Chapter 1100: You Don’t Want Anyone Else Knowing, Do You? (Patreon)

Since returning from their wild adventure in France, Jack and the bestselling author hadn’t seen each other much. Even someone as carefree as Castle had needed time to process the sudden revelation that he’d basically gained a new father figure. Of course, it didn’t help that someone had repeatedly warned him to keep the entire experience top-secret—even from his favorite lady detective—and that he couldn’t adapt any of it into his novels. That, more than anything, had nearly driven the poor author mad.

Jack, meanwhile, had been busy as always. After scheduling a proper catch-up for the next day, he made a late-night trip to Staten Island. Danny’s leg injury had almost fully healed, and with the support of his family, even his emotional wounds were starting to fade.

His trauma wasn’t new—classic PTSD from a tour overseas. Danny had once lost a close comrade, two years younger than himself, to an IED during a routine patrol. More recently, being trapped inside a crushed squad car and watching helplessly as fellow officers died around him had resurfaced those wartime memories.

Thankfully, Danny had a kind and understanding wife, a supportive father and grandfather, and two caring sons. Two months on, he was slowly recovering from the darkness.

That was what healing should look like—because having mental struggles didn’t mean someone was insane. But in modern American society, “mental health issues” were becoming a default excuse. Even someone gunned down by police during a public shooting spree could become a poster boy for victimhood, thanks to activist groups and spin-doctors. Cue the “he was a good son, a kind neighbor” speeches—and suddenly, his rampage was chalked up to a mental crisis.

The truth was, the abundance of mental illness in the U.S. wasn’t surprising—it would be stranger if there wasn’t so much of it. From cocaine to opioids, from meth to so-called “harmless” marijuana, America’s substance culture had flooded its population with neurological time bombs.

Maybe that made sense. But having nearly 20–30% of the population fall under “mental disorder or substance addiction” was terrifying in itself.

Satisfied that Danny had regained his strength and spirit, Jack drove back to Long Island.

He was greeted by two beautiful women—dressed as Holmes and Watson.

A full black three-piece British suit, deerstalker hat, and cloak—New York was already too warm for this. Hannah’s elegant nose glistened with sweat.

JJ, in a lighter plaid outfit, toyed with a bowler hat like a mischievous Watson, her expression somewhere between smug and amused.

“Still half a year till Halloween. What is this cosplay nonsense?”

Jack’s eyes swept across the living room table—stacked high with colorfully-covered romance novels. The top one read: Don’t Leave Me: The Billionaire’s Secret Heiress. His forehead instantly broke out in cold sweat.

Hannah, fake mustache glued above her lip, tapped the corncob pipe she’d just bitten—a memento from MacArthur’s collection Jack kept upstairs. Clearly stolen.

“Where do you think you’re going, Miss Joan Doe?”

Jack froze mid-motion, caught in the act of closing the door to pretend none of this was happening. He feigned innocence. “I swear I came home alone.”

JJ’s smirk was almost wicked. “Agent Tavolier, you wouldn’t want your little side hobby as a romance novelist getting out, would you?”

“…”

Jack immediately surrendered, raising both hands. “Alright, name your price. Or rather—what do I have to do to make sure this... disappears forever?”

—

“Why are we meeting in front of a funeral home first thing in the morning? Weren’t we supposed to get lunch?” Jack asked, feigning confusion even as he spotted Castle walking up with a long-legged brunette at his side.

“I was about to ask the same thing,” Castle quipped. “Aren’t funerals usually after the crime’s been solved?”

Detective Kate Beckett shot him a playful glare before Castle turned to Jack with a sheepish grin. “Since you’re inviting me to Vegas this weekend and today’s already Thursday, I figured we’d better solve this one quickly.”

Jack rolled his eyes. Great—so I’m the sidekick in his weekend speedrun mystery.

Castle then noticed the sleek Audi R8 and ran his hand along the hood. “Wow, new wheels again? A sports car? Is this FBI standard issue now?”

“Nope. It’s war loot.” Jack rubbed his lower back, sneaking in a healing spell. Castle, of course, misread the motion.

“Oho, rough night?” the author teased.

“Oh, very rough. I was coerced into writing a 20,000-word script opening overnight.”

Thinking of last night’s ordeal, Jack visibly winced. Being blackmailed into writing a novel—with the threat of his secret identity as “Joan Doe,” the hit romance novelist, being posted to every group chat—was not how authors were supposed to operate.

Hannah and JJ had demanded a dual-female-lead story based on themselves, with enough flair for TV adaptation. And they wanted a fun opening chapter immediately.

He’d rewritten it three times before the self-styled lady Holmes and Watson were satisfied.

Thank god for all those crime shows he’d watched in a past life. Rizzoli & Isles had been a rare quality two-female detective drama, and he’d even mashed in some fantasy elements from Ghost Whisperer—giving the sexy pathologist a secret career as a medium.

Hearing he was starting a new book—and a fantasy-flavored detective story at that—Beckett gave him an intrigued look. “Is it another short-form series? I loved Chuck.”

“This one’s better suited to classic episodic structure. Too many mysteries for 15-minute episodes—it needs room to breathe.”

As they chatted and walked into the funeral home, they were greeted by Detective Javier Esposito standing outside the taped-off entrance. His partner, Kevin Ryan, was still taking witness statements.

“What’s going on?” Beckett asked briskly, her tone shifting into full-on investigation mode.

“Someone found a body inside the casket.”

“…Isn’t that kind of the point?” Castle deadpanned.

Esposito shot him a withering glare. “The family was holding a viewing for Mr. Mank. The casket tipped during setup, and everyone saw—it wasn’t just him inside.”