There's one file in particular she's been poring over with a pen, jotting down the occasional note here and there and trying to pinpoint connections where she's able. In the background, she hears the sound of Castle rummaging through kitchen drawers and the audible pop of the bottle opening, and she spins the pen through her fingers like a drummer with a miniature stick.

"Oh, I sent them home after I got in," she casually replies.

She doesn't have to be looking to see Castle's expression at the sound of her admission; the sound of him stopping mid-pour would be clue enough. Regardless, it puts her on the defensive, feeling some strange need to explain her actions.

"What? The windows are locked, the door's locked. Plus I'm armed," she adds, as if he hadn't found out about that part in the more literal sense only a couple of minutes ago. The pen stops between her index and middle finger, and her gaze drops to the casefile in her other hand.