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"And perhaps there is a limit to the grieving that the human heart can do. As when one adds salt to a tumbler of water, there comes a point where simply no more will be absorbed."

~Sarah Waters, The Little Stranger

They don't go back the precinct.

She doesn't need to. Doesn't need to see Bracken booked in; the blood on his hands replaced with ink when his prints are taken, the still smug upturn of his lips as he turns left and right in front of the camera. She doesn't need the spectacle in order to heal. Her catharsis was complete when she stepped out of the shadow of the man whose evil had shaped the past fifteen years of her life and into the arms of the man with whom she plans to live the rest of it.

Castle guides her back to their borrowed car and she smiles when he opens the door, helps her slide into the passenger seat with gentle hands and murmured directions to watch her head. She lets him pull the seatbelt across her body and snap it into place, tries not to think about how she was barely conscious and bleeding the last time. Her fingers find the angle of his jaw as he starts to pull away and she reels him back in, presses a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. The smile he gives her makes her breath catch and leaves her eyes hazy as she watches him jog around the hood and climb into his own seat.

She reaches for him as he navigates through the late afternoon traffic, plucking his right hand from the steering while they idle at a light, the gentle vibration of the car's chassis seeping up through the soles of her shoes. Castle lifts their joined hands to his mouth and Kate can't stop her sigh when he kisses the bare base of her ring finger, his lips warm and damp against her skin. The light changes and she closes her eyes, blocking out the harsh bounce of sunlight off the mirrored windows of the high rises.

Lanie meets them in the parking garage of the loft, her cheeks wet and arms held wide. Kate accepts the hug willingly, gratefully, the floral scent of Lanie's perfume tickling her nose and throat. They ride up in the elevator together, Lanie's crushing grip on her right hand a stark contrast to the loose warmth of Castle's fingers around her left.

Kate tells the story, filling in the details Lanie hasn't already heard from Esposito and Ryan, while Castle grabs the first aid kit from their bathroom. He cleaned her up in the middle of the night, parked on the side of the road with a travel flashlight clenched between his teeth and a bottle of water tipped over her head, but she leans back against the cushions of the couch and allows Lanie to sift gently through her hair, gives her friend the comfort of feeling helpful.

Kate hisses through her teeth when a gloved finger probes the edge of her wound and Castle pitches forward off his perch on the coffee table, his hands clamping around her crossed calves. Lips pulled into a tight smile, she reaches for him, prying his fingers loose from her legs and tugging him up next to her on the couch. She feels the release of tension from his body when Lanie declares her injury clean and glass-free, leans into him as he melts into the cushions next to her.

They order an early dinner after Lanie leaves, the fierce crush of her hug still aching in Kate's ribs twenty minutes later when their pizza arrives. They eat in bed, propped up against the headboard with the grease stained cardboard box laying open at their feet. Castle gives her his green peppers and eats her crusts, grunts at her in disapproval when she wipes her greasy fingers on the knee of his jeans. The familiarity of it, the normalcy, settles inside her chest, a bright warmth nestled alongside her heart.

She showers and changes clothes before she goes to see her dad, unwilling to bring the taint of the last few days into her parents' home. Castle stands next to her at the front door as she slips into a pair of ballet flats, damp hair flopping down over his forehead. Tucking her wallet into the back pocket of her jeans, she lifts up onto her toes to kiss him, the band of her engagement ring shifting around her finger when she cups his cheek. He's still at the door when she reaches the end of the hall, hands shoved in his pockets and shoulder braced against the frame as he watches her. Stepping inside the waiting elevator, Kate wiggles her fingers at him and smiles as the doors slide shut.

Kate leaves her dad on his front porch, remnants of tears shimmering in the corners of his eyes in the waning glow of the sunset and a hand raised in farewell. The part of her brain that worries about him, the part that reminds her what it was like to find him facedown on the couch with an empty bottle dangling from his slack fingers, tries to raise its voice but she shuts it out. Her eyes keep flicking back to the rearview mirror as she drives away, the figure of her father smaller and smaller every time yet still there.

He's always there now.

She never realized exactly how much she kept from her dad until she was sitting across from him at the kitchen table, breaking everything down point by point. He deserved the truth, she'd decided on the drive over. No details spared, nothing held back. The way his fingers blanched first around his cup of coffee and then her own hand when she told him about her undercover mission gone awry almost made her stop. Maybe there were some things he was better off not knowing. But the determination in his eyes, the steel in his voice when he told her to continue, convinced her. He needed the story, needed to bear witness to the chain of events that left him without a wife, and damn near without a child on more than one occasion.

That's all it is now.

A story.

She's always hated ambiguous endings, those kinds of stories where the action just stops, leaving the reader to draw conclusions about the outcome. It's why she hates unsolved cases. The ending doesn't have to be happy but it does have to exist.

And now she has her ending. The coda to the sweeping conspiracy behind the death of her mother and so many others. Montgomery, Armen, her mother's colleagues. It's time to let go.

The engine ticks when she shuts it off, the metal cooling rapidly inside its insulated compartment. Kate pulls her phone out of the console and texts Castle then slides out of the car, the unfamiliar keyring bulky in her front pocket. Yellow crime scene tape bisects her reattached front door, the middle drooping pathetically. The plastic crinkles in her fist when she grabs it and tugs, the ends coming loose with ease. The door wobbles when she pushes it open, her keys useless on the busted lock.

Shards of wood and glass litter the floor of her living room. A boot print mars the front of her mother's appointment book, the leather dented and dirty. Kate picks it up, swipes the sleeve of her sweater across the cover, clearing away the dirt as best she can. Piece by piece, she begins to gather the scattered contents of the heavy wooden box, the faint scent of pine and her mother's favorite perfume drifting on the air.

The ruined doorknob rattles while she's sweeping up a pile of broken glass and Castle walks in, keys dangling off the tip of his index finger. "Guess these are useless now."

Kate smiles. "Why'd you even bring them?"

"Habit," he shrugs, crossing over to her. Kneeling down, he holds the dustpan steady while she inches the pile inside. "You know I've already hired someone to come clean all this up, right?"

The glass tinkles when she tips it into the garbage can. "I figured. But this -" she waves the empty dustpan at him - "isn't why I asked you to come. I was just keeping busy until you got here."

Castle doesn't speak, doesn't ask for her reasons or motivations. He simply follows her when she tosses the dustpan onto the couch and walks through to the office. Kate stops in front of the window, eyes tracking over the yellowing notecards covered in her blocky handwriting, the black marker starting to fade with age and exposure. Castle stands close behind her, his breath warm against her shoulder.

Her fingers are steady when she reaches out and pulls down the card in the middle, her mother's name scrawled across the top in red marker, the date of her death printed underneath in black.

"It's time to take this down," Kate says, turning around to look at him. The softness in his face makes her heart ache, an overwhelming need to be connected to him rising up in her chest. She lists forward, the brittle note rustling when she braces her hand on his bicep and lifts up on her toes to kiss him. "Help me?"

His fingers brush along her chin, tilting her head back as he kisses her again, breathes his answer into her mouth. "Of course."

They move to opposite sides of the window, working in a comfortable silence as they pick at years old scotch tape. A small stack builds on the window sill, pictures and papers mixed together. Maybe she'll go through it all later, make an organized file she can give to the prosecutors. Or maybe she'll just throw it all into a drawer or a box or the garbage. She doesn't know and, right now, it doesn't really matter.

"I'm going to see Pulgatti tomorrow," she says, her index finger running along the sharp edge of his picture before she tugs it down. "Tell him the whole story."

"You don't have to do that," Castle says without looking at her.

"I know." Kate puts the picture on top of the pile, reaches up for another. Montgomery. Her heart kicks against her ribs as she gently peels the tape from across the top of the glossy paper. Tears burn at the back of her throat and she swallows them back, determined. She's cried enough. No more. "I want to. It's what my mom would do."

Castle nods, turning to face her as he places the last piece of paper from his side on the stack; a picture of her mother all that remains. Not the crime scene photo, not the broken slump of her body against a dirty brick wall, surrounded by refuse and blood. No. She took that one down a year ago. Replaced it with one of the two of them, big smiles splitting their cheeks and an familiar light dancing in her mother's eyes that could only mean that she'd just said something outrageous.

Kate runs her fingers over the picture, traces the deep curve of her nineteen year old smile. For too long, she'd forgotten what it was like to feel like that. She didn't think she was allowed that kind of joy anymore, didn't want to expose herself to that kind of hurt again. She didn't think she deserved to be whole, to be alive, while her mother was not. Didn't think she deserved to be happy.

Not until Castle came along. Castle with his silliness and spirit and bravery and compassion. His love. She'll never be able to thank him, to completely express what his support and strength has meant to her. All she can do now, all she wants to do now, is spend the rest of her life trying to give back to him even a fraction of what he's given to her over the past five years.

"She's not the only who's proud of you, you know."

Kate turns to him, the picture held loosely in her right hand. "I know."

The keepsake box sits open on the desk, her mother's belongings arranged neatly inside. Picking up the appointment book again, Kate flips through until she finds the ninth of January. She slips the picture between the pages before closing it back up, the little brass closure rattling as it snaps shut. Her thumbnail catches on the loose stitching at the top corner of the leather cover when she puts it back inside the box.

The lid closes unevenly, one hinge completely broken off, but she latches it anyway. Castle reaches out and she lets him take it, watches as he tucks it securely into the cradle of his right elbow. They stand together in front of the bare window, watching the street lamps flicker outside, the amber light highlighting the dusty outlines of note cards and pictures. Snagging his free hand, Kate laces their fingers and turns her back on the open shutters.

"Come on, Castle. Let's go home."

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