A/N: First, I need to give credit for this story idea to a Tumblr post by castleramblings. Also, credit for the cover art goes to dtrekker.

I really loved writing this story, and I hope you all enjoy it too. There are 16 chapters.

One

"Okay, Mr. Castle, let's go through this one more time."

With a moan, Richard Castle lowered his head to the cool, steel table and rested his forehead against the smooth surface. He laced his fingers together and moved his clasped hands to rest atop his head, but before they were fully seated, he felt resistance. Oh right, he remembered mournfully; his hands were attached to the table and had a limited range of movement. Handcuffs would do that.

Lifting his forehead, he instead rested his chin against the table surface and moved his hands over his face. The chain attaching the handcuffs to the table clanked and clattered, metal scraping against metal. The sound was atrocious, but he'd grown used to it. At least he had enough slack to rub his eyes and run his hands over his face in a desperate attempt to regain some alertness.

As he sat upright again, he felt a twinge in his lower spine and arched his back to get away from it. Instinctually, he moved his hand to massage the spot, but his wrist was yanked back by the cuff. Instead, he had to settle for wriggling his butt against the metal seat to change positions and hopefully alleviate some of the tension in his aching spine.

God, he though, how long have I been sitting here? His eyes immediately dropped to his left wrist, but he found it bare. He had been relieved of his watch, wallet, and cell phone upon arriving at the station. After all, what did a silly little thing like the time of day matter while sitting in a windowless interrogation chamber?

"Mr. Castle?"

Castle looked up to the detective who stood at the opposite corner of the table. His hands rested palms-flat against the table surface and his broad six-foot-plus frame hovered over Castle as it had ever since he entered the well-lit room of questions. Castle presumed the detective's hawk-like position was meant to intimidate, but he felt no nerves, merely exhaustion and, come to think of it, at little bit of hunger.

"Right," Castle said. He used his right hand to scoop up the plastic cup of water in front of him and drop the remaining few splashes into his mouth. "I woke up, sat up, and realized my feet were laying in a pool of-"

"No, Mr. Castle, start at the beginning." The detective's tone was not impatient or annoyed or even exasperated; it was eerily even given the number of times Castle had explained this particular part of his tale.

Castle blinked and met the eye of the dark-skinned man. The detective's dark brown eyes bore the same shade as his short-clipped professional hair and oddly unruly eyebrows. Castle's nose momentarily scrunched at the near uni-brow. It was, after all, 2014. Doing enough "manscaping" to at least ensure you had two separate eyebrows was hardly a crime.

"The beginning, Mr. Castle."

"Of what? Time? Sorry, Detective Marquez, I don't have Genesis memorized."

The detective sat down, brushed his pen and pad of paper aside, and clasped his hands together, resting them on the table surface. "Of yesterday, Mr. Castle; start at the beginning of your day yesterday."

Castle leaned back in his chair as much as his chained wrists would allow and looked directly at the detective. "I got up and had breakfast with my daughter before she went to school. My mother was in the sitting room practicing for her audition, so I went to my office to work on my book."

"And about what time was this?"

"About eight fifteen," Castle said in a dull tone for what felt like the tenth time. "I worked on editing chapters five thought seven until eleven, when I wanted a break. I walked all the way to Gramercy Park and got lunch on my way back. I-"

"Where did you have lunch?"

"Why, do you want to grab a bite?" He quipped. The detective merely stared at him. "A little sandwich shop about a block from the park. I got my usual pastrami and ate it as I walked back. I got back to my apartment and started editing chapter eight, but then my publicist called and we chatted for a while.

"Alexis got home from school just before four and asked me if she could go to a classmate's house to work on a group project. I told her that she could and she left again. My mother called me around five saying that she got a callback for her audition and she was going out to celebrate, so I was on my own for dinner, but I wanted to finish editing chapter eight first."

Castle paused the story to fight a yawn, and then continued. "Just as I finished chapter eight, I received a text from Tony."

"Tony who?"

Somewhat irritated, he responded, "Tony Ciardi."

"You mean Detective Anthony Ciardi—the man you killed?"

"I didn't kill him!" Castle enunciated as he leaned forward in his chair. The detective merely gestured his hand for Castle to continue and Castle scoffed under his breath. If he had a dollar for every time he'd insisted that he had not committed murder, he'd never need to write another book again.

"Tony texted me and told me that he discovered something and that I should come over as soon as I could."

Detective Marquez leaned forward in his chair. "Do you know what Detective Ciardi meant when he said he had discovered something?"

Castle shrugged and turned his gaze towards the two-way mirror in the room. "Not specifically, no, but I imagine it had something to do with the case we were investigating."

"And what case is that?"

"I told you—the death of Tony's father."

Marquez glanced down at his notepad and then back to Castle. "Detective Anthony Ciardi Senior? Didn't he die in a traffic accident four years ago?"

Castle bobbed his head. "Yes, but we believe that accident wasn't an accident at all. We've been looking for witnesses to try and prove that for months. It's possible Tony found something regarding that case."

"And why wouldn't he call you with that information?"

Castle responded with an annoyed expression. "How should I know? I don't even know what he was going to tell me!"

The detective scratched a few notes down on the pad of paper and then set the pen aside once more. "Did you respond to Detective Ciardi's text?"

"Yes, I told him I'd be right there."

Marquez nodded and stared across the table. When, after a full minute, Castle did not respond, Marquez prompted him. "And then what happened?"

"I told you, I don't remember!" Castle groaned as he rested his forearms on the table and shut his eyes, searching the banks of his memory. He distinctly remembered responding to Tony's text, saving the document he was working on and shutting down his laptop. He remembered pocketing his cell phone and thinking he should use the bathroom before going to Tony's, but after that it all fell apart. Like trying to remember a dream several hours after waking it was blurry and a haze. "I don't remember anything until I woke up this morning."

Marquez picked up his pad of paper and sifted through the several pages of notes he'd written during Castle's initial run-through of the story. After a few minutes of page flipping, Marquez asked, "Mr. Castle, had you been drinking that night?"

"No."

"Not at all?"

"Not at all," Castle confirmed.

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure all I had to drink that day was coffee, a bottle of water and a Dr. Pepper Ten."

"That's interesting," Marquez commented, writing down a few words.

Castle arched an eyebrow at him. "Why is that interesting?"

Marquez locked eyes with Castle. "Because, the detective's at the scene told me that you blew a one point two on a Breathalyzer that was taken at," he paused to glance at his notes, "four fifty-eight a.m. That's a pretty high BAC for someone who claims he hadn't been drinking."

"I wasn't drinking!"

"You weren't drinking before you left your house."

"That's what I said."

"But what about after you left your house?"

"I-" Castle paused before he could answer. Technically, if he could not remember what he did, he could not definitively say he had not consumed any alcohol.

"You claim you don't remember arriving at Detective Ciardi's home-"

"And I don't!"

"So can you say with one hundred percent certainty that you did not drink anything while you were there?"

Castle sighed heavily. "No, I suppose I cannot."

The detective "hmm-ed" under his breath as he wrote another sentence down in his notebook. While he was still writing, he asked, "What happened when you woke up?"

"I woke up and realized I was lying on the floor, so I sat up. My head felt very fuzzy-"

"Like you were hung over?"

Castle narrowed his gaze at the detective, wondering why he was so hell-bent on proving that he had been drunk. "Or drugged," he clarified before continuing. "I looked down at my feet and I noticed they were in a maroon pool. I've been to enough crime scenes to know what a blood pool looks like, so I knew what it was right away. That's when I saw Tony lying on the floor a few feet away."

"Where in the apartment were you?"

"Right where the sitting area meets the dining area."

"And where was Detective Ciardi's body?"

"Towards the kitchen, next to one of the dining room table's chairs."

"Was he laying face up or face down?"

"Face up."

The detective nodded. "Okay, continue"

"When I saw Tony, I scrambled over to him to see if he was okay, but it was obvious he was dead."

"How was it obvious?"

Castle blinked at the detective. "Because half his fucking face was missing."

"So you saw wounds on Detective Ciardi?"

"Like…his missing face…" Castle couldn't help responding with a bit of sarcasm; what a ridiculous question.

"Any other wounds?"

"Yeah, it looked like he'd been shot in the chest as well."

Marquez nodded. "Is that where you shot him? In the chest?"

"I didn't shoot him! Jesus!"

Marquez leaned forward again. "But you did show the responding officers where the gun was, didn't you Mr. Castle?"

Castle pursed his lips. "Which, obviously, I would have done if I shot him."

"Where was the gun, Mr. Castle?"

"In the middle of the floor."

"Be more specific: where was it in position to Detective Ciardi's body?"

Castle closed his eyes and thought a moment. "I don't know—seven or eight feet away?"

The detective jotted a note. "And where would you say it was in relation to where you woke up? Would you say at the time you woke up the gun was closer to you or the body."

Castle took a ten second pause to consider the specific wording of his answer, knowing it was an attempted trap. "I would say that technically, at that time, it may have been slightly closer to me."

"Slightly? Define slightly."

"I don't know—a bit."

"Feet, Mr. Castle. How many feet?"

"Two feet? Three? I don't know because I'd already moved from the spot I woke up in when I discovered the gun," he explained.

Marquez was silent for a few minutes as he sifted through his notes again. "What did you do after you determined Detective Ciardi was deceased?"

"Well, first, I tried not to vomit and then I looked for my phone."

"Your phone was not on your person?"

"No, it wasn't in my pocket; it was on the kitchen table."

"Did you put it there?"

Castle gritted his teeth and said in an almost growl, "I don't know."

"Did you call 911 from your phone?"

"Yes."

"Did you call anyone else?"

"No."

"Did you send any text messages?"

"No."

"Did you read any text messages?"

"Yes. One from my daughter. She asked where I was."

"And you didn't respond?"

"No."

"Did you see when your daughter sent the text?"

Castle paused and looked towards the ceiling as he thought. Unlike the rest of the questions the detective was asking, this one he hadn't heard before. He thought about the text for a moment, but did not recall looking at the time stamp. "No, I did not."

"What did you do after you called 911?"

"I just…I just sat on the edge of the table."

Detective Marquez blinked at him. "You just sat there?"

"Yeah, I just sat there."

"You didn't walk around the apartment?"

"No."

"You didn't go into the bedroom? Or the kitchen?"

"No, I didn't move."

"The whole time?"

Castle shrugged. "It wasn't really that long. The cavalry tends to hurry when you tell them there's an officer down."

"What happened when the officers arrived?"

Castle sighed heavily and rested his chin on his closed fist propped up by his elbow against the table. "An officer took me in the hall, asked me a bunch of questions. When I told him I couldn't remember what happened, the EMTs checked me out, drew blood, swabbed my hands, and took my jacket. Then they cuffed me, shoved me in the back of a squad car and brought me to this lovely little room where I've been hanging out with you."

"And do you know why you're here?"

"Obviously because you think I killed Tony."

"Did you?"

Castle smacked his fist down against the table. "For the millionth time—no! I didn't kill him!"

Calmly, Marquez picked up his pen and turned it towards the pad of paper. "And yet, you also claim you don't remember anything, so which one is it Mr. Castle? Do you not remember? Or are you positive you didn't kill him? Because it cannot be both."

Castle took in a long slow breath. Once again, he'd reached the disbelief part of the interrogation. This could not be happening to him; it simply could not be happening. "I'm not claiming the story makes any sense—in fact, that's the opposite of what I'm saying. The story doesn't make sense and that's the whole point. I don't remember what happened, but other than that, what evidence do you have that I killed him? What would my motive be?"

"Why don't you tell me?"

"I don't have any motive! I wouldn't kill Tony; he's my friend—he was my friend," Castle corrected with a tone of sadness.

"Know what I think, Mr. Castle?"

He smiled wryly at the detective. "No, but I bet you're going to tell me, aren't you?"

"Detective Ciardi was the subject of your latest book, correct?"

Castle leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingertips against the table. "Well, no, he wasn't the subject of the book. I write fiction, Detective."

For the first time, the detective smiled. "Yes, I'm well aware of your books, Mr. Castle. What I meant was your book has a similar storyline to Detective Ciardi's real life."

Castle wobbled his head back and forth. "That's not how I would put it."

"How would you put it, Mr. Castle?"

"Well, that there were parts of Tony's life that inspired me to create my latest character, Timothy Chance, who is an NYPD detective whose father is dead. I assure you, that's where there similarities end."

"Right," Detective Marquez said in a tone that indicated nonbelief. "Well, I think that Detective Ciardi no longer wanted his life to be fictionalized by you and he asked you to not to continue writing your book. When you refused, the two of you argued and you shot him."

Castle laughed loudly. "That's the most ridiculous story I've ever heard."

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"First, Tony had no problem with me using his life for the inspiration for Timothy Chance's life. Second, even if he did, I'm sure Tony would have told me about it four months ago when I first started writing the story. Third, again, even if Tony did want me to stop writing the story, I'm sure we could have come to some sort of agreement—a peaceful agreement. And, finally, fourth, even if we had not come to said peaceful agreement, I would have never shot him because I don't own a gun."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Positive. I would never allow a gun in my house when I have a young daughter," Castle said firmly.

Marquez glanced at his notes. "Isn't your daughter sixteen?"

Castle blinked at him. "Do you have children, Detective?"

"I don't see how that's relevant."

"Well, if you did have children, you'd understand that while Alexis is sixteen, I still think of her as being a little girl," Castle explained. The detective said nothing, which led Castle to believe that he was, in fact, a father.

Once again, Marquez shifted through his notes. Castle began to wonder if he was actually reading them or merely using them as a devise to take up time and attempt to intimidate him, the suspect. He had seen Tony do that several times before and was amazed at how well it worked in rattling the suspects. Then again, those suspects had actually been guilty.

"Well, Mr. Castle, why don't I leave you here for a little while? Maybe you'll be able to remember some things—like if you have an alibi since you claim to be innocent."

"I am innocent!" Castle insisted loudly. "And I've been sitting here for hours! Can't I at least have a bathroom break?"

"Oh, I suppose that could be arranged—in a little while." With that, the detective pushed himself to a standing position, picked up his notepad and pen, and exited the room without looking back.

Alone again for the first time in what he assumed to be around an hour, Castle stared straight ahead at his reflection in the two-way. His hair was disheveled, his shirt collar rumpled and his cheek was marked with a dark spot, which he presumed to be blood—Tony's blood. Sadly, it was not the worst he'd ever looked, but he'd certainly looked a hell of a lot better.

Though he knew his perception of time would be greatly skewed due to exhaustion and the confusion surrounding his hellish morning, he guessed that he'd been in police custody for no less than four or five hours, which meant that Alexis was on her way to school not knowing where he was. He felt a pang in her chest, not wanting to cause her any grief. Had she or his mother been notified of his whereabouts? More, importantly, had his lawyer? He'd asked for the five-hundred-dollar-an-hour, publisher-provided grease-ball to be called, but he remained suspiciously absent. Delay tactics, Castle figured. He had, after all, seen Tony do the same to sweat out a suspect.

But he wasn't a suspect! His brain challenged. Well, clearly he was, but not a valid one. Okay, so he didn't remember, but that didn't matter. He knew himself and even if he had been drunk he was certain he would have never shot Tony. He would never have shot anyone! Still, as he sat in interrogation with his own pallid reflection his only company, he wondered if he'd ever get Detective Marquez to believe him.