As she goes, Castle remembers his duties as a father and takes out his cell phone, punching in the number for the apartment. It's after midnight and Alexis should be in bed, but the call rings through and he hears his daughter's voice on the line after the second ring. To a casual observer, the one-sided conversation goes something like this:
"Hey, honey, it's me. ... Yeah, I know it's one in the morning. I'm with Detective Beckett ... She had some paperwork she needed to finish up at the precinct ... No, no murders in the Rue Morgue ... It's too late for a cab, so I'm going to spend the night at her place. .... No, it's not a sleepover ... No, I'm not handcuffed to anything, I -- no, don't put Gram on the phone." A pause. A sigh. "Hello, mother. Yeah, I'm with Beckett. ... I don't know, an apartment? Yeah. I'll be home in the morning. Yes...no...definitely no. ... I'm sending you to a farm upstate. ... Love you, too. Bye."
He tosses his phone onto the table and glances in the direction she disappeared. The warm, buttery light from her bedroom spills down the hallway. He stands in place, a seaman tossed onto an unfamiliar shore, and then decides to check out her bookshelf. Better than a hot dog, Castle believes that a bookshelf is the real insight into a person's character.
Her shelves are crammed with dogearred paperbacks and, he's happy to note, quite a few of his own novels. He thumbs Unholy Storm off the shelf and checks the book plate. 'Palms the heavy, stiff weight of the spine and gives it a good squeeze. It feels like it's been read more than once.
no subject
"Hey, honey, it's me. ... Yeah, I know it's one in the morning. I'm with Detective Beckett ... She had some paperwork she needed to finish up at the precinct ... No, no murders in the Rue Morgue ... It's too late for a cab, so I'm going to spend the night at her place. .... No, it's not a sleepover ... No, I'm not handcuffed to anything, I -- no, don't put Gram on the phone." A pause. A sigh. "Hello, mother. Yeah, I'm with Beckett. ... I don't know, an apartment? Yeah. I'll be home in the morning. Yes...no...definitely no. ... I'm sending you to a farm upstate. ... Love you, too. Bye."
He tosses his phone onto the table and glances in the direction she disappeared. The warm, buttery light from her bedroom spills down the hallway. He stands in place, a seaman tossed onto an unfamiliar shore, and then decides to check out her bookshelf. Better than a hot dog, Castle believes that a bookshelf is the real insight into a person's character.
Her shelves are crammed with dogearred paperbacks and, he's happy to note, quite a few of his own novels. He thumbs Unholy Storm off the shelf and checks the book plate. 'Palms the heavy, stiff weight of the spine and gives it a good squeeze. It feels like it's been read more than once.