Chapter 10: Why This?
Disclaimer: The characters of Castle belong to Mr. Marlowe and ABC Studios. I'm merely borrowing them.
Blinking her way out of the amniotic still of the stale break room, trying to reacquire her equilibrium after her conversation with Alex, Kate strode purposefully in the direction of the bullpen with Sorenson close at her heels. Snippets of their banter played through her mind, the way his voice broadened and softened and mellowed in the midst of his prose-like, lyrical illustration. French cocoa and inky drip coffee.
Despite herself and the hyper-professional reserve she'd drawn cloak-like around her, a smile threatened to split her mouth, round her cheeks. His speculations had surprised her, baffled her, and then warmed her—the shape of his words and the marrow of his thoughts, they were quite…well, they were lovely. Who even talked like that anymore? Like a goddamn poet? All delicate metaphors and eloquent similes. That he sought to know her sight-unseen, that his thoughts so clearly gravitated toward her in his idle time, and that he mused over the potential traits and characteristics that comprised her—that set her apart uniquely as Kate Beckett—was both disquieting and endearing. To be known was to be vulnerable. And historically speaking, she was anything but vulnerable—personal defenses that put Megalithic walls to shame, aloofly skirting personal conversations, internalizing secrets and pain—but something was shifting.
First Lanie. Now Alex. Unguarded honesty and unfiltered conversations and voluntarily peeling back her brittle layers for inspection. It was unsettling, but with every admission she felt lighter, and that bore weighty significance. Even if she didn't have a clinical explanation for why.
"So. Alex," Sorenson murmured curiously from behind her, his voice punctuated by the scuff of their heels against the linoleum, "he a friend?"
"Alex is none of your concern," she hedged brusquely, suddenly on guard and more than a little irked at his prying, and tossed a look over her shoulder that communicated just that.
Will's hands lifted in synchronization with his brows, "My apologies. Just trying to make friendly conversation here."
"Yeah, well this isn't happy hour, Sorenson. And the details of my life aren't up for discussion." She aimed for cool and collected, but snapped her hard consonants like a whip and her tone had too much heat and warning in it to carry off nonchalance.
"Duly noted," he muttered wryly and she could hear the dry click of papers as he shuffled the bundles of files he toted. "I interrupted you because we got forensics back on the skeletal remains."
Halting their progress toward the messy conference room, she pivoted to face him expectantly. "Oh! Dr. Carnes works fast." Or so it seemed. Admittedly, she knew little to nothing of forensic anthropology, but the man had arrived on Sunday afternoon and a mere three days later he was ready to deliver a preliminary report.
"He's more than earned his reputation," Will agreed with a curt nod, and they continued into their stale, ad hoc base camp. After billeting themselves in the conference room all day every day for nearly two weeks, it had taken on the distinctive smell of corn chips, whiteboard markers, and industrial air freshener. Devoid of warmth and featuring only the most spartan of furnishings, the space reminded her of hospital rooms or vacated office spaces—sterile and uniform and awash in flickering fluorescents. Papers littered nearly every available surface, a surfeit of banker boxes lined the walls, food wrappers and long-cold cups of coffee spilled over the edges of a minute wastebasket, and their murder board was plastered with photos and hastily scrawled diagrams and salient information. Not to mention the precinct kept the place frostier than an icebox.
Yeah, she had come to loathe the room and everything it represented—endless, wordless hours sequestered with Sorenson, poring over grief-laden statements and disturbing crime scene photos. But she internalized her frustrations and channeled them into her early morning runs, feet pounding furiously against the treadmill, gasping for air and stability, ignoring the irony of trying to outrun her problems on a glorified conveyer belt. They didn't have the luxury for complaints though—too busy running leads and ruling out suspects to waste precious breath and thought on trivial matters like sleep and adequate nutrition.
"Have you read through them? Did he ID any of the remains?" She gestured loosely at the files clutched in his hand, and Sorenson hummed noncommittally in reply, his gaze flickering to the pages as he coolly rifled through them.
"COD is consistent for all five victims—manual strangulation—although we'd suspected that from the get go. Confirmed by Carnes due to hyoid fractures in three of the five remains and what appears to be perimortem laryngeal damage. Not much tissue to go on, but after conferring with Dr. Parish in regards to the laryngeal trauma, they were both in agreement. After running dental scans through NCIC," he paused, very briefly, and she watched his eyes shutter, his throat ripple as he swallowed back…something. Frustration. Emotion. Anger. And she felt her throat constrict in response, easily related to the weekly, daily, hourly struggle to keep it all contained, keep it all checked in the face of so much loss and grief.
"Carnes ID'd the four skeletal remains," he continued after a beat. "Respectively, our victims are Matthew Corr, Kyle Baker, AJ Sandoval, and Owen Tees. And James Deacon, of course. Hard to say exactly how long after abduction it was that they met their end, but based on the boys' age at the time of their disappearance and the growth that incurred while they were held captive, Carnes seems to think it's likely they were kept alive for roughly two months. Which means his cooling off period is pretty substantial. Something like four or five months?" With a subdued grimace, Sorenson deposited the file on a stack of papers and sank wearily into a chair, interlaced his fingers, bowed his dark head. "So our next move is to inform the parents."
God, she winced, diaphragm clenching. God. This case. Making it to the other side of this one even marginally emotionally intact was looking less and less plausible. Though she'd likelier sleep with Sorenson than admit the truth, it was getting to her. Carefully suppressed memories of Deacon's miniature form prostrate on the morgue table, the cloying scent of decay, nauseating photos of the mass grave, the raw, shuddering sobs of Deacon's parents. Their red-rimmed, haunted eyes.
Unsettling dreams tore her from sleep most nights, though their details firmly eluded her in the daylight; trembling limbs and sweat-slicked skin the only confirmation of the murky horrors from which she emerged. And then she lay wide-eyed in her still-damp sheets, sleep miles away, until her alarm announced her voluntary immersion into the waking nightmare this goddamn case had revealed itself to be. It followed her, too, the shadow. Inundating her every waking minute with this sense of disquietude that tangled and snagged in her chest, her stomach. And on top of the gnawing thoughts of her father, the vivid grief she felt over her mother—she was probably one street taco away from a stomach ulcer.
Echoing Will's posture, she sat at the chaotic conference table, irritably batting away the hair that fell from her bun and bit back a curse. Calling the parents. Inanely, she thought of Alex, of the gaping disparity between their casual, buoying conversation—had they really spoken only minutes ago?—and the four she had yet to make. One so life-affirming, the others announcing its premature conclusion. Shelving the knot of emotion that fought to surface, blinking back the sharp bite of tears and exhaustion, she slipped a hand into the pocket of her blazer, withdrew her cell, and met Sorenson's flat gaze. "You ready?"
"No," he rejoined tightly, eyes fluttering shut as he steadied himself. And then, shoulders squaring in resolve, he pulled himself upright and turned those assessing eyes on her. "Now I'm ready."
Ensconced in greasy bar stools, hands wrapped around twin tumblers of whiskey, Kate and Sorenson stared ahead mutely, discretely lost in grim thoughts of the preceding calls. It was one o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon, and the smoky dive was vacant apart from their two stoop-shouldered forms and a morose suit in the corner whose expression rivaled theirs for bleakness. Silence shrouded the space, broken only by the raspy strains of a staticky radio in the back room, and she was grateful for the quietude, for the unspoken concurrence they'd made to remain wordless. After all, nothing seemed appropriate in the wake of such all-consuming grief—their sleepless night punctuated by horrifically sobering conversations. Unbidden, the keening denials of the Baker boy's mother filtered through her mind, Mr. Corr's frantic inquiries of are you sure? and wincing, she drained the last of her Maker's Mark in an effort to drown them out.
Surveying her empty glass, grey eyes sympathetic, Sorenson tilted his head enigmatically, and then summoned the youthful bartender with a piercing look. "Another for my friend, please," he requested, finally breaking their mutually imposed silence.
My friend, she blinked in bemusement. Well, that was unexpected. Will held up two, calloused fingers to indicate the expected serving size and after sweeping them both with speculative eyes, the punk-rocker-wannabe complied silently. The jewel tones of his tatted sleeves cheerfully glinting in the glaring wash of the track lighting as he tipped the bottle, emptying a generous portion into the chipped glassware.
"Thanks," she acknowledged, palming the tumbler gratefully and meeting Sorenson's eyes, a little thrown by the vulnerability she saw there, the fatigue and lingering sorrow.
"Don't mention it." He replied softly, almost warmly, and she dipped her head at his soft utterance, raised her glass expectantly to dispel the sudden intimacy of the moment.
"What are we drinking to?" Kate inquired, voice a little raspy from disuse, and she was pleased to see his mouth twist in a passable semblance of a smile. Because as much as his superior bearing pissed her off, he wasn't necessarily a bad guy. Initially, he'd been nothing short of an ass—arrogant, a bit condescending, dismissive—and even following his grudging apology, she'd held herself aloof when it came to personal interactions, still a bit gun shy, so to speak. But lately, he'd been…reasonably tolerable. Pleasant, even. Bringing her acrid coffees and soggy vending machine sandwiches, asking about her well-being and evening plans despite her consistently frigid demurs, stoically suffering through cold calls and financial records with her.
"To them," he stated, voice subdued, lifting his glass expectantly toward her. "The lost boys."
Startled, she torqued her upper body to face him. "Lost boys?"
"It's just…what I've been calling them in my head. Seems apropos."
She blinked at that, and at his haggard expression, surprised to see aspects of herself reflected. The sleepless nights, the haunting dreams, the sting of helplessness. Whether it was the liberating effects of the whiskey, or the mutually shared pain triggered by their calls, for the first time she saw Sorenson as more than a badge. Humanity leaking through the seams of his standard issue feeb suit. And it unnerved her. She didn't need the complication of liking the asshole. Keeping him at arms-length, tolerating his existence for the sake of the case, harboring diligently repressed resentment toward him—the present state of affairs was working well for her. And now he had to go and be real and open. Relatable.
"We're…we're gonna get him, you know?" She asked after a diffident pause, dropping her gaze to study the coppery bourbon. "This whole case has been one shitty turn after the other. Between the delays and practically nonexistent leads and scanty physical evidence, experience tells me our odds of nabbing this guy are slim to none. But it's like I can almost taste our big break. Like it's on the tip of my tongue, mentally speaking, but we haven't put two and two together yet. It's coming out three right now, but we just haven't found the right corresponding pieces. When we do, it'll come out right. We'll finally make four."
"Yeah, well, if we're talking addition, he's already made five," Will shot back, words laced with frustration, "and there's not a goddamn thing we can do to stop this pattern he seems so keen to continue. Everything's incumbent upon time restrictions and—and leads and we're running out of both. Might have done already."
"It's there, Will. I can feel it. Whatever clue or piece of evidence we need to crack this thing, we have it. We're just…we're not seeing the interconnections," she huffed and roughly rubbed at her eyes.
"We're running out of time," he repeated dejectedly.
"Yes, thank you for that revelation, White Rabbit. Tell me something I don't know."
Knocking back the remnants of his whiskey, he fixed her with a measuring look that had her suppressing the urge to shift in her seat, discomfited beneath his scrutiny. "Well, I don't know anyone's ever told you, but I've never seen someone handle victims' families so intuitively and so authentically. You're a… well, you're a hell of a detective, rare instincts, excellent people skills. So—so I believe you when you tell me we're missing something."
"Oh," she stammered out clumsily, an involuntary flush climbing down her neck. The grateful reply she knew he expected sat heavy in her mouth, but thank you seemed stupid, trite. And he'd shocked the hell out of her with that ringing endorsement.
"And I mean, I see it too," he continued when no response seemed forthcoming. "This gaping, mocking hole in the evidence, I know that there's a piece to this we're not seeing. But we will."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Glad we're on the same page," she stated simply, exchanging an enigmatic look with Sorenson, and then took another generous sip. This whole interaction was growing a little too saccharine for her tastes, too many warmly bestowed compliments and overly attentive grey eyes.
"So, what's a woman with your capabilities, with your intellect doing in law enforcement?"
And just like that, every trace of warmth, of fellowship fled.
"Excuse me?" She bristled harshly, and was gratified to see Sorenson's features tauten into a wary mask.
"Sorry," he told her, "I just…you're—women like you don't choose law enforcement, you know? Odds are it chose you. Even if enacting justice is your chief aim, women like you attend an ivy, go on to law school, have their name painted on a door, wear overpriced suits and marry hedge-fund managers. So, I just—what changed? Why this?"
Why this?
A tempting scenario beckoned sweetly—christening him with the dregs of her bourbon, storming out of the bar in a tenable blur of cathartic rage and flashing eyes. And maybe he didn't mean to poke and prod, maybe his interest was genuine. Maybe. And maybe he was every bit the insensitive ass he appeared to be. But she honestly didn't give a shit about what motivated his inquiry.
"You've got some nerve," she drawled slowly, voice remote, back nearly bowing from her rigid posture. "I don't know what gave you the idea that digging into my past and posing offensive questions is in any way an advisable move on your part, but just…this, my life, my past—it's not up for discussion. Understand? Stick to the case, save the third degree for the perps, and leave me the hell alone."
After a charged beat, the silence turned oppressive, he stiffly bobbed his head in comprehension and they turned back to their cups. One step forward, three lunges back, she simmered indignantly, doing what she could to tame the combustible, volatile words that inexplicably welled in her throat. Trying to force back the dark memories his questions had disinterred. And, then tossing back the rest of her drink, doing her damndest not to think at all.
Sorenson's ill-timed question followed her for the remainder of the day, nipping at her heels, fraying her nerves, and spiraling her into one of the foulest moods she could recall in recent memory. It had debrided the fragile callous the passage of time had grown over her wounds, tender scars inflicted one frigid winter night. And now that compartmentalization she so prided herself on was nothing more than wishful thinking.
Yeah, she was still working her mom's case. Quietly, deliberately, carefully. But this brought back all the destructive heat, all the raw emotion that she'd tucked away out of self-preservation when the case began cooling off. That she'd mastered and channeled into something productive—dispensing justice for others, methodically sifting through her mother's files, rising through the ranks like a helium balloon. And it was enough for her. Being productive. Or so she'd believed.
And of course, there was her dad. Why this? Well, Sorenson, because no choice had played a part in her decision to return to New York, or at the very least, desire had been speciously absent. Necessity? Absolutely. A misguided sense of responsibility? Her constant companion. Every unexpected phone call was a catch in her throat, a twinge of panic—Jim Beckett, father, attorney, alcoholic? New York City police department? County coroner's office? Something defeatist—or prophetic—in her had bleakly anticipated a second call. For the other shoe to drop. "Miss Beckett, we regret to inform you that your father…"
She stopped sleeping, stopped eating, and couldn't stop checking her phone, couldn't stop the nightmares. Couldn't stop the badgering sense of dread that accompanied every thought of her him alone, bottle in hand, cirrhosing himself into an early grave. And so she came home. Battling bone-deep weariness and bitter resentment toward her own father. Even now she fought it, the fear and the fury—this dichotomous yearning to reach out to him, to hear the familiar rasp of her name, to know he was well. But also to summarily, coolly, freely walk away. Like for like, eye for eye.
How does it feel to be abandoned?
Her taunting thoughts played circuitously throughout the day, distracting her from the monotony of paperwork, drowning out the droning buzz of precinct conversation. Sorenson kept glancing over, regret and unspoken apologies in his eyes, but she wasn't in the mood to dispense forgiveness—not when his probing questions had been the dissolution of her meticulous control. So when five o'clock rolled around, she hastily gathered her meager collection of personal items and departed without a word. Ready for the solitude and relative safety of home.
Following their conversation the night before, Kate had determinedly relegated thoughts of Alex to some remote corner of her mind, channeling her collected energies into working the case. Into tolerating Sorenson's presence. But now, shuffling into her stuffy shoebox of an apartment, the day's mail clutched in one hand, he flooded her thoughts. And rather than suppress the overwhelming urge to call him up, rather than humor her reservations or hesitations, she easily, readily capitulated.
"Kate," his disembodied voice issued, and she fought a sigh at the warmth there, the happy lilt of his tone. It sifted through her, sluicing the tension from her shoulders, loosening her limbs and bending her lips into a hesitant, watery smile.
"Sorry, I didn't—I should have asked first. I mean, is this a good time?"
"For you? Always," he assured her, fervent for all he was succinct, and she tucked the promise away, resolved not to dwell overlong on its implications.
Stiltedly, she shambled to her misshapen couch, carelessly shucking her heels en route before dropping to the thinning cushions. "I'm sorry our conversation was cut short today," she continued, loosing her hair from the tight confines of its bun.
"I have a sneaking suspicion that whatever called you away was a good deal more pressing than discussing the very intriguing particulars of your person," he murmured dryly, and she swallowed back a wave of unexpected sadness, reminded of how she'd spent her pre-dawn hours.
"Yeah," she managed, voice flat but unwavering—thank god for small favors. Despite striving for composure, however, she gave herself away. Or he was just that attuned to her—must have picked up on the emotion that bled through her seams, pressed through the walls of her neatly divided internal compartments.
"Don't answer this if you don't want, but…are you okay? You just—your voice kind of lilted up at the end of your response, and it—I don't know. Your voice sounds heavy. Weighty." God, he inferred all that from a single affirmation? "Is your—is everything okay? With work? With your—with your dad?"
"Today was…" fine. For just a moment, a prolonged beat, she considered lying, deftly equivocating and redirecting the conversation. But he sounded so sincere, and the warm rasp of his voice had lulled her into this hazy sense of complacency, and the truth just spilled from her, unchecked. "Today was hell. I love my job, I love what I do, but there are aspects that—I mean, you never get used to them. And you shouldn't. Some things, people should never stop feeling. Some things should always have an impact. But today was especially…it was—it was painful."
After that soliloquy, she deserved some sort of an award. A statuette, a round of applause, something—because she'd exercised raw vulnerability and unfiltered honesty, and now her pulse thudded so vigorously that it palpated the crisp cotton over the base of her sternum. Aorta, she mused detachedly, and pressed her free hand against the fluttering cloth of her dress shirt.
"It hurts because it matters," he stated after a collective pause,the sentiment an affirming reflection of her own precepts. "I could say I'm sorry, and I am, but…whoever it was that you were—that you were assisting…you sharing in their pain made it easier to bear, I'm sure."
"Who said anything about me sharing in their pain?"
"Chalk the assumption up to my dazzling inferential abilities. You didn't say it, but the implication was there. I mean—I mean, am I wrong?"
"You're not wrong," she acceded grudgingly, and he hummed in response. Over the receiver, she could hear the indistinct susurration of his movements, the shifting of linens or cushions, and she wondered where he was, what he was doing. "So, you should—you should give me a little mental respite; some much-needed normalcy."
"You've come to the wrong place for normalcy," he quipped, and she felt the stirrings of a smile despite the tangle of anxiety in her chest.
"While customarily I would be in total agreement," she informed him pertly, continuing despite his injured huff, "but odd as you are, your day was inarguably…ordinary compared to mine. I'm assuming. And I—I want to hear about it. Fill me in."
"Really? You wanna hear how I spent my day?" Judging from his bark of laughter, she'd surprised him.
"Yeah, is that such an odd request?"
"No, I just—just don't anticipate some scintillating tale, because I'm bound to disappoint you," he forewarned, tone self-deprecatingly dry. But his charge was empty. The man was a born raconteur—expressive, with a sweeping vocabulary and a mellow baritone that could make Ikea manuals compelling.
"Today was achingly slow. And maybe…no, that's incontrovertibly a generous descriptor. It made the evolution of mankind look like one of those party favor flipbooks."
"Now you're just being melodramatic," she accused wryly and propped her feet on the lip of her rickety coffee table, settling in to the conversation expectantly. The way their dialogue wrapped itself around her was akin to hands encircling a coffee mug—comfortably familiar, warm, stabilizing. A necessary component of your day?
"So, I woke up early and had to shuffle my kid off to this day camp for brilliant future astronomers—and she's been on this interplanetary kick for the past couple of months, babbling on knowledgeably about dark matter and dwarf stars and how many parsecs per minute—"
"Oh, c'mon, Alex. Everyone knows a parsec is a unit of distance, not time. Don't tell me you didn't set her right, because a future astronomer needs to know…" she petered off, initial certitude subsiding when he didn't respond. "Alex?"
"You have a commendable knowledge of the Kessel Run," he rasped, naked awe in his tone.
"Unbelievable," she rolled her eyes at that, a genuine laugh escaping her, "parsecs are real, I hope you realize. Not a Lucas construct."
"And inexplicably, you continue to grow hotter and hotter—at what is easily an exponential rate. It's actually a little unsettling."
"Just wait until I pull out my Tolkien references," she purred coyly, smirking at the telling clatter on the other line—dropped receiver, fumbled coffee mug, collision with a wall. It was refreshing, gratifying, charming even, his response to their verbal repartee.
"Mean woman. You're deliberately cruel," he accused, tone just shy of sullen.
"I am," she agreed, nodding her head needlessly, "which is why you should probably do your damndest to deliver on your promise for normalcy."
"Right," he drawled, and she pressed herself deeper into the sofa cushions, burrowing into the upholstery, "normalcy was promised. So, before the sun had even made an appearance, we were up and about, toasting Poptarts, cobbling together a superb brown bag lunch, haphazardly throwing on quasi-coordinating outfits, which, if you know anything of kids, went over about as well as a lead balloon. We made it there in time for registration, but barely, and after that, I hustled back home where I've been working. Nonstop. Punctuated only by a rather decadent grilled cheese and a couple bathroom breaks. And, of course, your superbly timed call. Did I mention how glad I am you called me?"
She curled her toes inward, let her eyes flutter shut, wanted to bask in the familiarity of his words and the contentment of his tone. "Never hurts to hear," she murmured, and they lapsed into a shared beat of amiable silence.
Alex sipped in a preparatory breath that had her opening her eyes, leaning forward. "Yeah?"
"Oh, it's nothing, I just—I mean, I just wanted to make sure that you're really okay. Not just placating me or tidily sweeping everything under a mental Aubusson. And I know we mutually decided that certain details are best left out of the mix at present—your precinct, the nature of your department, if you're also a closet Trekkie—but if you ever do need, or just really want to discuss anything, you—you can always talk to me, you know?" He confirmed hesitantly, doing what he could to avoid proverbial toes and potential treading, she assumed. but willing to chance an unpredictable outcome. Because he was sincere and concerned and kind. And she couldn't fault him for that. Nor did she want to, really.
"I get that," she conceded stiltedly, a little subdued, a little hushed, "and…thanks. I just—some things, you—there just aren't words for some things. Even if I wanted to expound on the situation, which I don't, I wouldn't do it justice. Couldn't. My words would fall flat, would fall short, and I would be more frustrated than before I tried and consequently failed to…liberate my thoughts."
"Your work is isolating," he murmured contemplatively, and she blinked back a surge of emotion, fatigue, unsolicited loneliness at his observation. Surprise that he'd made such an accurate determination with nothing but telephone lines between them.
"Sometimes." Almost always, she internally corrected and shifted on the couch, discomfited by the direction of their conversation. "But that's—I mean, that's the nature of the job. I knew it when I signed on. It's a lot of long hours and fierce self-sufficiency and near-chronic fatigue and emotional trauma, but we do it for justice and for the victims. And that knowledge makes it worthwhile. Most days, at any rate."
"That's—you're pretty astonishing, you know?" He almost breathed it out after a lengthy pause, the compliment warming the crests of her cheeks, the ridges of her ears. Not why this? she considered with a rush of gratitude, no indirect aspersions cast on her career choice, no probing inquiries. Just appreciation, affirmation.
"I think you're assigning too much significance to this, to the job. I'm one of roughly 30,000 individuals with the same uniform, with the same principle goal." Inanely, she realized she still clutched the bundle of envelopes and bill statements in her hand, the paper creased, softening beneath her damp palm. Peeling back her fingers, she watched dully as they fluttered to the battered floorboards.
"And I don't think you're giving yourself enough credit," he interjected kindly, "but let's just…leave that discussion for another time."
"Fair enough. Why don't you…tell me more about your work? Or your daughter and her interplanetary aspirations."
"You request normalcy and then ask about my genius daughter?" His laugh rasped through the earpiece, rinsed through her, and prompted a quick, bright smile from her in response. "She's—well, I think precocious is the word that comes to mind. She's this owl-eyed, old soul, all knowing looks and empathy. But she's something of a paradox, because for all her maturity, she loves fantasy. Escaping the rigors of this world in the pages of a fictional land, losing herself in a movie or Broadway musical. She feels deeply, but she—she tries to hide it sometimes, I think. And it's not pride that keeps her from showing emotion, I think she doesn't want to burden anyone, doesn't want to concern them."
"Meaning you," Kate elucidated, and he hummed his affirmation.
"Meaning me. And for all her sensitivity, you know, she's pretty damn brave. Trying new things, consistently excelling, demanding unnatural levels of perfection from herself. Which, if I'm being totally open here, concerns me. Because what happens if she fails? When she fails?" She absently wondered if her own father had ever entertained introspection, had methodically thought through a character sketch of his daughter, had outlined her virtues and flaws. But it sent an ache singing through her, so she tucked the thought neatly away.
"When she fails—because she will, she's human—she has you and a whole host of other people that cherish her to soften the sting, to help her grow from it."
He paused for a beat, and when he spoke, his voice was measuring, wistful. "I'll bet you were a reckoning force at that age."
"Me?" A laugh snapped from her as hazy reminiscences flooded her mind—mental Polaroids, grainy and tattered and solitary. "I was—God, I was a hellion. Stubborn and willful, ran with the boys, more band-aids than skin most days. And I had this—this really horrific temper. Like, it was incendiary. One summer, I was in three separate fights in the space of a week, and to be honest I can't even remember why."
"No doubt they deserved it." He muttered, endearingly certain in his endorsement of her scrappy past.
"Debatable," she countered dryly, then let her head tip back against the cushion, peered up at the popcorn-ceiling, visually traced the contours of her smattering of water stains. "But it did establish me as a pretty solid neighborhood threat—boys gave me a wide berth and I was always a top pick in kickball and baseball. So it payed off in the end, I'd say. But I—well, I changed. Shifted and grew and matured. Parental expectations and private schooling are to blame for that, I suppose. And I still see shades of that ferocious kid in myself, flashes of her here and there, it's just…more purposeful? My anger, my obstinacy, my combativeness—they're all facets of what make me a better cop, but they don't rule me."
Don't they, Beckett? Unconsciously, her gaze flickered to the dingy, fastened shutters, the edges of her piecemeal collection of leads—memos, hastily scrawled notes, photographs—barely discernible through the slats.
"And what of you?" She prompted, eyes still trained on the window.
"My childhood?" He clarified, and she hummed her assent. "I was a reckoning force in my own way. A noisy latchkey kid desperate for attention, for acceptance, but too obnoxious to tolerate in most schoolyard cliques, I channeled my frustrations into—well, into literature. Reading, writing, reimagining my life. And, like I—like I wrote in one of my letters, things changed in adolescence. The financial instability of my elementary years melted away, and I faced a new—yet familiar—set of challenges. Which is to say, kids are assholes regardless of age or socioeconomic status, and I wasn't tolerated in my high school years any better than from ages five to thirteen. So I get what you mean, when you say flashes of the kid you were live in the woman you are. I still see glimpses of—of the…fear of rejection, the tendency to withdraw, to live in my head."
Just as when she'd first read his rambling succession of letters, a pang went through her, the strangest dichotomy of compassion and admiration. "You turned out okay, seems like," she managed evenly.
"You haven't met me, yet." Alex's dark chuckle was a warning and an enticement that had her shifting restlessly.
"Then I'll reserve judgment for now, I suppose."
"Are you sure you don't—I mean, you don't wanna know who I am?" He inquired, tone enigmatic.
"Jeez, Alex," she leaned heavily on his name, hearing the implication of there's more you don't know in his unspoken words, but not ready to relinquish the ease of what they had at the moment. "I think I'll manage to survive without that crucial piece of information. For now."
"Fair enough," he yielded, heaving an overwrought sigh, "but when you do, just say the word. And maybe sit down first, or at the very least be standing over a carpeted surface during the big reveal."
"Okay, see, now I think you're just messing with me. There's no way your identity is that shocking. Honestly." She volleyed back and was rewarded with an indignant gasp.
"Well, detective, you'd be wrong. And I hope that you—" he broke off mid-sentence, exchanged words with someone else judging by the distant murmur of his voice over the line, and then he was back. "Hey, Kate, I've gotta let you go. Alexis just got back from astronomy camp—thank god for carpools—and apparently all she's had today is dehydrated space cheese and Tang, so I've gotta get dinner—"
"Go, take care of your kid, Alex," she dismissed easily, ignoring the unexpected stab of disappointment at his departure.
"I'll call you soon, Kate," he informed her, voice warm, and the line went dead.
Depositing her cell phone onto the cushion beside her, Kate expelled a gusty sigh and raked stiff fingers across her aching scalp, suddenly feeling a little adrift. She had some bean burritos in the freezer she could nuke for dinner, but despite the gnawing hunger pangs tightening her stomach, nothing sounded appealing. At the moment, her mind was too preoccupied to trifle with food, sifting through thoughts of Alex, of Sorenson, the case. Her father.
Her father.
They hadn't spoken since that day at the hospital, had allowed the accusations and angry words to sour and congeal into this awkward tension, which neither of them had ventured to break. Was he doing well? Or was he voluntarily diving down his very own rabbit hole on a nightly basis, courtesy of Goose and Daniels? Honestly, she wasn't sure she wanted an answer, but every time she thought of this rift between them, guilt and remorse sang through her. And she wanted a resolution.
Sucking in a steadying breath, she reached impulsively for a piece of junk mail—some low-interest credit card offer boasting cash back and rewards—and tore into it, flipping over the informational sheet to expose a blank expanse of paper. She wrapped her fingers around a stray pen sitting atop a half-finished crossword puzzle, and swallowing tightly, began to write.
Dad,
I'm at a bit of a loss starting this letter, frankly. There are dozens of thoughts and emotions I'd like to share with you, but your track record is a little specious when it comes to taking action. And I'd rather sit on those sentiments than offer them up only to have them summarily tossed aside.
I'm pissed as hell with you for jeopardizing your health, your life, time and time again. And I'm also guilty as hell that I feel this way, that I'm withholding parts of myself, refusing a relationship. Being a shitty daughter. But for the sake of my sanity, I'm resolving to keep myself at a distance until I see evidence you've changed. Truly changed.
Don't think this detachment, this separation is in any way easy or desired on my part. But I think this is best for both of us—mutually imposed separation is vastly preferred to this constant cycle of disappointment. You're in a program, going to meetings, doing great, let's have dinner, Katie! And then the weepy, saccharine, slurry phone call signaling the all-too-expected relapse. Lather, rinse, repeat. I just think if we have any chance of repairing our relationship one day, I need the space to be angry, to heal, and to not have my wounds reopened—not be disappointed by your choices, yet again. So, I guess this is my way of letting you know I'm making myself scarce, but that once you've fixed yourself, I'll be waiting.
I hope you're doing well, and I love you.
Kate
She was in the process of creasing and folding her letter into an envelope when her phone vibrated against her leg, startling her from a doleful stupor, and she roughly snapped it open, barking a perfunctory "Beckett" into the mouthpiece.
"I was gonna ask you if you wanted dinner, but from the sound of it, we should skip straight to the wine bar, girl." She relaxed at Lanie's whiskey-smooth drawl, huffed a bashful laugh.
"After this week, can you blame me?"
"Blame you? Hell, I'm trying to entice you. And readily volunteering myself as a companion."
"I'm not opposed to the idea," she admitted ruefully, "and after all the granola bars and shitty coffee I've been taking in lately, I could use a hot meal. What did you have in mind?"
"Potjanee has this Phad Pak I've been craving, and I'm pretty sure you'd go nuts over their Pad Thai. Pretty good wine and sake list, too. Whadya say?" Lanie wheedled needlessly, her sing-song cadence drawing a reluctant half-smile from Kate.
"Like it was even a question," came her sardonic murmur.
"Curb the enthusiasm, why don't you. Meet you there at eight?"
"Yeah," she affirmed quietly, "see you soon." Depositing her phone on the battered surface of her coffee table, she rose gingerly from the insulating warmth of the sofa, strode lethargically toward her room. Genuinely—albeit tentatively—happy despite the dark cloud hanging over her. Despite her father. Despite the Lost Boys.
"So, lemme get this straight. He asked you why this?" Lanie demanded lowly, expression murderous. "Those were his words?"
Swallowing her mouthful of wine, eyes smarting as the bold red slid down her throat, Kate dipped her head. "Yeah, and you know, he seemed absolutely bowled over by my response. Confused as to why I was so goddamn pissed.'
"And I thought the feds liked their agents smart," Lanie bit out pointedly, tilting her empty wineglass meaningfully in the direction of their waiter.
Smirking, she let her gaze lazily drift across the cramped space, fingers absently eviscerating the remains of her spring roll— dark grain wood tables and pendulum lighting warmed the interior, intricate tapestries and a sprawling mural blanketed the lengths of the walls, the atmosphere eccentric, a charming bricolage of furniture and textures and color. The aroma of fried rice paper wrapped around her, tempting her to place an order for those glass noodles she'd been eyeing despite the brick of Pad Thai currently churning in her stomach. All of those factors in addition to their delivery service, Potjanee has swiftly established itself as second or third best overall in her mental catalogue of Soho eats.
"Aside from run-ins with asshole agents, what else you got going on?" Lanie inquired distractedly, brow knitted in concentration as she fumbled inarticulately with her chopsticks.
Kate gave herself a beat, collected her thoughts, and dove in. "Well, I called Alex."
Lanie blinked at her admission, eyes rounding, chopsticks clattering to the gummy tabletop. "Wait. You called him?"
"Is that so hard to believe?" She bristled faintly, chafing under Lanie's obvious astonishment.
"Let me…let me rephrase that. Or, really, just adjust the accentuation," she amended, tone amused if not placating. "You asked him?"
"Lanie," she muttered warningly, nominally stung by the turn their conversation had taken, by the faint insinuations regarding her flagrant commitment issues. It wasn't as though she didn't contend with enough self-recrimination. Wasn't as though she never regretted her near-impenetrable walls.
Somewhat subdued, Lanie canted toward her, eyes affectionate, tone unnervingly kind. "Sorry, girl. I'm just—I can't believe you called him! So, spill! What happened? How'd it go down?"
In spite of the lingering vestiges of annoyance, her lips sloped to the side, head tilted contemplatively, and she hummed cryptically. "It was…I guess it felt…comfortable, is the most accurate descriptor. Like we were picking up the threads of conversation rather than starting from ground zero. And the way he talks is—it's captivating. Everything he says is eloquent and meaningful and—it's as though he's echoing my own thoughts, only far more lyrically than I could ever manage."
"So it was good?" The ME's face was inscrutable now, but the way she clasped her hands on the tabletop belied her anticipation.
"Yeah," she admitted, gaze flickering away from Lanie's knowing look, "it's always great."
"Wait, always?" At this point, the measure of her excitement was bordering on mortifying. Patrons glanced over at the ME's effusive gestures, her enthusiastic inquiries, and Beckett ducked her head, felt the rush of blood pool in her cheeks.
"Yes, always," she hissed witheringly, grabbing for her wine, quaffing an overgenerous portion.
"So there's been more than one call."
"Yep." There was always the off chance taciturnity would deter her.
"How many?"
Apparently not. "Three."
"And who called who?"
"God, Lanie, this is a casual dinner, not Guantanamo Bay," she griped, suffering a pang of sincere regret over her ill-considered decision to introduce the Alex issue.
"Of course not," she reasoned, smug smile tipping her full lips, "detention camps don't have spring rolls like this. But you didn't answer my question."
"I called, he called, I called," she allowed grudgingly, pinning the ME with a look of censure. "You're too damn pushy, you know?"
"You're welcome," she simpered, raising her glass in a mocking toast. "Now lose the glower, girl. I'll stop interrogating you if you'll answer two simple, noninvasive questions for me."
"Do I really have a choice?" She countered flatly, polishing off the remnants of her cab.
"What do you talk about?" Lanie ventured without pause, wholly disregarding Beckett's acerbic dig.
Oh, she blinked, a little nonplussed by the conventionality of her question. Well, that was reasonable enough, and far from intrusive. And Lanie was regarding her with this bemused expectancy now, a quizzical smile in place of her grating smirk, less arm-twisting, more warm invitation. Yeah, she could be open about this, though she internally reserved the right to redact their entendres and more intimate divulgences. Brow knitting, she pushed back against the chintzy vinyl seat, struggling to cohesively marshal her thoughts.
"I—we talk about everything. Which isn't a cop out, I swear. We swap jokes and stories, talk about work, family. The stupid, inane aspects of the day-to-day, you know? And the way he talks—his thoughts are so complex and lyrical, but it's natural. Not affected or lofty, just poetic. And relatable. And effortless. The conversation flows so easily, so steadily, and there's this openness between us that I…so yeah," she trailed off weakly, finally meeting Lanie's inscrutable gaze. "That answer your question?"
Lanie hummed her assent, then listed her head to one side and frowned. "As to my second question…just don't—don't be too pissed, okay?"
Jesus. Inwardly steeling herself, she steeply arched a brow, Lanie's tacit signal to proceed.
"I guess," the ME led hesitantly, "why this? I mean, why him, why now, why this way, when you're stunning and interesting and, hell, girl, you could have 'em lining up. And whatever rationale you provide—if you even have one—is fine. You'll get no judgment from this quarter, but…I've just gotta ask."
"We're—Lane, we're just friends," she stammered out, the assertion unconvincing even to herself. "There's not that component to our—to whatever it is we have. To this really unconventional relationship—friendship. Whatever. But, I…he understands me. And it's been refreshing, you know? That we're mutually finding the value of this thing in who the other actually is—their character, their mind, their personality." She faltered for a beat, sucking in an equalizing breath before forging ahead. "And, uh, you're right. I could have—have had them lining up. For my body, for an invitation to my bed. And sometimes—rarely, eventually—for something authentic. But it's never started out this way for me with a guy. Where there wasn't that physical element right from the get-go. So that's why this. Because for the first time in longer than I'd like to admit, I feel seen. And known. And completely understood."
Sentiments exhausted, she glanced up to find Lanie peering at her warmly, wearing a look of reassuring comprehension, her remarks graciously withheld. At least, for the moment. They passed a long moment in companionate silence before the ME signaled their waiter, requested he replenish their glasses, graced her with a fleeting smile over the Revlon-smudged rim of her glass, and issued her only response—voice a little triumphant, a little tender, utterly certain.
"Good."
A/N:
Contrary to popular belief I'm still alive and kicking, and I swear I haven't abandoned this story. Rather, I moved about a thousand miles away from home and dove headlong into a wearying summer intensive for my grad school program. I'm so, so sorry for the radio silence on my end, and I want to say a special thank you to each and every lovely human that left a note of appreciation for this story or an encouragement to continue its progress. With 60+ pages of reading per night and thirteen page papers due every weekend, I've struggled to find time for sleep much less for inspired writing.
All that said, I'm not entirely satisfied with this installment. Far from satisfied, actually. I'm assuming it's rife with typos, and I know there's plenty that could be improved upon, but I've left you guys hanging for far too long. Here's hoping this will appease you lovely folk! Thank you for your patience and for sticking around! It means the world to me! More to come soon—promise.
-Feministly