An almost unconscious breath of relief escapes upon their emergence from the paralleling forest. The headlights of the truck might as well have been hitting a wall such is the density of the foliage. Darkness seemed to press back against the light instead of yielding; the shadows were reluctant to disperse and too eager to return in the F-150's wake. Myriad overlapping fauna compete along the forest floor and the trunks of so many trees stand like the iron bars of an immense cage. In the spirit of such a metaphor, however, it doesn't feel like they are entering into confinement. Rather, there's a strange sense that they are the prisoners, and have escaped into a place to which they are as ill-suited as they are unwelcome.

A sprawling neocolonial mansion occupies nature's protective huddle.

John circles the full-loop driveway by dead reckoning. All is overlain with virgin snow and any previous tracks concealed. The grounds are impressive—at least four acres of mostly open field. A few isolated stands of trees dot the landscape here and there: white pine, black oak, and flowering dogwood. The deciduous varieties are naked, but elegant in the moonlight, like dancers frozen in first arabesque.

According to John great effort has been expended over the years to maintain the natural habitat of this area, which includes excising invasive species of trees and shrubs. It is an endeavor most other landowners are either too busy or merely too ignorant to emulate. Lydia Matthews is the brains behind that. She's earned two PhDs, one in Molecular Biology and the other, more recent, in Environmental Science and Engineering. She occasionally guest-lectures for a course at MIT: thermodynamics of biomolecular systems—whatever the heck that means. For some reason this information comes as a surprise. It's actually a little unsettling. The passenger has a difficult time imagining such a capable woman out here tending the land, hosting friends or business partners with similar cultivation in mind, and raising a family—building a life that would eventually implode. Because if Lydia, with all her intelligence and obvious determination, couldn't manage to raise a child right, how does an NYPD flatfoot who eats most meals on the go and sleeps in fits and stages between crime scenes?

Focus, Katie.

The mansion itself is simply breathtaking, classic design and function wed to contemporary aesthetics. The traditional veranda has been sumptuously elaborated; it's deep and wide. Hallmark columns are present, six total, but are thick Tuscan versions fashioned of gorgeous, burnished oak. They gleam in the golden light of two antique lamp fixtures. The exterior as a whole is comprised of granite stonework joints and wood shingles painted a handsomely deep, dark walnut. Two pairs of bay windows with fixed white shutters flank the veranda to the left and right, and fold-up doors for two-car garages stand at both ends of the house.

John says it is a six bedroom home with three actual stories including the basement, or terrace level, altogether spanning over 8,500 square feet of living space. Some of the architecture has been carefully preserved from the original manor that stood here in the late eighteenth century.

"There's always been a Matthews here," John tells her now. "Godfrey owns the same furniture company that his family's fortune was built on. It's less successful these days, but that's due more to the events of their lives than anything business related. The reputation endures. Actually, the shift in supply and demand over the past few decades has made the existing pieces more valuable than ever. There're a number of them in the White House right now. The capital building in Albany has several rooms almost exclusively furnished by them."

"They're that good, huh?"

"They are," John replies, "but they're also patriots, and the synergy between quality and the family name commands respect, especially throughout New England. They lost two sons in the Revolutionary War and more in both World Wars. The Matthews are well-documented warriors, and those who didn't, or couldn't, have been active supporters in other ways. Obviously they aren't alone there. It's...interesting when people who could probably use their connections or wealth to play it safe continue to live honorably. More so, I think, because you won't hear them advertising their efforts or sacrifices. That's part of what has always set them apart to my mind." Dark eyes reflect the lights of the house he regards. "Men and women with noble hearts have lived and died here. It's hard to accept that I'm living to see the final days of this proud family."

Beckett says nothing, moved by her companion's grief.

John clears his throat, says, "Sorry, am I rambling?"

"No," she answers immediately. "I like knowing."

The other nods once, but shifts in his seat with seeming discomfort for having volunteered his knowledge and thereby his enthusiasm. Not exactly a sharer, hmm? I hear ya, big guy. He puts the moment firmly to bed when he observes, "You must have more pertinent questions to ask before we go in."

She does, but they're not specifically his to answer. The dark-haired woman turns upon the seat to look back through the tinted rear window of the cab. Rick's Mercedes hybrid is parked behind them. Moonlight runs like water across the machine's sleek lines. It's too dark to make out any details of the occupant waiting there.

"If you're having second thoughts—" John stops when she turns to him.

He's learning her fast. The look is all it takes.

Kate gets out, flinching somewhat as the cold immediately clamps down on her. She draws her Burberry coat tighter, ties the belt at her middle rather than fastening the buttons. The scent of the surrounding woodland overshadows that of the nearby sea. Breaking waves are audible, but only just. Untamed hedges of Sweet Pepperbush and Northern Bayberry present a visual barrier between the home and the open arms of the Atlantic. John circles the front of the truck to join her. She twitches in surprise when Castle appears at her other side.

When her partner changed earlier he dressed in black, a rare sight. It is a suit, nearly as uncommon, and the virgin wool is deeply dark; he's his own isle of shadow among an already proliferate sea. The familiar aroma of Black Afgano is present, richly appealing, but so faint it must be from a previous application of the cologne still clinging to his three-quarter-length trench coat.

Now, blue eyes serious, his expression forbidding, Castle looks from her to John. "We're expected."

The heavy bass of their third fills the immediate area as he confirms, "I talked to Godfrey again just this morning. He said any time after six was fine. It's seven-thirty now."

Castle just nods in reply, but he seems troubled while studying the mansion.

"We can call them," Kate offers. "Double-check that we're still welcome to be here if you're worried. No one's come out. Maybe they don't know we're here yet."

Both men shake their heads. John elaborates, "There's no reception out here."

Beckett digs around for her phone. No bars. That fact is no surprise in and of itself now that she considers the matter. Castle's house is likewise removed from the cellular network. It employs a microcell signal booster to pick up the slack though. Considering the Matthews' are business owners it is surprising that they do not. There's a small, strange tick of vulnerability that arises from being cut off in such fashion.

"I dunno how you guys do it," John grumbles.

"How we do what?" Castle asks.

"Live by the shore like this. I can understand the Matthews—this place being what it is to them. But you actually chose to have a place by the coast. Doesn't make a lick of damn sense. You're thalassophobic for crying out loud. You're literally living in denial of that."

"Alexis loves the ocean," the author replies with a shrug of his broad shoulders. A faint smile touches the corners of his mouth. The explanation doesn't seem to satisfy their larger friend, whose scowl only deepens. "Technically I live in the city anyway. I only vacation in denial."

"Don't get smart with me."

"Was I using the tricky big words again? Apologies."

The comeback is immediate and almost fondly delivered. "Asshole."

"Ah, there it is: that infamous Montauk genteel. Look, Beckett." He points at John. "A real live snob."

Kate frowns, coming back to the present more completely. Their back-and-forth would be decidedly amusing normally, but she's relented more of herself to detective mode now. That and the subject which prompted their banter is a mystery to her. "What's thalasa-whatever?"

"Thalassophobia," John clarifies, crossing his thick arms. "Fear of the sea."

"It's a mild case," the author protests, but she doesn't miss the meaningful glare he shoots the deputy.

"Bullshit." John eyes Kate askance, says, "I took him deep sea fishing once, not knowing. By the time I realized something was up he was as white as the hull. Ended up curled into a frigging ball on the deck of my father's boat. Even when we were docked again it took half an hour to get him on his feet." There's a subtle but telling pain lacing the words, an enduring shame and regret for the officer having put his friend in such an uncomfortable position, however unknowingly. "I suppose I'm exaggerating now, huh?"

Beckett's muscles are tense in her neck and shoulders. Hazel eyes stare deep into blue, but what she sees in her mind is the two of them trapped in her sedan during the Linchpin case, inexorably sinking into the Hudson River. The lower half of that watercourse is more a tidal estuary, the waters frigid and brackish. At the time he'd seemed okay, all things considered. Now she wonders just how intense his fear might have been while coming so close to drowning in saltwater for a second time.

"It was choppy that day on the boat," Castle replies at length to their friend, but his gaze remains on Kate.

"It was," the other concedes.

"Living near the shore is a big difference from being out there in it," her partner continues. "I can handle the water just fine. It's the, uh, the deep which elicits some concern. There's an indefinable point when the land is far enough away as to become," he pauses to consider, brow furrowed, "more like a dream for all the sanctuary it provides. And the big waves...I remember them." He turns away when he quietly adds, "I can feel their…obscene eagerness whenever I get too close. I feel how much they want me back." He seems to mean it literally.

The detective says nothing. Her jaw is clenched so hard it aches. If she opens her mouth surely all that will emerge is some horrible sound of unintelligible lament. The more that is discovered the less she feels like she knows the first thing about him—this man who will be waiting for her down the aisle in three months.

"Kate," her fiancé beseeches simply. He's looking at her again. Worried. Worse: worried on her behalf.

"What—she didn't know?" John grunts. "Oh man. I'm the asshole."

"Damn straight you are," Castle snaps, but without real malice.

That elicits a soft note of amusement from the detective. "I'm fine," she fibs.

"You should be," John declares, nudging Rick off balance with an elbow. "He's the one who didn't volunteer anything. Don't feel bad for not knowing. Or if you must at least let yourself be pissed at him too."

"Hey," the writer protests, but he looks like he agrees wholeheartedly.

"I'm the one who asks questions in search of the truth for a living," she reminds the imposing man.

"Well firstly, Rick's not a suspect to you, Kate. We don't interrogate the people we care about. We know that line. We need it. It's part of what lets us keep our lives and the job distinct from one another. And secondly, you are asking. Now. Ignorance is nothing to be ashamed of. Willful ignorance is."

Castle nods in firm agreement and she's staring down a pair of supporters now. Two against one. Bad odds, especially when each man on his own is more than capable of being a handful. She's grateful for their understanding even if it feels misplaced, but quite annoyed that their attention keeps getting turned back around to focus on her. This trip is about you, Rick. Damn it.

"Can we talk about the Matthews?" she finally ventures. "Someone clue me in before we do this."

"What do you want to know?" Castle asks.

"I…" she pauses, faces her fiancé squarely. "I wanna know why we're here." His countenance does well to betray nothing of his thoughts. "I wanna know before I go in there, Rick. You can't aim me at these people with no clear target. The only questions I can think to ask will upset them. Is that your goal?"

"No," he blurts quickly, and by his darkening expression immediately afterward he clearly realizes she knew the answer before asking such a silly question.

"Alright then," Beckett inserts before he can clam up. "Spill it."

"She's right," John supports. "I've been wondering the same thing all night. You could've told her everything yourself and saved us all a lot of trouble and grief." A heavy hand rises to forestall any interruptions. "I know you have your reasons for doing it this way. I know that, okay? But it's time to make them clear to us, my friend. Before this goes any farther."

"Further," Castle replies.

"Huh?"

"Further not farther. The first implies metaphorical value and the latter physical distance. You mean further."

"We've been all over town," John submits with some exasperation.

Blue eyes narrow in seeming consideration of the counterpoint. "Hmm."

"Castle," Beckett inserts warningly, even though part of her wants to smile. These two are turning out to be quite fun together. But now is not the time.

The author sighs, shifts restlessly where he stands. He gestures to the house nearby. "Can we at least get out of the snow first?" His companions allow him to stall for a few more scraps of time. The stairs are wide enough for the three to ascend abreast one another. They form a close huddle under the glow of the outside lights, each with their arms around their torsos for warmth. For several moments after they've settled, however, their guidepost throughout this journey seems uncertain of where to begin explaining himself.

"Everybody's been saying there's no mystery here. You don't secretly disagree with that, do you?"

"Llewellyn is guilty," Castle assures her, but quietly, with his gaze traveling the windows nearby for any sign of the home's occupants. "There's no question in my mind about that." His tone is calm and thoughtful, as if he instinctively knows she only asked in the hope of prodding him towards the true question.

John follows her lead. "You've never been satisfied about his motives."

"No, I haven't."

Kate tilts her head somewhat. "We talked about that—his graduation being the trigger. That fits. As you'd say: it's a good story."

"That's what I've been telling myself all this time. But there are…holes. Possible inconsistencies."

"There's always some wiggle room when it comes to motive—you know that by now. That's why we follow the evidence."

"I know," the novelist agrees. "I'm not claiming my doubts are sensible. They're certainly not factual."

Kate turns somewhat to let her gaze skim the collection of white Adirondack chairs lining the space. She settles upon the curved edge of one and the other two assume opposing seats. The wood is cold, elicits a tremor of displeasure in her thighs. "Were you hoping I'd come up with an alternative conclusion by talking to the people involved in both your lives?"

"I… I don't know, okay? It doesn't make sense! None of it does. It never fucking has." To hear him swear like that only punctuates the depths of his agitation. It's pretty rare. "I was hoping…I wanted to see if you could…"

"O-okay," Kate stammers quickly, because he seems on the verge of throwing his head back and howling in frustration. "Take it easy, babe."

"That boy took to murder like a duckling to the pond," John mutters darkly. "I dunno what questions you have now, Richard, but I hope you at least understand that much. He was always going to do what he eventually did."

Castle hesitates to answer.

"Oh Christ," Beckett moans softly, going rigid with sudden realization. "Is that it? You think you did something that set him off?"

"Why did he go after Laura?" the author returns. The question arises in such a plaintive tone, so stealthily desperate for comprehension that it wounds her to hear. "They didn't hang out together. They hardly knew of one another. So, why his sudden interest in her? Maybe it wasn't. Maybe his interest was in me." It's a startling question, because it's this brand of lateral thinking that has led their cases to conclusion more than once.

"What if that turns out to be the case?" John asks evenly. He stands again, looming over the author angrily though the emotion is on behalf of the man he's intimidating. "Does that make it your fault he did what he did? A five-year-old child was responsible for Laura's death?"

"I'm only trying to understand," Rick explains, looking pained. "It's not about blame. Can't you see?"

John frowns, leans upright again and broods in silent consideration.

"You knew Llewellyn then?" Kate asks her partner. "Beforehand I mean."

"No. We crossed paths a few times, but nothing stands out. Not that I can recall now."

"Then you've got your answer," John inserts. "There's some other connection, something with Laura."

"Or one of the other victims," Beckett reminds them. "As a serial killer he may not even have a logical motive. We should really be looking at his first kill if you want to discover whatever triggered his escalation."

"No," Castle argues. "Laura is the one. I see what he did, damn it. It's why she was where she was in the order of their deaths. He put her there in the middle so we wouldn't know she was special—his true intent."

Beckett's eyebrows soar. She looks to the deputy, but he meets her gaze and gives a subtle shake of his head, which tempers the sudden rush of curiosity in her blood. No evidence to support this, the gesture says.

"I see what he did!" the writer says again, but harshly, passionately. "I just can't see why!"

There it is: the preeminent question which drives them both, and the origins of his fascination with the macabre laid bare to her at last.

"It's possible we might never know," Kate inputs gently, touching her other half's knee. "Nothing would make me happier than to help you find answers, Rick. I just don't want you to get your hopes up. We both know people just…do things sometimes. Perfectly normal people have motives that can be multi-faceted things difficult to comprehend. Monsters like Llewellyn live by different rules entirely, ones we can't even fathom."

"I just want you to try. I feel like you can do this, Kate. I feel it in my bones." He scoots forward on the seat and actually trembles visibly as he continues. Beckett leans away in response, unaccountably wary. The rate of her heartbeat becomes a gallop within her chest. The very last thing she wants is him pinning too much hope on her. God, please, not this time. Disappointing him would be devastating. "I know you don't believe in fate, but I think maybe there's something to this—what binds us. And it's more than good coffee and great sex."

"Nice," John mutters quietly, grimacing. He strides to the far edge of the veranda to lend them privacy.

Beckett is hardly aware of it though. Her partner's thrumming excitement and the certitude in his voice are weaving a deeply disquieting spell through her mind, heart, and limbs. As off-putting as his faith is, there's nowhere to run and nothing she can think to say at that moment to dissuade him. She's unwillingly transfixed. All that exists is his voice, uncharacteristically passionate and urgent, and the swiftly expanding suspicion that what he's revealing to her right now may be one of the most important things she'll ever hear.

"I meant what I said earlier," Rick goes on, "that you don't need fixing. But we're both…less than whole too. You know what I mean." She does. Of course she does. "Things are missing. There are gears in us that should be turning that have been halted by one tragedy or another. But think about the ways we've changed over these years together—they ways we've grown. Healed." It's true. They've been good for one another. Bad too though, and it's a relief to see his expression so serious, as if he's recalling the same, because it means he's not looking back through rose-colored glasses. "I think about what happened on that shore and wonder: what purpose did any of it serve? And I'm at an utter loss. So I look for some kind of balance instead, and what I come up with is you. You," he stresses deeply, blue eyes gleaming, almost feverish. "I don't know if Llewellyn was some preemptive price tag for this or if you're some sublime act of mercy from the universe. All I know is that it balances so perfectly that it…oh God, Kate." His eyes flutter to half-mast and roll back until the whites are visible, as if the emotion behind the words were too much to bear. "It's so good it hurts. And I hope it does for you too. I mean in a good way—a balancing way. Don't think of it as fate if that helps. Think of it as—

"—as two people who are simply…special together," she murmurs breathlessly, shaken to her roots.

It's how he described his relationship with Laura.

Castle looks devastated by the words at first, but then slowly becomes grimly exultant. He's not trembling anymore, seeming free of the fervor that gripped him. He would be after unloading something like that. Good god. Beckett can't recall having heard him describe their relationship before—period. Let alone in such a manner. She thinks…she thinks he just blurted out his wedding vow. Beckett teeters within, in some ways uncertain how to receive it. On one hand this estimation of them is just out there. Almost laughable for the way it is pinned to forces beyond their ken. He must know she can't accept that. Not her. But on the other hand…there is a frightening, awe-inspiring sense of alignment to it all—balance, to use his word. Now she's trembling, even though she knows better, because his words paint such vibrant pictures in her mind. They make her want to find a very still and quiet place to be alone and ruminate.

"What are you thinking?" he asks softly. "Am I losing it here?"

"We made this, Castle," she tells him finally. "We took the risks and put in the effort to get where we're sitting now."

"Of course, yes." A flash of wetness reflects the light when he moistens his lips. He starts to add something, but pauses and ultimately doesn't. She hears him regardless: But the circumstances that arose in order for us to be capable of taking those risks…that brought you to my book launch in the first place. Isn't it possible to imagine someone or something out there thinks we've earned this—each other?

Maybe… She imagines her mother's case, the ultimate question mark and source of pain in her life. It was Castle's presence which acted as an unsought key to opening the long-sealed doors of it and inching her closer to answers. To Dick Coonan. Her fiancé did that, through actions of specific intent and unwittingly. Now, following the logic of cosmic or karmic balance, he thinks she's the key to discovering answers he's been seeking.

And God, there's a thoroughly shaken part of her which is inclined to believe…

But no. It simply cannot be. There's no ephemeral scale striving to correct itself here. There's just life and its chaos. Patterns are bound to appear within the whirl of its complexities, because it's human nature to seek them out. It is the yearning for some sense of underlying order which created concepts like fate or destiny.

"I just see life," Kate admits, hoping he's not disappointed. "But Rick—that's magic to me. Life is."

Her fiancé nods, but his gaze is far away, lost in musing. There's a strain evident in the set of his brow though, and she knows her somewhat conflicting estimation has become a tether that is keeping him from floating away, carried off by romantic notions. That's a good thing to her mind. Isn't it?

John turns some to look over at her. The movement draws her attention. His expression conveys sympathy and concern for her bearing the burden of Castle's hopes, but also narrow-eyed consideration—as if he thought such faith might be well-placed. Two against one again.

Well it's not well-placed, damn it! I work evidence, not spout off baseless conjecture based on the hearsay of a few strangers. That's Castle's specialty for crying out—

Oh.

Beckett slowly stands. One wayward hand rises to her forehead and presses as if holding her head together amidst the sudden, overwhelming surge of insight. Oh, no, no, no. It can't be. "Holy shit," she croaks.

"What?" Both men jab her with the word in unison.

"Oh shit!" she blurts, eyes widening.

"What?" they demand again and then frown at each other.

"Stop that," John complains mildly.

"Kate!" Rick growls. "What is it?"

"I…" But no. Oh God no. Not yet. "I—I need to talk to the Matthews. Let's…go inside."

"Oh please, Kate," the author sobs. He's not crying, because the need goes leagues deeper than that. The sheer desperation apparent rattles her to the very foundations. His hands capture hers with painful hunger. "Please just tell me if you know."

It takes time to find her voice, to coax the frightened thing past her lips. "I don't, Castle. I don't know. I just…had a thought. I'm not tossing it out there until I can speak to these people. Trust me, okay? Please, babe." Of all the times it would have been better to keep her cards close to her chest… She'd give anything to travel back in time a few seconds and receive the idea without ever giving any indication. It is not one likely to bring him comfort.

Just the opposite, surely.

Please, please, please let me be wrong. Please God make me be wrong.

A/N: Hey guys. Father Vengeance here. I'm posting this on John's behalf as he's still dealing with internet problems (I'll let him tell you more about that, heh). He's sending me updates via standard mail, which I'm typing up to post on his behalf for now (his cursive is sickeningly elegant). It's not ideal, obviously, but it's an opportunity to finish this. Having spoken often and at length recently, I can assure you he's been equally upset by the latest round of delays plaguing this piece. Given that he won't be here to answer reviews he's not expecting feedback. Personally, however, I think this story deserves it. That and more. I'll be posting these as I receive them, so anyone following my stuff must forgive the delay. It's just too good to let sit. Finally, please forgive any errors. Neither of us are flawless in that respect.