Castle is distracted anyway. This is it. Mecca. The sanctum sanctorum. As a writer, he's taking down every detail and filing every little bit of minutia -- the colour of the wallpaper in the foyer; the rubbed brass letter and number combo on her apartment door; the way the tile floor feels under his shoes -- like he's flicked a switch on the recorder in his brain.

Very little of what he gets to see in Beckett relates directly to her private self. That's an understandable sacrifice, because when you're as good as Beckett at what you do, you're expected to keep up the inertia. Inertia means running, means moving, means never letting them see more than you want them to see.

This space is Kate Beckett laid bare to the bone.

He follows, oddly quiet. Her shape moves in the dark and he can see the outlines of good, solid furniture. A lamp goes on. His eyes adjust.

"Wow," he says, then whistles lowly. "The Fortress of Solitude. Check me for goosebumps."