

But no, alas, it can never be.

So I figure I can publish this under an assumed name, change a few names and situations, and make a quick buck.

What's that you say? This is a work of fiction about fictional characters on a TV show?

You have no idea.