The fourth (and final!) chapter is from Beckett's point of view.

It was three months before she heard from him again.

On the surface, at least, life was back to normal. Beckett knew that Ryan and Esposito had questions about what had happened; these questions were not verbally asked, but came through in raised eyebrows, inquiring looks, and little favors designed to elicit confiding. She gave them nothing, and when their tactics got on her nerves, she funneled the most boring desk-duty jobs their way. That put a stop to things.

She only talked about it with Lanie, on a girls' night out, the two of them drinking daiquiris (Lanie's was virgin, Beckett's considerably not virgin). "I still don't get it," Lanie said as she leaned back on her bar stool and rested her daiquiri glass on the makeshift table her belly had become. "I checked the body in myself. I remember thinking I was going to put things off as long as I could because I used to read some of his books. No one stole it. And all the physical evidence of him vanished?" She shook her head. "I'm telling you, it's impossible."

Beckett meant to keep her next thought to herself, but the daiquiri loosed her tongue. "Maybe it's not impossible. Maybe it's just very unlikely."

Lanie nearly did a spit take and looked her friend up and down. "Who are you, and what have you done with Kate Beckett?"

The curse and blessing of police work was that, sooner or later, there was always a more complicated, gruesome, or just plain weird case to focus on. Not to mention that Ryan was deep in a revived romance with Jenny, and Lanie and Esposito were embroiled in a mama bear/baby daddy skirmish with the arrival of Lanie's child. Their minds were soon on other things.

As for Beckett, she couldn't forget about Richard Castle, and wasn't sure if she wanted to.

She found herself thinking of him at odd times. She found herself wondering how he was doing: whether the lack of answers about his mysterious double troubled him, or if he was content to let things be.

She kept an eye on the papers and local news for word of him, but though his mother's play was quite the smash and Martha Rodgers was often in the public eye, Beckett had seen no trace of her son.

She finally made it through his last book, the ill-advised foray into literary fiction. She thought of the book and of him when she sat through endless meetings or waded through paperwork; she wondered if he too had gotten sucked into the trap of doing what you think you should do.

She thought of calling him. She wanted to call him. To find out how he was doing. To see if he was writing again. To get an answer to the question his double had never answered and that he hadn't been asked: why he'd killed off Derrick Storm.

But she waited, trying to find the right time to call, and only too late realized that the right time had probably gone. Now every reason she had for calling seemed awkward and forced.

Or so she told herself.

It was only on certain nights, when she was working late and all alone in the precinct, that she could accept the truth: she was afraid. Oh, not of him personally. Far from it. She liked him; was surprised at how much she liked him. It was the liking that frightened her, especially when combined with the two phrases she'd heard from him, the ones that came to her when she was too tired to push them out of her mind.

Because I love you, Kate.

Nothing's impossible.

The really bad nights were when she remembered those words and also remembered how it had felt when he'd kissed her hand. Sometimes she'd find herself reaching for the phone. She took to wearing a rubber band around her wrist and would snap it against her skin when she reached for the phone. It was a trick she'd read about in Dear Abby, to stop a bad habit. After a while, you were supposed to stop wanting to do whatever the bad habit was.

It didn't work very well.

X

One rainy day, she came into the precinct after an all-hands meeting with the Police Commissioner; the Republican party was going to hold its convention in NYC, and the favored front-runner for the presidential nomination was a New York state senator, William Bracken. Preparations for security and other matters were already underway, and every member of the NYPD was going to have to help shoulder the burden. Weeks of grinding work loomed ahead.

There were three voice mails waiting for her. One from the mayor. One from Senator Bracken's campaign manager (she could already tell that Bracken's people were going to be a thorn in her side). And one more.

"Hello." A pause, and then: "It's Rick Castle. I know it's been quite some time, and that you're probably very busy. But I wondered if you could possibly meet me for coffee some time? There's something I wanted to talk to you about and…a favor to ask of you, if it's not too much trouble." A lengthy pause, so lengthy that she thought the message was over, and then he said: "It would mean a lot to me. Thank you." The last phrase was said in a rush, and he sounded nervous.

She certainly didn't have time to meet. But she made time.

He was waiting for her when she arrived at Hanning's Homebrewed Coffee (he'd offered to meet her somewhere closer to the precinct, but she'd preferred being away from nosy detectives, especially ones named Ryan and Esposito). He looked a bit tired and pale, as if he'd had too many late nights and long hours inside, and he could definitely have used a haircut and a shave, but there was a bright look in his eyes. He had a messenger bag with him and kept fidgeting with its strap as though he was afraid to lose contact with it.

When they were seated with their coffees, he asked, "Did Dr. Parish have her baby?"

Beckett smiled. "Yes, a girl. Name's Zoe." She got out her phone and pulled up some of the many, many pictures she had of Zoe, and then handed the phone to Castle.

His face lit up. "Oh, what a cutie. She is going to be a heartbreaker when she gets older." He handed the phone back to Beckett. "Tell Dr. Parish congratulations. She's on a big adventure now."

"How's your daughter?" Beckett asked as she put her phone away.

"She's great. Working at a nonprofit and taking some classes now as well." His face became more serious. "In a way, what happened…that was the best thing, as far as she and I are concerned. We'd drifted apart, and we're putting things back together."

"I'm so glad to hear that."

"And how are you?" he asked.

"Busy," she said. "As always. And you?"

"Writing. For the first time in years."

She hadn't realized how afraid she'd been that things were going bad with him. She let out a sigh of relief disguised as a laugh. "That's wonderful! I can't wait to read it."

He looked rather sheepish at this. "Well, it's funny you should mention that. Because I was…the favor I mentioned in my voice mail? I was wondering if you would read it."

"Of course. When will it be out?"

"That's the thing," he said, looking nervous as hell. "I finished the first draft the night before I called you. I was hoping you could read it now."

To say she was taken aback would be an understatement. "I don't think I'd be the best person for that. I know enough grammar for a decent memo, but…"

"Oh, no. No. I didn't mean that way. It's just…I need to know if it's any good. I think it is…but I'm not sure. If it's not, then that's fine. The only people who even know I've been writing are my mother, my daughter…and you."

She felt flattered, and honored, and more than a bit trepidatious; she could see how important this was to him. "Why me?" She was no literary critic. "Because I liked your books?"

Castle shook his head. "Because of why you liked them."

Beckett bought herself time by taking a sip of her coffee. She thought back to those weeks and months after her mother's murder; of taking some mad money her aunt Theresa had sent her, going to the bookstore, and grabbing a pile of random titles based on what looked promising at the moment. Some were OK, some were garbage—but it was Castle's book that stayed with her. And whenever grief and anger brought her low, she would do the one thing that worked. She'd barricade herself in her room with one of his books and read until her eyes burned and her heart lightened.

"I'd be honored," she said.

His smile was so genuine and broad it was nearly beatific. He opened up the messenger bag and brought out a manuscript, secured together by rubber bands. The title sheet had only five words:

Frost Warning

by Richard Castle.

"I know you're busy," he said. "And the last thing I want is for this to be a burden. Whenever you have time. All that matters is that you tell me if it's any good."

"I will."

X

It was late, well past eleven, when Beckett arrived home. She changed into pajamas, poured a glass of wine, and sat down on her sofa. Picking up the manuscript, she didn't undo the rubber bands right away but let her fingertips skim over the paper.

She wanted very badly for this book to be good. For his sake. And for hers. Right now she could use a good novel for escape.

The rubber bands came undone with a twang, and she lifted away the cover page. Underneath it was not the first page of the manuscript, as she'd expected, but a handwritten note.

To Kate Beckett:

If you're seeing this note, it's because I chickened out and was unable to tell you something important about this book.

Lack of inspiration is what kills writing. I know this all too well. The reason I killed off Derrick Storm was because he no longer inspired me. I no longer cared what happened to him. And the reason my literary novel was a failure was because it had no inspiration (unless you call pretending to be something I'm not an inspiration).

But I had that for this book; specifically, for the main character. I've based her on you. Or rather, what I thought I knew about you. It was the events of that day that got me thinking I could write again, but the long-term inspiration came largely from you.

I apologize if this makes you uncomfortable, or if I've overstepped my bounds. If you'd rather not read the book, now that you know this, then by all means just let me know and I'll not trouble you again.

But I just wanted to thank you for making what I thought was impossible, possible again.

She read the note over several times. Part of her wanted to put the manuscript aside, but before she could stop herself, she turned to the first page of the story, hoping—no, knowing—that once she started, she wouldn't be able to stop.

It was a Sunday afternoon. She would always remember that, later—it began on a Sunday afternoon, by common knowledge the most uneventful time of day and day of week. NYPD Captain Thalia Frost set down the flowers she'd brought to the cemetery, stood up, and looked out over the grass and graves. That was when she saw the dead man. Granted, the cemeteries were full of dead men, but this one was standing, and looking right at her, and waving hello.

"Thalia," he said. "It's been a long time."

The name rang a bell, somewhere. Thalia. Breaking the story's hold, Beckett quickly brought up Google on her phone. Of course. Thalia was one of the Muses from Greek myth.

She rolled her eyes, and smiled. The smile lingered, because while over the years she'd been many things—daughter, student, friend, lover, cop, captain—she'd never been a muse before.

She could learn to like it. And to like him. That was something to think about later, though. Right now, she had a book to read.

Thanks, everyone! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.