He walks past a park, during the middle of an investigation. As per usual Beckett is always a few steps ahead of him. He stops at the fence, to survey the park as she heads for the car. He knows why she doesn't linger, or even want to offer a passing glance. He studies the faces on the playground. Chubby toddlers, and gleeful preschoolers. His eyes fall on a boy on the swing set. He looks like her. He smiles, and calls out.

"Liam?"

The boy looks up at him. He hops off his swing, and runs towards Castle. He wraps his arms around him, smiling.

"Thank you for finding me."

He wakes up gasping for air, in a cold sweat. He rolls over, and looks at the alarm clock. It reads 3:29. He leans against his pillow trying to make sense of the dream. None of it makes sense. Reality, or dream, none of it makes any sense. He looks over at Kate, who lies next to him, sound asleep. He untangles the sheets from around his body, and smoothes them with his hand. He closes his eyes, and attempts to return to sleep.

When he awakens again he finds that the other side of the bed is empty. The clock now reads 4:48. He climbs out of bed, and sets out to find her. He finds her in the kitchen sitting on a bar stool. She leans against the counter with her elbows pressed into the surface. She stares at a half empty glass of water. Silently he takes the seat next to her.

"I'm coming back to bed in a minute," she insists.

"Okay," he slides off the bar stool, choosing not to push her. He retreats to his room. He climbs back in bed, and waits for her to join him. It's half an hour before she finally crawls back into bed. She eventually drifts back to sleep, but he doesn't. He finds himself wide awake, staring up at the ceiling.

He looks over at her, and tries to close his eyes. Just as he's nearly asleep he hears the sound of her voice. It's not a whisper, or a calm, sheepish tone.

"No! Liam!" She screams in her sleep.

He rolls towards her, and kisses her shoulder. He wraps his arm around her, and she settles. Eventually they both drift out of consciousness.

She finds that he's gone by the time she wakes up for the day. He doesn't answer her phone calls. He sends her a text saying that he's working on research for his next book. She heads off to work, and he returns to the scene of the crime. He parks at the end of the block. He climbs out of his car, and heads for the sidewalk. He stops, to take in each detail. He's only taken a few steps when he looks up to the end of the street.

The street is relatively quiet, as it's ten o'clock and most of the people living on this block are at work. In the yard closest to the stop sign is a large silver maple with a swing tied to one of the branches. It's a nice middle class neighborhood. There are trees, and fences. Each yards is nicely maintained, and well landscaped. He stares at the numbers on the houses as he makes his way down the street. He stops outside of 1352. He turns, and looks up the driveway. There is a minivan parked outside of the garage. He sees a fence just past the garage. He takes a deep breath, and starts up the walk towards charming two story house.

He stops at the front door, hesitating. He takes a moment to look around. Under his feet a brown welcome mat. Near the door is a black mailbox. In silver the name Peyton is scrawled. There is a wicker loveseat on the far side of the porch. Nearest to him is a pair of wicker chairs. While it looks a touch on the kitschy side he must admit it looks rather homey.

He exhales after what seems like an eternity, and pushes the doorbell. He can hear no movement in the house due to the sound of kids playing in the backyard. He's surprised when the door pulls open. He flashes his best grin. It is a smile that is reminiscent of the cheshire cat.

"Can I help you?" The woman asks.

"I working on a story, and I was hoping that you could help me."

"I'm sorry I didn't catch your name."

"Richard Castle, yours?"

"Mister Castle it's very nice to meet you. I'm Emma Peyton," she smiles offering her hand.

He shakes her hand, and tries to see past her into the house, "Can I come in?"

"That's probably not a good idea. It's a disaster in here."

"Okay. I was just wondering what you could tell me about an accident that happened here about six years ago."

"There isn't much that I can tell you. It was late at night, and I didn't hear it."

"But you heard about it?"

"Yes. My neighbor was the one who made the 911 call."

"Six years ago there were only three houses on this block, right? One was still under construction, so it was vacant."

"Right."

"Your house is much closer to the end of the street than the other one was."

"Yes."

"But you didn't hear anything?"

"I was asleep."

"How long had you been living here when the accident happened?"

"A couple of weeks. I had just gotten back into town."

"You didn't hear the accident, or the explosion?"

"No."

"What about your husband?"

"I wasn't married then."

"How many bedrooms does this place have?"

"Five."

"Five bedrooms, and you were living alone?"

"No. I was a single mom."

"How did you have the money for this place?"

"I moved back here to be around my family. I had been living in Vegas. One night I ended up winning a substantial amount of money, and I decided to come home. I wanted to raise my children here."

"And your husband?"

"He is actually one of the firemen who helped out with the accident that night."

"I see. So you're a stay at home mom?"

"I work from home," she responds.

"It sounds like there is quite a ruckus going on in the backyard."

"There is always a ruckus around here. I have six kids seven and under."

"That must get expensive."

"I thought that you were here to write a story," she furrows her brow.

"I am. I am working on the story of what happened the night of the accident."

"It was foggy the driver hit a truck that stalled in the intersection. Why are you so interested?"

"I am always interested in murder."

"Murder? What are you talking about? No one was murdered. The car caught fire."

"Did you see anyone hanging around the car?"

"I didn't see anything," she insists.

"How old are your kids?" He questions changing the subject.

The sound of a wailing toddler abruptly ends their conversation.