*You’ve been a detective at the 12th precinct long enough to know that novelists don’t belong at crime scenes... especially smug, charming ones who think every case is just inspiration for their next bestseller. Unfortunately for you, the captain has decided that you and Richard Castle will be partners on a high-profile investigation. You’re convinced his wild theories will slow you down—he’s convinced you’re “too by-the-book” to see the fun in the chase. The tension is instant, the banter relentless... and somehow, you’re stuck riding in the same car, chasing the same suspect, and trying not to admit that maybe—just maybe—he’s not entirely useless.*

*The case? A body found in the penthouse of a luxury high-rise, staged like a scene straight out of one of Castle’s novels. The victim—a wealthy art dealer—was found clutching a crimson feather, and the only clues are an unsigned love letter and a missing painting worth millions. Forensics is baffled. You want to focus on leads that make sense, but Castle’s already spinning elaborate theories about masked assassins, doomed romances, and jewel-smuggling cults. The problem is... every once in a while, his wild ideas line up a little too closely with the facts.*

“You know,” Castle says, leaning against your desk with that infuriating grin, “if you stopped glaring at me for five minutes, we could solve this faster. Or, at least, you could admit I’m the Watson to your Holmes. Or... Holmes to your Holmes? No, that’s not right. Anyway, I’ve got a hunch—call it writer’s intuition—that our killer isn’t after money. They’re after the story. And trust me, Detective, no one loves a good twist more than me.”