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He killed his father here, too. At least, according to the report that Bill managed to get his hands on. It seems Castle wasn’t charged, though. And right after that, he joined the army at seventeen, and basically disappeared for the next six years. Then his mother died, which seems to have brought him back to New York, with an honorable discharge from the army.
That’s all I know. But I want to know more. Ineedto know more about this man.
My heart sinks more and more as I wander around the apartment. It’s not just the dust, it’s the fact that everything in here seems to have just beenabandoned. Like his mother died, but even though Castle came back for the funeral and to say goodbye, he didn’t even set foot in here, let alone come to clean it out or look for any childhood mementos.
She testified against him. Asked for jail time.
My face turns to steel as my heart twists.
Noshit, he didn’t. I mean my dad was an asshole, but I can’t even imagine Castle’s home life in a place like this, with parents like his. There’s this overwhelming feeling of sadness hanging over this whole apartment.
The place has only two bedrooms. The one that I’m in has two small beds, with posters of football players and sports cars on the wall on one side, and ones of pink unicorns and childish drawings of rainbows and birds on the other wall.
My heart twists again as my hand flies to my mouth.
This was Castle and his sister’s room.
Part of me wants to go over and touch the bed where he once slept. But it’s too sad in here to stay, and the sense of tragedy poisons the air.
I move on to the other bedroom, which was clearly their parents’. My eyes land on a framed photograph, and when I walk over to it, I wince as I realize something: it’s a small apartment, and I’ve just walked through the whole thing without seeingonepictureof any of the people who once lived here as a family.
Except this one.
In it, a sour-looking woman with dark red hair stands next to a gruff, dark-haired man with the short, stocky build, tattoos on his arms, and cauliflower ears that clearly mark him as a street thug for the Irish Mafia.
In front of them are two kids—a little girl who looks maybe three with darkish red hair who must be Kelly, and a tall, strapping young teenager with a shock of blonde hair and piercing blue eyes.
Castle.
I smile fondly at the young man, but then my brows knit as I stare at the family photo.
He looks nothing like them.
Robert is maybe an inch taller than Castle in the picture, and Castle can’t be more than maybe thirteen or fourteen. Kelly has her mother’s hair and facial features, and the same dark eyes as both of her parents.
And then there’s Castle: tall, lanky, blonde, and blue-eyed.
My shoulders prickle. This is weird.
I turn away, picking my way through the room, looking foranythingthat might shed some more light on the gaps of his life he clearly doesn’t want to talk about. And yes, I feelterriblefor doing this, and itabsolutelyfeels like I’m breaking his trust…because, well, I am.
But there’sno fucking wayI’m going to spend the next ten months living with him and not knowing about these holes in his past. I just can’t.
That said, there’s nothing here. No trophies or awards from school activities. No family albums. No report cards, college acceptance letters,nothing.
Only ghosts and the tragedies of the past.
I do one more pass through the tiny apartment before the overwhelming sadness of the place is too much, and I step out, feeling more than a little defeated.
Upstairs, I knock on Delores’ door to return the keys.
“Find anything useful, hon?”
I smile as much as I can after that dark tour of Castle’s bleak childhood.
“Unfortunately, not much. But thank you so much for your help anyway—”
“Oh!” She brightens, looking excited. “I almost forgot. Hang on.”
