Chapter 6: Betrayal

Disclaimer: The characters of Castle belong to Mr. Marlowe and ABC Studios. I'm merely borrowing them.

Kate scrutinized her reflection closely in the elevator's reflective panel, taking mental stock of herself. She looked…well, there was no cushioning it. She looked exhausted—eyes ringed in purple, complexion bleached from fatigue, bones jutting sharply from her lackluster appetite. But, weariness aside, she had taken pains with herself today. Today of all days, she needed the security and confidence of impenetrable professionalism—an outer reflection of militant severity she hoped would translate to her snarled emotions. Early this morning, up far before the sun, she had run until her lungs ached, working to burn off the latent anger and overwhelming agitation this latest case had provoked. It hadn't worked, not really, but it had at least blunted the edge of tension. Everything about her was regimented today—a close-fitting black pantsuit, a white blouse crisp with starch, every button fastened. Every crease pressed. She had planned her outfit carefully, purposefully selecting subdued tones and clean lines. There was no softness, no room for emotion or friability. Not even in her clothing choices. Between her father and this case, she was running on fumes, left grasping, aching for stability. Needed consistency. A shred of normalcy.

Which was currently an implausibility, she knew.

So, instead of focusing on the grisly details contained in the file she carried, she honed in on the wisps of hair that had escaped the sleek confines of her bun, smoothing them back with a frown. She could control this small thing—could contain and marshal herself—even if all other aspects of her life were wildly turbulent. Could be compartmentalized, the picture of self-possession. At least from the outside looking in.

The elevator came to a sibilant halt, a tinny chime breaking through her musings as the doors shuddered open, revealing a dismal hallway. She took a moment, just a beat to shore up her defenses, to prepare herself for the conversation to come, and then pushed out into the wash of flickering fluorescents, heels clacking rhythmically against the mottled linoleum. Despite having been to the morgue numerous times, she had yet to grow accustomed to the eerie stillness of the autopsy theater, to the pristine steel of pedestal tables that silently belied their purpose. There was a morbid air in the room, one that always gave rise to brooding thoughts. How many bodies had they cradled? What, she wondered, was the collected sum of lost years, devastated lives, lost hope to which they had borne witness? Fathers, daughters, sons…mothers.

The first autopsy she'd stood in on had been gruesome, a young, single mom, they ultimately discovered—shot point blank through the temple, body left in a field, still fully dressed in her blood-and-brain-flecked sundress. She remembered the meaty crack as ribs yielded to the chest spreader; the strangely bloodless Y-incision; the waxy, immobile shock preserved on her once-pretty features. And she remembered looking on stoically, excusing herself only after the ME stepped away to retrieve the bone saw. The acrid taste of vomit as she was quietly sick behind a dumpster. It was deeply disturbing, witnessing the dismantlement of her corpse. The way the coroner had so perfunctorily stripped the body down to nothing more than a series of medical observations—hastily scribbled notes, numeric measurements, weighing organs in hanging scales with casual indifference. As though they were oranges or pears and not the former constituents of Jane Doe's humanity. Really, that's what had disturbed her…it was dehumanizing. And she understood the irony of the investigative process—that to rectify wrongs, address violations of the very worst nature, it was necessary to perform further violations. Legal, obligatory, medical violations, if they were to make a conviction stick, but…it disturbed her nonetheless.

And perhaps that's why she so appreciated Lanie. Respected her. Despite the innate brutality of autopsies and much of forensic medicine, Lanie did what she could to preserve the dignity of the victim—tried to give them a voice even in death. In the time she had known her, Lanie had never displayed the indifference Kate observed in her first autopsy, wasn't jaded to death and suffering. Maybe that's why they had bonded so quickly—being similarly motivated, both pursuing the same ends. Eager to see justice meted out. Well, that, and she appreciated the woman's keen sense of sarcasm, her predilection for fine wine, and how she seemingly understood Kate's protracted approach to relationships. Yeah, she really did like Lanie. They'd gone out to a charmingly cramped pub a few months back, tentatively sharing bits of themselves over generous glasses of thick, tannic cabernet, and it felt…easy. The conversation had issued smoothly, flowed without awkward breaks or searching pauses. Not having to force the connection, for once, was refreshing.

Since leaving Stanford, she'd lain low, scraped too raw to consider investing in new friendships. The relationships she'd formed at school disintegrated in the fallout of her mother's death and her resultant depression. Though, it wasn't all one sided. To be fair, her self-imposed distance was probably a fairly significant contributor as well. And yes, she had superficial interactions with work colleagues, but she maintained a level of detachment that she knew alienated many of her fellow detectives—declining invitations to join them for post-case beers and burgers, opting out of the precinct barbecues, quietly side-stepping birthday invitations. It's not that she didn't like them. She did. Genuinely. They were generally a great group, both professionally and personally. But…there was only so much she could give of herself. She was already spread so fearfully thin, trying to balance her emotional recovery with her father's issues and growing work responsibilities—to say nothing of the surreptitious investigation into her mother's case. Befriending the detectives at the precinct would entail openness and honesty she didn't feel capable of granting at this juncture. If she lied, they would know, and if she hedged, they would push. Eventualities that both necessitated distance.

But Lanie was none of those things. She was warm without being overbearing, interested while remaining unobtrusive, and just…fiercely likable. Someone Kate could see remaining in her life long-term, with whom she could develop an open, mature friendship.

Eventually, that is. One day. When she wasn't so wounded.

The clack of caster wheels preceding her, Lanie bustled into the autopsy theatre pushing a mortuary cart shrouded in sterile sheets. Coming to the center of the room, she cast a weary glance in Kate's direction. "Hey, girl. Montgomery send you down here?"

Kate bobbed her head once, stiffening as the emetic, cloying scent of decay washed over her, permeating—she knew—her skin, her hair, her previously immaculate clothing. "Yeah, he has me working the Deacon case." There was no need to elaborate judging from Lanie's grimace of understanding. Departmentally, everyone knew about the Deacon case. And everyone viewed it disparately—they wanted it, but they didn't. Nobody wanted to work a child homicide. They indelibly, deeply fucked you over, and no matter the distinction solving a case of this magnitude brought to a law enforcement career, detectives and cops alike avoided investigations such as Deacon's like the plague they were. But preferences aside, Kate heard the gossip, saw the meaningful glances, knew her name was being bandied about as an option for lead detective on this. And whatever Montgomery needed, whatever he asked—after he'd so mercifully turned the other way—she was, and always would be, his man in the storm.

"Sorry," Lanie sighed, and Kate felt her gut clench in response. An ME offering commiserative apologies didn't bode well.

"Well, let me bring you up to speed," she continued, the glossy smear of Vick's salve on her philtrum catching the light as she spoke."The field techs brought in the remains earlier today—five bodies total—but the majority are…they—they don't have enough remaining soft tissue for me to examine them. I alerted the Feds after I got the green light from Montgomery, and they're supposed to fly out some hotshot forensic anthropologist who'll consult on the case. So…we have four, as-of-now-unidentifiable bodies, but Deacon was still fairly intact. He'd only been missing for a total of thirteen days when they found the mass grave, and I—I've done an external examination that yielded some…pretty promising preliminaries."

Swallowing tightly, Lanie rested a gloved hand on the sterile drapes, stared solemnly at Kate. "Kids are…the worst," she paused, then continued, picking up speed as she went. "People—people say that in jest, you know? 'Kids are the worst!' As though children disrupt what's otherwise an ideal life. Like it's one huge joke. But…they—they don't know what they're saying. When they say that. They just don't know."

They stood there woodenly for just a beat, wrapped in silence and their own thoughts. After a moment, Lanie reached into her pocket and offered Kate the tin of mentholated ointment, waiting patiently for Kate to apply the salve beneath her nose.

"You ready?" She asked, voice just above a whisper. Kate's upper lip and eyes burned, her head ached, she already felt nauseous and harrowed and bleak.

"Rip the band-aid, Lanie," she demanded unwaveringly, her gaze steady on the cart, on the blanketed little body.

Slowly, Lanie peeled back the drapes and began to speak, her voice a soothing murmur in the silence of the morgue, and Kate found a strange comfort in the clinical language she used. "Today's date is July 14, 2003, the time is 1100 hours. Body appears to be that of James Arthur Deacon, caucasian male, age—five years. Identification will remain inconclusive until cranial x-rays can be compared against preexisting dental records. External examination revealed what appears to be perimortem bruising on the tissue of the neck, which suggests manual strangulation. Based on the state of decomposition, the use of quick lime as a preservative, and the cadaver's interment in the ground, I estimate the time of death to have taken place approximately six days prior, though further examination is required to ascertain the exact TOD. I've catalogued a number of lacerations and what appear to be…"

By the time Lanie had concluded her verbal brief, Kate's jaw was clenched so tightly her molars creaked in protest and the muscles beneath her mandible ached from the tension. With hot, gritty eyes, she watched the ME wheel the body back into the cold chamber before dropping her gaze to the notes she'd furiously scrawled on a legal pad, but the words swam indiscernibly on the yellow page. Goddamnit, she winced, roughly jerking to face the opposite wall. He'd just been…so impossibly small. And alone. And the thought of those final moments marked by terror, the painful clutch of calloused hands encircling his soft neck, left a bitter, coppery taste in her mouth—so like blood it made her want to vomit. Dazedly, she put a trembling hand to her forehead, utterly overwhelmed, entirely out of her depth.

So much rode on this—there was no latitude here, no margin for error. One misstep and the whole case was defunct. And—provided they even found him—a killer walked free.

Shudderingly, she pulled a breath in through her nose and slowly released it, repeating the pattern until her pulse slowed, her thoughts stopped racing. From behind her, she heard the dull thump of Lanie's palms against the door, the rustle of her blue scrubs as she pushed into the room.

"Tell me something good," she entreated, coming to stand next to Kate, her voice thick and tremulous. "Because all…all I have seen today is broken little bodies. So—so I need to think about something else. Something good."

For a moment, they both just stood there, staring dully at the blank wall in front of them as she sifted through thoughts, considered her options, deliberated over what to share.

Alex, she conceded internally. As if that's even up for dispute, Kate.

His newest letter—not his premature apology, but the one in response to her delayed reply—sat folded in her blazer's interior pocket, still unopened, its paper edges brushing against her ribs. She…she could open up to Lanie about this. Could follow Alex's advice and confide in others. Be real. And it was something good—them, the letter. Alex. He was good.

"I've been talking to someone," she admitted, the words out before she'd consciously decided to even speak them.

Peripherally, she saw the ME turn to regard her. Surprisingly, felt her own lips pull up in the beginnings of a smile. Not quite, but close. Because she could all but feel the force of Lanie's cautious glee, the smirk that rounded the apples of her cheeks. "Katherine Becket," she drawled smugly, impressed, "talking to someone. I never."

"Geez. I appreciate your vote of confidence," Kate snorted wryly, "but, you're actually…" she paused, debated telling her for just a moment, and then forged ahead. In for a penny…"You're not…wrong. I've…never actually…talked to him. Not in person."

"Girl, you been calling 900 numbers?" She gasped, scandalized.

"What? No! Jesus, Lanie, nothing quite so pathetic—or disgusting—as that, I…he found an old book of mine in a secondhand store. One I…misplaced a while back. A few years ago, at least. I'd marked it up—notes in the margins, dozens of annotations, and he managed to track me down. Returned the book to me along with a letter and…we—we've been…talking," she finished lamely, cutting her eyes over to find Lanie scrutinizing her openly.

"And?"

"And what?" She frowned.

"And what?" Lanie exclaimed, flinging her hands outward in exasperation. "And what does it mean, Kate? How long have you two been exchanging letters? How long do you plan to keep this up? How do you feel about this mysteriously altruistic stranger?"

Were those questions that required an immediate answer? What was with the third degree?

She must have looked panicked—or affronted—because Lanie beat a nominal retreat, contented herself with arching an eyebrow meaningfully. "Sorry. I'm just…you took me by surprise. And it doesn't seem like you! Carrying on with a virtual stranger. You're a homicide detective, witness to a sweeping gamut of deception and the resulting consequences of misplaced trust, and you're telling me you're okay with…this? Not judging, just…curious."

"He's not a 'virtual stranger', Lane, he's…Alex. He's intelligent and witty, has a vocabulary that exceeds mine—"

"Well, that recommendation in and of itself is high praise," she digressed teasingly.

"And the way he writes is…I think it's good for me. When we write, there's nothing between us, nothing to cloud the air. It's just raw thoughts and uncensored feeling, and I…I've never been accused of oversharing. Never been very communicative, in fact. At least not verbally. But writing is…a safer vehicle for me."

"You can hide behind the paper until you know he's safe," she interpreted thoughtfully.

"Maybe. Maybe so. His first letter arrived in June, on the nineteenth," Kate murmured pensively, "and I wrote him back the same day. The interchange has remained pretty consistent since then, and I don't…I don't plan on stopping this—this thing. Our correspondence. At least not in the foreseeable future. He's…well, if it's a friendship, it's a strange one. But that's the most accurate designator I know to describe our relationship. It's a friendship. Quirky. And maybe it's a little outlandish—or a lot outlandish—but it's…easy and I'm enjoying this slow revelation of his personality, his character. Being privy to the inner workings of his mind, appreciating just how poetic his thoughts are…it's—it's good for me. Healing. To talk and be so fully understood. It's….good for me."

"So I see," Lanie agreed, her dark eyes knowing. "And…do you ever plan on actually meeting this paragon of virtue? Or will you be like Catherine the Great and Voltaire? Exchanging letters but never crossing paths?"

"I haven't thought that far ahead, to be honest," she admitted, studying the folds of her knuckles, the ridges of her phalanges. "There's so much going on with me right now, so much uncertainty—even with Alex, who is, tragically, the most stable facet of my life at present—that to try and map out this relationship would…exhaust me. Or…maybe not exhaust me, I'm already exhausted. Confuse me? Panic me unduly? I don't know what the exact result would be, but I do know that trying to govern this or anticipate where it will eventually lead would change its very nature. Alex says its fate, I say it's a serendipitous coincidence, but it all comes down to probability and chance. What are the odds that he would pick up my book, proceed to search for me, find me, and take the time and effort to reach out? It's just…"

"Magic," Lainie sighed.

The realist in Kate balked at her assessment, but the silence that had fallen over the room was peaceful, the undercurrent of despair finally relegated to the background. So she merely hummed in response, exchanging a small conspiratorial smile with the ME.

Wordlessly, Lainie reached out a needful, talcum-coated hand, gripping her own tightly, and Kate stared at their interlaced fingers until the contrast of their skin blurred to sameness.

She managed to hold it together until she left the morgue, striding purposefully, briskly to the records department. Everything in her was curling tighter and tighter, emotion crawling perilously up her throat, demanding a release. Eyes stinging, breath jagged, she somehow managed to find a storage closet, abruptly sweeping into it, wedging the handle with a broomstick. And then she allowed herself to quietly unravel. Seated on a galvanized bucket, forehead pressed tight against the points of her knees, she cried, hating the helplessness, the fear this case triggered. Yeah, she…she was afraid. Terrified of screwing up this investigation. More than that, of not operating efficiently—of losing time, costing lives. Failing. Of accruing more tiny bodies.

Blessedly, her breakdown was short-lived, rapidly running its course, leaving her pensive and drained. It was just enough to take the cutting edge off the grief that tangled in her chest.

It seemed as though, she reflected dully, that all she ever did lately was cry. Over her mother, her father, her work. Everything. Everything weight so heavily. And she did what she could to provide herself an outlet, allow herself the relief of spent tears. But only in isolation. Only on her own.

Even with Lanie, she felt the need to conceal, to suppress. To remain unyielding beneath the pressures of the job. To exhibit unremitting, unflappable strength in the face of even the darkest cases. Most of the time, she succeeded. But kids were…they were the exception.

You don't have to be strong with Alex, she reminded herself, extracting the letter from her pocket. The crisp paper had softened, warmed from her body heat, and she mindlessly rubbed her thumb across the velvety surface of the vellum—his words, her talisman. And really, that's what she should have told Lanie, offered the knowledge up as a palliative for the ME's concern. Should have said that his words made picket fences of her towering walls. That he inspired a greater measure of transparency than she'd ever expected herself capable of ceding. That she didn't have to throw up an unaffected front.

That she didn't have to be strong. Not with him.

Gingerly, she slipped a finger beneath the envelope's flap, breaking the seal. And then, hunched over her knees, she struggled to make out his words by the feeble light of a single bulb.

Lovely Kate,

Customarily not florally incline. Got it. But I'm gratified to know you enjoyed the bouquet! Or, Renoir is, at any rate. In the spirit of inquiry, what would you prefer in lieu of flowers? Generally speaking. I promise not to send you any further unexpected deliveries! I hope you know, too—or that your father has expressed—what an incredible daughter you are. To support him, assist him through such a destructive condition goes above and beyond conventional familial responsibility. It's sacrifice born of love, and given at great personal cost. If he hasn't acknowledged it to date, rest assured he will. One day. But I see it, I see you, I see your loyalty, and I marvel.

Speaking to your postscript—it's not that you sound matronly or housewifey! Far from it. Your writing is youthful. Spritely, really. Rather, I want to ensure I won't have an irate husband beating down my door. Our letters aren't amorous by any extent of the imagination, but they do have my return address. And…well, I wouldn't want to be a relational impediment. So there. That's my rationale for the inquiry!

As is clear by now—for you've certainly received my frantic follow-up—I'm a hasty, presumptive sort. And I apologize for that. For my perceived lack of confidence in your promised faithfulness. But just to clarify, my doubt didn't stem from any mistrust on the part of your character—your words and musings are unequivocally bursting with integrity and substance, so rest assured, it's not you. It's…uncertainty spawned from my own insecurities, my chronicled shortcomings. The fear that—as per usual—I'd moved too fast, pushed too hard, scared you off. Since, as we've already covered, I'm hasty. And presumptive. A singularly winning combination, I know. All that being said, is it conceivable you might…benevolently disregard this entire debacle? Overlook the letters that reek of desperation and the foisted phone number and continue on as before? I sincerely hope so. You said in your last letter that you assigned significant meaning to this exchange, that it was a bright spot, and I hope you're aware by now that the sentiment is reciprocal. To lose contact with you would be…distressing, to say the least. Especially if the fault of its dissolution lay with me. So, there you have it. I'll just…leave that there.

Which leads me to an awkwardly jarring non sequitur in which I expound on the details of my life…

Like you, my love affair with literature has been lifelong, influencing every aspect of my solitary childhood, my tumultuous adolescence, and determining the trajectory of my adulthood. Novels provided a much needed escape from reality, and between the pages of dusty classics, cult favorites, and works du jour, I discovered inclusive, miraculous, alternate worlds. And I wanted to be a part of that magic. As far as particulars, I'll take a page from your book—pun intended—and remain inexplicit, but I feel as though this topic acts as a preamble for something I've been meaning to discuss.

In my line of work, I've done well for myself. Well enough, in fact, to have gained significant notability in the book community. At the risk of sounding horrifyingly egocentric, I'm considered something of a b-list celebrity—my name recognizable, my reputation just this side of notorious. Which brings me to my confession, though I'd like to preface this with a supplication—please, please don't feel too betrayed? The name I gave you—R. Alex Rodgers—is my given name, one I left behind in my freshman year of college, choosing to legally take on instead an appellation I deemed more charismatic. More glamorous. More representative of the renown I so desired. Alex Rodgers was…gawky, uncouth, and overeager. Penniless. Obscure. An amalgamation of traits and shortcomings I found contemptible. And so, I remade myself. Beginning with my name, my elective transformation soon extended to nearly every aspect of my personality. I metamorphosed from sincerity to affectation, from uncertainty to arrogance, from devotion to philandering—over the years I slowly, steadily became someone I no longer recognized. And I've been…trying to regain my sense of self ever since. Mawkish as it sounds, trying to find Alex Rodgers.

Stumbling across your book presented a unique opportunity to do exactly that, to be that guy again. The kind of man who reaches out to strangers, who is selfless, thoughtful, authentic. Who doesn't second-guess benevolence. Doesn't view every act of kindness through a cynical lens. Spanning my first inquiry to this present letter, I've seen a shift take place within myself. In the best way possible. I've seen the reemergence of qualities I thought I had permanently abandoned along with my name, but you and your words, they…reanimated me. That being said, I am sorry for my dissemblance. Truly. And to ask for your forgiveness in this matter verges on assholery of the greatest magnitude, I am aware, so I'll simply leave you with my profound apologies and deep-seated regrets. If I've wounded you—you of all people—please be aware that I despise myself for it, and I long to make it right. Regardless of how you choose to proceed—whether my dishonesty proves unpardonable, or you find the grace to look past it—you deserve to know the impact you've unwittingly made on my life. How you've made me want to be better, be more. And how deeply, staggeringly grateful I am to have had the privilege of meeting you, Kate Beckett.

Alex

What...what the hell?

Don't feel betrayed? She felt exactly that. She'd given him her name, the meat of her pain, dark details of her past. And he'd told her…what, exactly? A memory of the kid he'd been, a profile of the man he wanted to be? Groaning, she dropped her head back to her knees, let the seething mortification wash over her in hot, pink blooms—her face, her neck, her chest awash in the shame of misappropriated trust. She allowed herself the self-indulgence of wallowing for the space of ten soothing breaths, and then pulled herself together, rose to her feet. Further deliberation would have to wait. Montgomery would be looking for her, expecting a report, she knew, and she'd already been absent from the bullpen far longer than intended. So she smoothed her rumpled clothing, pressed cool fingers to her feverish cheeks, checked her chaotic thoughts, and, shoving the letter back into her pocket, fled the refuge of the closet.

When she reappeared on the precinct floor, Montgomery beckoned her from beyond his office window, wordlessly directing her toward a sticky vinyl chair with a curt gesture. Glancing at her in acknowledgement, phone receiver wedged against his ear, he hummed a nonverbal response to whoever was on the other line, listened intently, and finally ended the call with a brisk, "Great. See you in a few."

Hanging up the phone, he turned to Beckett with a heavy sigh. "What did Dr. Parish have to say about the Deacon case?"

"She finished her preliminary examination of the body and is scheduled to perform the autopsy this afternoon," she recited, finding reassurance in the dry terminology. "Initial inspection of Deacon revealed evidence of manual strangulation, and put the estimated TOD around June 8th, though Dr. Parish will have to perform further tests to confirm."

"James Deacon disappeared from a playground on the second of this month," he murmured wearily, "which means he was held for more than a week prior to his death…"

They both sat in silence for a moment, allowing the magnitude of that statement to settle around them.

"Any signs of sexual trauma?" Montgomery finally ventured, and Kate suppressed a consequent wince.

"Not externally. But if he was assaulted, the autopsy should reveal evidence of that." Her voice as she related the information was quiet, subdued, at odds with the tight anxiety in her stomach.

"Anything else?"

"Yes," she continued, "we…contacted the parents. They're on their way down to the precinct right now. Should be arriving momentarily."

"And you'll…" he led meaningfully, tilting his head toward her.

"Yes sir, I'll speak with them. With your approval, that is."

He gave a little grunt of agreement, studied her with troubled eyes, leaned across his desk. "I think you know you're in the running for acting lead here, Beckett. You've done good work in the time you've been with the twelfth, astonishingly good work. Thorough, insightful—like I said before, you're an asset to any team of which you're a part. Coincidentally, our senior detectives are all wrapped up in preexistent cases, just as urgent and time-sensitive as Deacon's. They have neither the time, nor particular inclination, to seize control of what's liable to be a consummate shit storm. In combination, these factors designate you as the most suitable frontrunner for lead detective."

"Are you…is this your formal request?" She asked, incredulous despite the rumors. Because even though she'd heard the talk, that's all it was—a transient thought, uttered and forgotten. She was a rookie. Exceptional at her job, but a rookie all the same. And this was substantive, momentous. A decision with far-reaching consequences, ones that would, in all likelihood, govern the directionality of her career. Poised her for distinction.

"It is," he acceded gravely.

After a collective pause, she met his gaze firmly, frankly and nodded once. "Then I accept."

"I was hoping you'd say that," he admitted, gave her a dim smile of relief, "especially because the Feds are about to roll in, and once they do, we're gonna have one hell of a dispute if we decide to hold on to this case. They love to muscle their way in, thrive on the publicity and notoriety of cases like Deacon's. And I need someone with tenacity, a fighter's mentality, and sound judgment. Someone like you, who works to bring justice to the victims and doesn't view this case with mercenary eyes—doesn't use it to garner media attention or departmental exposure. If you need anything, you come to me, understand?"

Kate bobbed her head in response, wanted to tell him she wouldn't let him down, that she would pour every personal resource into this case, into securing a conviction. But a knock at the door shattered the moment, reoriented their combined attentions.

"Come in," Montgomery called, and a suit strode through the door, emanating a cool, unflappable confidence. He came to a stop in front of the captain's desk and his gaze swept over her once—bold, evaluative—before turning and extending a calloused hand to Roy.

"Will Sorenson, FBI."

On the train home, she'd been so positively fried it had been a struggle not to drift off, lulled by the rhythmic clatter of the rails and the stale stillness in the car. But now that she was home, she wasn't tired, she was furious. All day, she'd consciously marshaled her thoughts, refusing to dwell on Alex's letter. Or whatever his fucking name was. It just…ate at her. That she of all people—isolated, secretive, guarded, removed—had willingly divulged intimate pieces of herself, believing the conversation to be reciprocal in nature, only to find that he'd lied from the beginning? Sorry, Alex. But I do. Feel betrayed, that is.

And duped. Like the idiot she was.

But really, had that been his motive? To lead her on, deceive her? Or were the lies simply a consequent byproduct of starting fresh, like he claimed? Merely an effort to remake himself? He'd seemed so sincere, and his persistence recommended him, but…god, it was so confusing. Reflection was a near impossibility, her mind a furious muddle—thoughts of her father, this case, Alex's duplicity…

In all honesty, she didn't know. Didn't know anything anymore. And she was too overwhelmed, hurt, and sleep-deprived to try and decipher his intentions, much less evaluate her feelings on the matter. Instead, she stripped down to her underwear and crawled between the crisp cotton of her sheets, aching in body and spirit. Wanting to lose herself in sleep and, at least in dreams, forget.

Wanting, paradoxically, to write her pain into a letter.

Wanting nothing more than to talk to Alex.

A/N:

Kate is angst personified, you know? This chapter ended up being far darker than I originally intended. More painful, too. I always got the sense that the unspecified case Beckett worked with Sorenson shaped her as a detective, and I'd like to explore that in conjunction with the letter-writing angle. Hence James Deacon.
Additionally, I'm interested to know if Kate's response to Rick's deception reads well. She's emotionally vulnerable at this point in her life—deeply, so I assume—and a perceived betrayal coming from a trusted intimate could potentially produce a reaction like the one portrayed. Don't worry, though! I'll make it better. Promise.

As always, thank you for your reviews, favorites, and follows! You guys are amazing.

Up Next...Rick persistently writes Kate but receives no reply, confides in a friend, and encounters a mysteriously beautiful stranger.