The parking area at Montauk Light is a sprawling oval of blacktop within the surrounding forest. It's been plowed since yesterday's heaping helping of snowfall, but Rick's car is the sole occupant. Looking back at it from entrance off Montauk Highway, the automobile seems forlorn amidst all that emptiness. A glance ahead reveals her husband-to-be striding towards the crosswalk, similarly solitary.

Well you wouldn't be if you'd wait up, Kate beams to him mentally.

She got him pretty worked up with her reaction to his admission of having previously undisclosed baggage. Damn, damn, damn. How could she not, given what he'd been saying? Though her concerns about what's coming have not diminished, logic and reason returned in the interim, reminding her that he is afraid as well. Castle needs her to be solid for him, at least for a little while. So, the detective was given an allotted freak-out moment. Okay. Now it's back to business.

Kate jogs after her partner. Smooth-fit jeans lend her lower half a great silhouette. As good as flypaper for eliciting her partner's wayward hands to her backside apparently, but the single-digit temperature ruling the day cuts right through them. Her calf-length boots are equipped with modest heels at least.

That is small comfort from on her back.

Blinking hazel eyes stare up into the sky. The fall was so sudden it didn't even hurt. Um. She huffs, and then giggles briefly. Even on the worst days… Rick appears into view above her. His obvious concern does precious little to dissuade the fit. Her companion purses his lips and cocks an eyebrow as she quivers in the snow, trying to smother mirth fueled by embarrassment.

You're mental, his look declares, hovering on the verge of amusement. "I never thought I'd see the day, Beckett."

"Don't look at me," she protests mildly. "I'm disgustingly horizontal."

"No, no. Take it from me: it's a fetching angle on you." The rumble of a throaty chuckle escapes him as he lowers to one knee. Kate circles his neck with her arms and he hoists her upright. Both of them brush away clinging snow from her pants and coat. "Are you okay?" The way his blue eyes drift to one side suggests the question isn't as simple as it might appear to a casual observer.

"Better now," she replies firmly. "I stumbled a bit is all."

"Everyone stumbles now and then."

"Not everyone has someone to help them up, or to hold onto so they don't fall in the first place." Less subtle, that, but it does the job. She curls an arm into the crook of his right one when he offers it. They set out into the snow again together. "Can I ask though…did it ever occur to you to tell me this before now?"

"Of course!" Castle returns forcefully. His eyebrows lift, followed ruefully by one corner of his mouth. "Of course it did," he repeats more calmly. "Believe it or not I've learned my lesson with holding back. You have every right to be upset with me. I know that. But this was never a secret I meant to keep from you specifically, Kate. I've kept it from the world in general and for most of my life. There are other people involved. It's not just my story to tell even if I wanted to, which I don't. I never did."

"But you are now," she observes when he hesitates to continue.

"Yes," he answers slowly, "but it's not about wanting to. It's about full disclosure."

Kate frowns to take in the apologetic hunch of his shoulders and the contrasting determination set into his jaw. "Did someone hurt you, Rick?" Even to her ears that comes out laced with an electric undercurrent of protective anger. Castle pauses in their walk to face her. His gloved hands burrow into the pockets of his navy p-coat. Closing off on me again, she notes, though he doesn't seem aware. "Sorry. Tell it your way," the detective tries from a different angle. "You said it was summer."

"A hot one," he reiterates by way of confirmation, slowly growing distant again. Silent reasserts itself for a time, but he shakes himself out of it to focus on her. "Is it okay to tell you this way—kind of like it's a story? Somehow it feels easier, or at least, ah, more appropriate."

"More appropriate?"

Rick moistens his lips and sends his gaze into the snow between their feet, but his voice is steady and smooth, matter-of-fact. "I haven't been Richard Rodgers for a long time, Kate. He might as well be a fictional character for all I remember of him."

"Tell it however you need to. I'm just glad you're doing it, Rick; letting me in. I can see it's not easy."

"No more difficult than it was for you to do the same. But you've been in for longer than you know. This is simply an event that occurred to some people a long time ago. It's not me. I just happened to be there. What we've built together over these past several years—that's me. My daughter, mother, and my work," he lists with obvious agitation, "both with you at the precinct and in my writing. That's where you find me." The last five words are thrust out in more of a growl. "Not in these godforsaken woods!"

A trickle of fear creeps right down her spine. She can't bring herself to ask: Who are you trying to convince?

His fingers twitch to feel hers entwine among them, but he doesn't pull away. Instead he nods once as though answering an unspoken question and turns to lead her across the street. A snow-laden red pick-up is parked outside the lighthouse in the distance. Side buildings to their right and ahead on the left are both closed up with their windows black in lieu of occupancy. There's no discerning their function from the outside, and Castle offers no explanation. In fact he veers away from the tourist attraction to a side road at their left which leads into the woods, presumably winding down to Montauk Point.

"Talk to me," she prods gently.

Castle's head lifts and turns to her. "Right," he murmurs. "Summer. I was here. I…he rode his bike here from town. It wasn't a new one like some of the other kids have, but he liked it anyway."

"You, uh, he made a long trip."

"Yes," the other agrees with a humorless smile. "The summer place Mother owned back then was closer than mine is, but it was still a few miles off from here. It would've had to have been significantly more to dissuade the young man back then. He'd come to see about a girl."

Kate can't help a brief pursing of her lips.

Rick's eyes narrow somewhat with affection to behold it. "He was just a boy, Kate, and she was sixteen. Laura. She was his babysitter, but the young man thought…"

"That she liked you? Uh, him."

The author tilts his head slightly to one side in a hedging gesture. "Not in a romantic sense. He was still teetering on the phase where girls and cooties are mutually inclusive. But Laura was different. She was so vibrant in the way she engaged him." The author's brow creases slightly and his lips quiver with a smile that ultimately does not emerge. "It's as if he brought her similar joy. The young woman would set him next to her at the piano and they'd play together. With wide eyes, she told him he was a prodigy. Such a designation meant nothing to the boy except that it somehow made her happy. They shared a connection he hadn't found elsewhere, not for lack of friends or loved ones, but simply because the fact is: some people are…special together."

A fragile smile hovers at Beckett's lips. I couldn't agree more.

The snow grows deeper as they walk. No plow has been driven along this route. Only the overhanging boughs of the bordering trees spare them the additional inches that would otherwise be hampering their progress. Still, the author pauses to frown critically at her jeans. The hems are already dark with moisture.

Goodness. He makes her ache sometimes—thinking of her comfort even now? "I'm fine," she assures. "Keep going."

Castle hesitates, but complies. "One particular summer night, Richard heard her talking on the phone to someone about going to the point. He didn't understand the implications involved, or comprehend the difference in the way she smiled during the conversation. At that time this place was used as a lover's lane."

"Prime real-estate," Beckett observes, admittedly swept by a mild wave of nostalgia. "The murmur of the ocean, the seclusion of the trees. No lights from town to dampen the stars, and the lighthouse nearby. Très romantique."

Her companion nods once, but his expression disagrees. He looks ill.

Kate gives his hand a small squeeze.

"Um. It was already late when the boy biked out here. Rather, an early Wednesday morning. He didn't encounter anyone else coming or going, but that wasn't strange at such an hour." In the snow-laden woods where noise is swiftly defeated, the sonorous flow of his voice seems like the only sound left in the world. "The boy rode over the bumps in the dirt road, using them as ramps by which to launch his bike into the air. In addition to the distraction of playing, he was on familiar terrain. Both helped him forge ahead, and he did need the help. An overactive imagination made him especially susceptible to being afraid of the dark."

"So you snuck out to follow her? How'd you pull that off?"

Castle's eyes slide to hers and his lips curve in a small, sad smile.

"Oh damn," the dark-haired woman murmurs. "Martha wasn't home, was she?"

"She was supposed to be. I'm sure she meant to. You have to understand: acting is like any business. It's all in who you know, but to a greater degree than normal. Where we might see her going to parties and having fun, to her the same function is akin to a job interview. We effectively survived on her ability to, well, carouse."

"I'm not condemning," Kate supplies evenly, "or condoning."

"Good," he says, surprising her with a hint of coolness in his tone. "You're not equipped with enough knowledge or experience for either where she's concerned." Kate isn't put off by him making the point. Indeed, the protectiveness of behalf of his loved ones is endearing. It's a list she happens to be numbered among.

Castle reels her back to the present when he continues. "I remember hearing the music first." He doesn't seem aware of switching back to first person. "I slowed down when I heard it, stopped in the road a little ways from where we stand now." His head tilts somewhat as if perched to listen to a sound that is still audible ages after the fact. Beckett shivers at his side, not solely from the cold. "It's John Denver. Annie's Song."

That's a hit from 1974. Summer. He would've been five years old.

Oh fuck.

Dread swells to renewed life within her chest. The first time she asked about his fascination with murder he said…what? Right: that story about finding a boy on the beach when he was five years old. At the time he passed it off as fiction. And she…she had never questioned the matter again.

Richard goes quiet. It stretches on for a full minute before Kate gently strokes his arm with her free hand. Part of her wants to lift her fingers to his lips instead. Please don't say what I think you're going to.

"They told me she was already murdered her by the time I arrived." He doesn't wince. Kate does. "But I've always wondered if that was true. The science obviously wasn't as good back then, maybe not good enough to legitimize a claim like that. It would certainly be an easy lie to tell under the circumstances."

"The boy on the beach," Kate issues through numb-feeling lips. "In the b-blood that hadn't yet washed away."

Castle turns to face her, his expression unreadable. That is so much worse to behold than grief would be. "So you remember. Yes…that was me. Eventually."