Oh no, another short chapter! I'm sorry. I just…I like where I'm ending it. Better to keep them short and keep them strong than let them drag on and lose their momentum, am I right? *crickets* No? *more crickets* ….guess I'm alone on this one.
Anywho, enjoy it anyway, as short as it is. I'm working on chapter six right now and geez, these things have a way of making themselves longer. Not that I'm complaining. It's been very fun (albeit, extremely difficult at times) to write.
DISCLAIMER: As always, Castle is owned by ABC.
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Inside the stairwell, the machine-gun clack-clack-clack-clack-clack of Beckett's heels hitting the concrete steps echoed up the walls as she made her descent. They were closely followed by the sound of a heavier set of footsteps. Through her fury, it took her a moment to register that Castle was close behind.
A part of Beckett was surprised by this realization. She remembered asking Montgomery through her grief to lay down the facts. She remembered how her anguish had been slowly replaced with burning vengeance at his answers. She remembered Montgomery recommending that she take the rest of the day off. She remembered protesting. She remembered being ordered to go home.
That had been the detonation button.
Her growing fires of revenge exploded into an inferno of rage. Beckett had blasted out of Montgomery's office without a backwards glance. She'd been so overcome with fury she hardly registered how her coat came to be swung over her shoulder or how she'd gotten into the stairwell, let alone that she'd been followed.
Racing down the stairs, her mind careened from thought to vicious thought.
How dare the captain try and force her to go home when every second of an investigation counted? It was insanity! There were leads to follow. There was evidence to gather. How could he do this to her? There was no way she was going home. She was a detective, damn it. Why couldn't she do her job? Didn't he think she could handle it? She could handle it! Why should she waste precious time "decompressing" when Royce's murderer was still…
Oh, God.
Beckett had just taken her second step on the landing between the fourth and third floors when the jolting reminder of Royce's murderer stopped her in her tracks.
Royce.
The fire inside her was suddenly extinguished. And in its place came that sick, sick feeling of a hole being punched through her chest.
Oh…God.
It felt like someone was now slowly pouring concrete into that hole. She staggered under the dead weight which seemed to be spreading into every cell of her body, and immediately felt an iron grip on her upper arm.
"Kate…?" The voice was so close behind her, yet sounded so far away.
Her opposite hand, still clutching the spring jacket draped over her shoulder, released its grip and both her arm and coat fell. The coat hit the floor. Her arm hit her side. And a moment later, she felt an iron grip on it as well.
"Kate…" The voice was more insistent now.
Beckett opened her mouth to speak, but found that the concrete filling her insides had made words impossible. She couldn't answer. Beckett could barely breathe. It was as if she was being pulled under. It was as if she was drowning. And with each passing moment, she felt less able to withstand the sheer force that was towing her down. Down into an abyss she knew far too well.
Beckett realized she couldn't do it. Fighting against the ever-increasing pull was just too hard.
So she gave up the battle and let it tow her under.