It was subtle at first.

The impact of her unwitting confession to Bobby Lopez was dramatic, and it stunned him, but he made it through the case. He left abruptly after Gates had congratulated everyone, and he went home. The weekend passed quietly. He didn't leave the loft.

By the time another week had passed, he knew that she was worried. He'd been unfailingly pleasant, bringing coffee as usual, and had made his best attempt to outwardly be his normal self. She'd asked him several times if there was something the matter, and he'd just told her that he was feeling a little under the weather. It was true enough.

There was no confrontation. No running away. No acting out. He was beyond all of those things. This was the end of his dream of his own future. There was no room for petty revenge. There was no energy for it.

When the thought occurred to him for the first time, late one night about two weeks after he overheard her, it was subtle at first. Hypothetical. Indulgent. Melodramatic.

But its voice grew in volume each time.

In his dreams, or awake in the dark during the small hours of the night. During long, hallucinatory days at the precinct. At home, as his daughter and his mother chatted brightly at the dinner table, while he pretended to listen and really only stared into the distance. The subtle voice became louder.

It was only prudent and responsible to keep his affairs in order. He hadn't updated his will in some time, and it was sensible to review such things regularly, particularly as a man of some wealth who had a daughter to provide for. And so he made the appointment, and he went, and he reviewed his estate and he made some adjustments.

It was only fair and reasonable that a percentage — modest in comparison to what his daughter would receive, but sizeable in value nonetheless — would go to the woman who inspired his latest novels. A royalty payment and a gesture of gratitude, rolled into one. Anyone would do the same thing in his situation. And so papers were signed, and everything was made right.

The letters were a writing exercise, which any professional author would regularly participate in. Imagining scenarios, and committing them to text. There were three, of course, each to a different woman; two redheads, and one brunette. They focused on feeling, and were circumspect about context. It was only logical to be somewhat vague. Life insurance had specific exclusions in the event of the policyholder taking matters into their own hands. And as a writing exercise, after all, he could imagine whatever scenario he wanted for when these letters might be read.

They were printed, signed, and sealed within envelopes. All three were lodged with his lawyers, under instructions that if they hadn't heard from him in six weeks, they were to be delivered to a Rodgers, a Castle, and a Beckett, respectively. His lawyers were professionals, and they were well-paid. They asked no questions.

If any part of his mind questioned whether this was taking a mere writing exercise too far, it nevertheless remained silent.

His mother and daughter had both begun to enquire about his health now, too. The claims of tiredness, despite having plenty of energy in the morning, requiring him to go to bed early each night. In truth, he couldn't face whiling away the deepening darkness of the evening hours with his ceaseless thoughts echoing around his mind. Thoughts about four years, and about three long months of silence, and about things best not remembered. About lies, and about pity. About a future, wiped away.

Beckett had stopped asking, but her concern was evident on a daily basis now. She issued invitations, and attempted to engineer invitations from him, but he politely and carefully deflected each time. Gone were the warm looks, and the brief touches. The worst part was that she seemed genuinely confused, and her eyes were always full of questions that he couldn't understand.

When he looked in the mirror, the light in his own eyes was gone too. They were flat and grey. And behind them, the voice.

He thought that his family weren't pushing the matter further because he was still obviously working, and indeed he'd rarely in his career made more rapid progress. He completed the revised draft of the latest Nikki Heat book a full two months ahead of schedule.

It didn't end well for Rook, but it did at least end — and wasn't that what this was all about?

He delivered the draft via email on a cloudy afternoon, then he closed his laptop and sat back in his chair. It seemed as good a day as any.

Dinner was a warm affair, with much of his old good cheer suddenly reappearing. He was affectionate and funny, and the relief on the faces of his daughter and his mother was plain to see. Alexis spontaneously hugged him, just a little too tightly, and he stroked her hair. There was a question in her eyes when she at last reluctantly pulled back, and he met it with a simple smile.

"Everything's fine," he said, and then he placed a kiss on the crown of her head.

A couple of hours later, he found himself in his office again, his mother and daughter both out for the evening, and his phone chirped with what had become one of several daily texts from Beckett, just to check in with him. He hadn't been to the precinct in some time — because of the writing — and he'd not seen her in more than a week. He replied and told her, also, that everything was fine. He saw her very uncharacteristic smiley-face response just before he held the Power button of his phone and then swiped the screen to switch it off.

He opened his desk drawer, placed the phone inside, and also added the other contents of his pockets; wallet and keys. His wristwatch completed the collection. He closed the drawer.

The decanter of single malt whisky was only a few feet away, and it took barely half a minute to pour a generous measure, and swallow it in two gulps. He repeated the process, then sat the glass down. Again, where the law was concerned, it was wise to allow for multiple interpretations.

The night was unexpectedly warm, even from the roof. He'd paid to have an iron railing installed years ago, running around the perimeter about a metre from the edge, for the sake of Alexis' safety. They would come up here sometimes when she was a child, to stargaze or watch fireworks.

He stepped over the railing, facing outwards, one hand still gripping the smooth metal surface. New York surrounded him, its luminance glittering from a million windows. White and red lights swam with the traffic below. Bustling with life, everywhere, and at all hours. Continuing on, as always, just as it would tomorrow.

He inhaled deeply, savouring the oxygen. Everything had taken on a melancholy beauty; piercing and unbearable. There was art, now, in the lines of buildings. There was music in the ceaseless movement below. The faces of three women flashed before his eyes, and the wind whistled through the hole he imagined through the centre of his heart.

Even the voice was silent now, because there was nothing else to say. This had been its quiet suggestion; his one means of escape. There was no getting over her. There was no alternate path ahead. He was filled with regret, and guilt, and apology — but after a few moments, even those emotions fell silent.

Castle breathed, again, and released his grip.

The city rushed up to meet him.