Castle accompanies them to the front door.

Beckett turns somewhat to blink at him. Confusion and concern pull her from a deep well of misgivings. There's an almost somnolent aura about him now. He moves stiffly, and she doesn't believe the cold alone to be evoking such. It brings about an odd mental comparison to stories she's read about lycanthropy. He's revealed so much lately, previously uncharted capacities for anger and grief. She feels like he's trying to contain within himself more than is acceptable by the laws of physics. And she's worried any answers will elicit a violent transformation worthy of a horror story, whether it's emotional or physical. How much greater will the damage be if it's one that supports his already professed self-criminations?

Kate lifts a hand gently to comb the hair at his brow to one side. "I thought you weren't welcome here?"

The novelist blinks in turn, frowns as though he's come this far without being fully aware of it. No retreat is attempted despite that. "I'm a reminder," he explains in a still raw voice, "not a literal trespasser. I did the Matthews a disservice by not explaining better. They'd have me, and gladly." His gaze roams the ceiling when he continues as if reading a message carved there. "Their acceptance only makes visiting that much harder."

Phantoms of tortured thoughts and emotions dwell within the orbs fixed above them. Shadows contour his features with the lowering of his chin to its neutral plane and for an instant the motion of them creates an illusion of those ghosts pouring out of his gaze, gushing black down his cheeks. It is so strange to behold him like this. It simply won't normalize in her mind that he carries darkness equal to, perhaps even greater than his light.

Beckett purses her lips and pushes the thoughts back. She's not wallowing in guilt anymore, nor indulging in further comparisons of the past and present. There's a much bigger issue to deal with—monstrous in fact. "Don't come with us because you think I have answers, Castle. Don't put yourself through that. It's a baseless theory." As startling as her freshly plucked idea is, it remains only that. Just because it makes sense in a horrible way doesn't make her right. "I'm not even confident in it. I was surprised when it occurred to me. That's all." He stares her down without expression. The man is no fool. It may be true that she doesn't know. But she's absolutely terrified she does. He saw that, maybe still sees it. It is too late by far to conceal.

"You guys."

They both turn towards their third, but John's gaze is fixed upon the front door. Closer now, they can see that it's unlatched. The narrowest of wedges is present between door and jamb, a glowing line of interior light.

"That's," Kate starts, but pauses. She looks to each man in turn. Her answer to the halted query is written in lines of surprise and unease there. No. This is not some small town courtesy for expected guests.

"Godfrey," John calls, startling her. He eases the door open. Warm interior light spills from wall sconces with octagonal glass shades, lending soft-watt radiance to an inviting vestibule. The hardwood floor is draped with a large, rectangular runner resplendent with bold autumn hues. "Lydia? Anyone home?"

Kate eases back a pace unconsciously, driven by a warning hum of instinct. Or maybe it's an overreaction after a long day of unpleasant surprises. "Is this normal? It looks like every light in the house is on."

"Come on in," Rick murmurs hauntingly, as if dictating a story from the home's perspective. "See how well-lit I am? All is well. No secrets here. No monsters lying in the shadows—why, no shadows at all."

There's no shame in admitting it: the words and the manner of their delivery are frightening. He's not playing around by doing that either. It's a legitimate point: the false sense of security all the light produces is a tempting lure to enter and explore. Beckett stopped too, but she couldn't have explained why. Sometimes her partner's cunning in adopting an adversarial mindset is just plain unnerving.

"Wait here," their fore instructs, and steps inside.

"John, wait," she hisses. He stops, frowning over his shoulder at her. "Don't…" Don't what, Katie? Don't do his job and investigate? She expels a forceful breath, says, "I'm coming with you."

"We are," Castle corrects with a dark glance her way. He isn't asking.

Beckett purses her lips, but strides in after the deputy with her partner at her back.

"Hello?" the imposing man booms.

She winces, but says nothing. He has to check. The woman yearns for a reply that doesn't come.

"Are you armed?" Castle asks quietly.

"No."

"I thought police officers were allowed to carry out of their jurisdictions?"

"We are," John answers for her, without taking his searching gaze from the space before them all. "But not into a private residence. Not without permission. There're limits." That being said, he crouches and draws his slacks up over the cuff of his right boot to reveal an ankle holster. He straightens with the weapon held out in offering. She goes for it only to see Castle's larger hand closing over the grip and taking possession.

"You wouldn't know an intruder from the occupants," he reminds her.

Beckett scowls as he checks the load and reinserts the clip. "It's a .45," she says instead of arguing. "It'll kick more than my backup does, and it only has ten rounds."

John issues a soft huff as though amused, but the expression wilts when their gazes meet and he sees her bemusement. He turns back around with a slow shake of his head. Oh shit. That's not nothing. Sure enough the man grumbles, "Jesus, Rick. You're fucking marrying her, brother."

"What now?" she growls, but her heart flutters with apprehension rather than anger.

"Nothing," Castle calmly reassures. "You know I can shoot. That's all he's talking about, Kate. John and his father are the ones who taught me how to handle firearms."

"Oh." Oh thank goodness. One hand rises and pushes back through her hair in relief.

"You're sure it was us doing the teaching?" John mutters ahead of them.

Kate looks sharply at her partner, but he's smirking faintly. It's merely a comment on his aptitude then, which she already knows to be above average. Apparently his range of expertise is also more pronounced than she was led to believe. That's okay. 'More' is to be expected when learning about someone in greater detail. So is 'different' for that matter, but the second is harder to accept in quantity.

"You've got that look about you again," Castle intones as they advance through the foyer. The house opens up around them into an elaborate and spacious main hall. A split central staircase leads to the second story in mirrored, curving paths. Paths branch to the left and right, and beyond the staircase ahead the house unfurls into what looks like a single chamber of unknown function. Double doors stand closed to a room at their immediate left, and to the right is an elegant dining room open to the area beyond but for a series of supportive pillars—more Tuscan influence there. "Like we're changing," Castle elaborates. "Or as if I am anyway."

John hesitates as their guide, turning with a frown in one direction, then another as though uncertain where to start their search. The dithering is justifiable; the place is massive.

"Aren't you?" Kate murmurs. She whistles softly through her teeth to get the deputy's attention and widens her eyes pointedly. Let's go already. He frowns back at her, but nods and heads to the right.

"Not at all," the writer answers. He waits for her to proceed after John, takes a position at their rear since he's the one carrying. "Your perceptions of me are. This is why I didn't say something sooner. It took everything to claw my way back from what happened, and no small amount of support from friends and family. The way you're looking at me though—it's like none of that effort or those sacrifices count for anything."

"That's not true!" she hisses quietly, outraged. "I don't—I don't think that, Castle. Jeez. Don't you think I know better? Me of all people?"

"That's how it feels. It's not what I believe to be the case." He sighs. "What I'm trying to say is: I have more appreciation than ever for you taking me back that first year we worked together, when I'd poked my nose into your mother's case. I've waited so long for closure. Suddenly I saw this…this beautiful opportunity. Maybe I would never find mine, but I was convinced I could help find yours. That's—it's no excuse, of course. I see that so clearly now. My presumption, hypocrisy; because I knew then exactly how it feels to be invaded by someone else's need to know. Even a well-meaning desire to help hurts. It's not something that can be helped. Not really." She pauses, not even breathing by this point, eyes glassy as she looks back at him. "You let me come back," he adds, and smiles slightly. "You really are an extraordinary woman, Katherine Beckett."

"No shit," Beckett replies with forced nonchalance, and both her fiancé and the deputy ahead chuckle briefly despite the circumstances. Yeah, that's weird come to think of it: the deeply private woman doesn't mind them having this discussion with John right there to overhear. It's rare she feels so comfortable around strangers. Their humor masks her taking a deep and a steadying couple of breaths. She nods for their vanguard to continue on.

The dining room to their right is lit by a chandelier. It looks like real crystal and the metalwork of the silver frame has the telltale craftsmanship of antiquity. This single item is probably worth more than her entire collection of heels. "I still wish you'd told me about this sooner," she says with careful gentleness. "I could've asked, but you could've offered. I'm not making excuses or accusations, but you know me, Rick. It's not really my way to go prodding into other people's history." Kate doesn't add: And now you seem to know why. She loves that. It's a lesson she would never have wished upon him, but it's a precious gift: to be understood.

"I should have offered," he agrees. "It's…difficult. I know you understand that."

Along the wall to their left are a handful of paintings spaced evenly apart and lit from below by small lamps on adjustable stems. They're mostly landscapes, seemingly of the local area. Productions of local artists perhaps; she doesn't recognize any of the pieces. One of them depicts Montauk centuries previous, with Native American canoes berthed upon a rocky beach. In the background, several greater colonial ships are visible anchored off-shore, looming and portrayed in brooding colors. No figures are present—only their respective vessels. It's a stark and intriguing comparison of two wildly different cultures.

"Where are you?" she hears John issue in a frustrated growl. He means the Matthews. He's just checked the two-car garage at the end of the hall. "Empty. That's normal though. There's an attached laundry room back here. We might as well clear that now too."

"I wonder if Lydia knew we were coming," Rick muses as they enter the garage. The gray cement floor is pristine: not even a drip of oil exists to indicate habitation. Three long, wide tables stand along the north wall, each affixed with heavy-duty vices. The wall above them is layered with swaths of metal pegboard. A daunting collection of automotive tools hang there. It's all clean and well-organized. "Maybe the stress induced another episode."

"Episode?" Kate queries.

Rick waits to reply, moving up alongside John to provide cover. A short set of stairs awaits them. They clear the laundry room in a matter of moments while she lingers behind. There's a flutter of both concern and pride watching Castle perform the act. He has watched her team long enough to have the tactical advance down pat. He even moves like a pro, as though the act has been practiced to fluidity in private. For research, he'd surely claim.

Castle backs out of the room moments later, followed by John. The latter is downright scowling now. He extinguishes the light and closes the door behind them. "No one leaves the lights on in an out-of-the-way room like this on purpose. Not every single light." Anger gilds his bass as it unfurls and echoes in the garage. "What's going on here?" Neither of his companions answer, and he doesn't wait for one. "Lower east wing's clear," he continues, seemingly as much for his own benefit. "We'll check the west, then north, and come back for the rest of this one." A flexing of muscles reveals the clenching of his jaw. "Save the terrace for after, upstairs for last."

It goes unsaid, but all of them know: if there's someone else in the house with them, he or she could be moving freely about while the three of them are clearing opposing sections. They'd need at least another dozen people to adequately contain and properly search a dwelling of these proportions.

"What were you saying about Lydia?" Kate asks Rick quietly as they head back towards the foyer.

"She's a fantasizer," John offers from ahead of her. Okay. Apparently that's supposed to be some kind of explanation. "The real deal, I mean," he adds solemnly. "Paracosm and all."

"Para—what?"

"Paracosm. She lives in an imaginary world of her own creation. Not all the time, of course, but often."

"You're kidding me."

John is silent for a moment, drawing her attention by the lack. He pauses to meet her gaze and holds it simply by the set of his grave countenance. "August 9th, 1985. Dad was escorting a prisoner transport through our jurisdiction to Riker's Island. Mom and I went along in a separate car, visited the Natural History museum in the city, made a day of it, you know? My father drove us all back that evening. On the way, in the middle of the night mind you, we find Mrs. Matthews walking east along Highway 27 in her nightgown." The deputy's dark eyes shift alertly back to front, but then return. "This is miles from town. The night is overcast, black as pitch. She was…strange, so colorful and full of life—like a kid herself. I mean, she played with me in the backseat as we continued the trip home. Tickled me and played twenty questions. I was too young to understand she wasn't herself. All I knew was that she was fun and sweet. And so witty," he adds with a brief, faltering smile.

Kate's expression is taut, strained by the haunting note of affection underlying the other's voice.

"Uh. We brought her home. It was not…pleasant. She didn't get angry or act out. She simply started crying when the house came into view, like it did for us a few minutes ago. It was so quiet." A hush similar to the one being described creeps into the depths of the man's voice. "I'd never heard such silent grief before, nor seen despair turn someone into a crumpled heap." John quiets for several beats. By some internal signal he rouses, clears his throat roughly. "That wasn't her only late-night sojourn, and it grew worse over time—which I learned more about after I joined the force and became familiar with our previous casework. A tourist picked her up maybe a year after that incident. His statement reports that while Lydia was in similarly good spirits at the time, she was speaking a made-up language. He had to bring her to the station for lack of other options."

"Jesus," Beckett issues softly. She turns some to look back at Castle. He's impassive, a study of painfully controlled emotion. He's also ashen. The blood has drained from his face.

"Stop looking so guilty back there," John growls. "It's not your doing."

"Keep moving," Castle replies evenly, but good heavens, his glare is pure lethality, like crackling, bluish nets of electricity barely held in check, writhing with eagerness for a target to unleash upon.

The deputy sighs, but so quietly even Beckett barely discerns it from a foot or so behind him. He continues onward and they emerge back into the main hall. Their guide stops there long enough to take in the space again, noting, Kate presumes, what she also does; nothing is altered from when they stood here last.

"Maybe that's why no one's here now," Rick suggests as they file down the east hallway. "Maybe knowing we were coming set her off and Godfrey is out looking for her."

John says nothing, but motions the other man forwards. They stack up against a set of double-doors on the left side of the hall—the same room that opens into the main hall through a different set of doors. It's empty as well though, and Kate enters when she hears Castle's hushed announcement, "Clear."

It's an oval office—a breathtaking one. There's an almost Victorian feel to the home in general, a suggestion bolstered here by the presence of so much heavy, ornate furniture. A round table dominates the central portion of the room. A few books rest upon it, pulled from one of the many shelves of them. There's also a tall column of diamond-shaped shelving bristling with rolled up maps, a few of which are unfurled and weighted upon the table. They all seem to pertain to the region and waters around Long Island. They look old. So does the muted, lime-toned wallpaper, which is sectioned by hardwood molding and pillars along the rooms circumference. Paintings adorn the walls—people this time, men and women, and though none bear names to identify them each has obvious genetic markers of the other. Standing pedestals house ghostly white busts of similarly identifiable figures.

John nods to one painting that features a tall, broad-shouldered man. His chiseled features are quite handsome, and his proportions convey not only fitness, but formidable strength. The clothing which adorns him is colonial era, including a powdered wig and an old rifle. "There's a reproduction of this is hanging in the station. That's Jeremiah Matthews. The patriarch, if you will, for the American arm of his family. He was the first."

"He died shortly after that was commissioned," Rick murmurs from the table where he's inspecting the small pile of books. "Taken prisoner along with about a thousand others during the Battle of Long Island. He was injured in the fight—shot in the leg if I recall correctly. It wasn't a mortal wound, but he was one of the many unfortunate people to be interned aboard the HMS Jersey."

"That's correct," John supplies evenly. "Afterwards, his wife, Aurora, bribed two British soldiers so that she and her two eldest sons could sneak onto the beach at night and search for his body. There's a letter she sent to her sister in New York City. It's on display in the Museum of the American Revolution. In it, she claims that she couldn't leave him there like that, but that once she'd found him, it was equally hard to leave the other men behind, many lumped together in shallow graves." Kate turns, notices Rick doing the same. But John is regarding the painting, not them. "They had to carry his body four miles along the shoreline to get back to where they'd left their horses. But they did it. They brought him home. That, my friends, is love."

Kate's gaze shifts to Rick, her eyes wide with trepidation. Yeah. His expression is raw with it, the freshness of this information, though maybe a stranger wouldn't be able to tell. Bodies, graves on the beach, death on the water. She could happily march over and slap John Autry across the back of his goddamn head. Lost as he is in admiration for the tale, their towering companion doesn't seem to comprehend what he's revealed. Love!? You just described the inspiration for how and where Llewellyn disposed of his victims, you idiot!

"Let—let's keep moving," the novelist rasps, headed for the door. Kate reaches out, but he doesn't stop, and her fingers graze down his right arm without finding it in herself to clamp on and stop him.

A/N: That's all I have for now. Damn it. I loathe waiting, even when it's worth it! I have an idea where this is headed, and...ugh! I wanna know. Anyway, freak-out aside, I've been asked to pass this chapter along with a note about a kind of error in the writing: the repetition of Kate reacting to Rick's hidden depths. Which is true I suppose. It's been consistent. I wouldn't have described it as being stated to the point of irritation, but hey, I'm just the messenger here. John says he's aware and will endeavor to cease beating us over the head with it. I think that's a peril unique to writing in spurts. You recapture what you want to say without remembering the point has been made previously. Anywho, hope to have more for this soon.