Catherine knew they purposely left the bright light on in her cell. The goal was to make her sleep-deprived and disoriented, then hopefully convince her to turn Queen's evidence.

The joke was on them. Catherine was already so sleep-deprived, being locked away in the warm cozy cell was almost like a mini-vacation. Light or no light, the moment her head hit the thin, sad-excuse thing called a pillow, she fell fast asleep.

Now she understood what Jimmy meant when he said he was getting sleep in Maghaberry. At Musgrave, everything was out of her control. To keep her mind off what possibilities lie ahead in her future, Catherine chose not to think of it, and only focus on making it through the next hour with her sanity. Finally getting some sleep helped.

She had just woken up from a nap following a particularly long, grueling session of questioning. There was no "good cop - bad cop" routine this time around. The team of detectives wasted no time squaring up. They got in her face, called her names; giggled like school-boys while making wanton and derogatory anecdotes at her expense.

And unlike last time, she was far more brazen. A bit mouthy. When they threatened her with an array of charges, Catherine smugly reminded them of one thing: If they had any evidence of her involvement with the IRA or any IRA operations, they would have already formally charged her.

That quickly shut them up.

The second questioning had gone a lot smoother. For six hours, in a small room with two overweight and sweating detectives, she didn't say a single word.

Hearing the heavy door at the end of the hall slam shut accompanied by the squeak of rubber-soled shoes on the floor, Catherine bolted up. She shoved her feet into her boots just as the blue door of her cell swung open.

"O'Toole, let's go."

Sleep still in her eyes, Catherine looked up to see an officer standing halfway between her cell and the hall. Dressed in the uniform of dark green trousers, a white button-down shirt, and black tie was a bloke called Danny McCarthy.

"You're not wearin' your cute wee hat," she taunted, a sarcastic smile curling the corners of her mouth. "Did the big boys on the playground steal it from ya?"

He rolled his eyes, his expression reflecting he wasn't amused. "Shut your fuckin' bake."

"Touchy, aren't we? No need to twist your knickers over a wee joke."

Standing up, Catherine exited the cell first. As they walked down the hall side-by-side, he held a tight grip on her bicep.

Alone in the stairwell leading up to the interrogation rooms, Danny tugged Catherine into the corner, out of view from the cameras. She knew she could trust him—for the most part—but that didn't stop her heart from racing. Being on edge at the prospect of another five straight hours of questioning wasn't helping her nerves, either.

So when he pulled a pack of cigarettes out from his pocket and offered her one, she felt silly for worrying about nothing.

"Thank you," Catherine said, blowing a cloud of smoke above their heads.

A Catholic boy, Danny grew up with the O'Toole siblings on the Falls Road. Catherine even went to St. Dominic's with his youngest sister. When the PSNI began to heavily recruit Catholics into the police force following the peace agreement, Danny reluctantly joined, seeing no other way to provide a stable home for his wife and children. Having come from a relatively republican family such as Catherine, it had been no surprise when most of Danny's relatives disassociated from him.

Catherine genuinely felt for the guy. He was just trying to pay his bills and put food in his children's bellies.

But as it turned out, somethings in Belfast never changed. The previous summer, Danny went to Catherine for help after his sister's former boyfriend began to stalk her. After the PSNI did nothing, it was the IRA who solved the problem with a bullet to each of the fella's kneecaps.

When it was all said and done, Catherine never once held the favor over his head. For that, he was grateful.

"We look out for our own," she told him. "No one else is gonna fight for us."

Finished with her cigarette, Catherine stubbed it out on the concrete landing and tossed the butt into the trash can. Danny escorted her to a room that was a lot smaller and more cramped than the one she was in before.

Removing the cuffs from his tactical belt, Danny secured one wrist, then locked the other cuff to the metal peg anchored to the tabletop.

He lowered his voice to just above a whisper, "I have no idea what's goin' on exactly, but they've been panickin' all night and they still are."

Catherine nodded to show she acknowledged what he told her. When he left, she rubbed her dry, aching eyes. At this point, she was sure her contact lenses were glued to her eyeballs.

She didn't have to take a wild guess that the detectives were panicking because their case against Jimmy was now falling apart at the seams. She was also doing her part to tank their evidence as well, by offering a laundry-list of alibis for shootings and mortar attacks they were trying to connect her and Jimmy to.

Stretching her arm out on the table, Catherine rested her head. She watched the second-hand tick away on the clock that was hanging on the wall. It was almost seven, and based on what Danny said, she guessed it was morning.

That would mean she was going on day three.

Just two more to get through, she reminded herself.

She snapped straight up when the door behind her opened. She didn't bother to look back and see who it was, but she found the scent of the aftershave filling the small space to be peculiar.

The breath hitched in her throat when detective Ian Wright plopped down a stack of folders on to the table. He set a paper cup of tea and a few sausage rolls on a napkin in front of her. Easing down into the chair, he patted his pockets for his cigarettes. When he found the pack, he shook one loose and held it out to Catherine.

Bluntly ignoring the no-smoking sign on the wall, they both lit up.

Holding the cigarette in the hand which was cuffed to the table, she shamelessly drank the tea with her free one. He prepared it the exact way she liked it; no cream, but incredibly sweet.

From one of the folders, Ian pulled out a crisp sheet of paper and slid it in front of her. She rolled her eyes, pushing it back, wrongfully assuming it was another statement against Jimmy they wanted her to sign.

"I'll tell you what I told the other detectives. Go fu-"

"It's a statement from one of Liam's neighbors; said they saw you leaving his house only an hour before he came here and retracted his statements against Jimmy. You expect me to believe it wasn't you who convinced him to change his mind?"

"I'm not my brother's keeper—he's free to do whatever he likes."

"I would disagree with that, and I think he would, too. We have a fair amount of evidence that points to Jimmy as the officer commanding, and you the intelligence and operations officer for the entire True IRA."

Catherine sucked her teeth and held her gaze with Ian. Of every detective in the goddamn department, why did he have to be the one questioning her now? She knew he was smart enough not to use their history to bring her down. Still, for some reason, there was a nagging embarrassment on her part that they were once again sitting on opposite sides of the table.

"There's only one problem with your accusation, detective. I never have, nor will I ever be a member of the True Irish Republican Army."

Reaching into one of the folders, Ian produced a photo of her standing outside of a pub with the two men who'd recently been sentenced for explosives and conspiracy charges.

"Then what were ya doin' hangin' out with the likes of Seamus McDaid and Aidan Kelly?"

"I grew up with 'em," she defended. "They went to school with my older brother and they remained mates. You're wastin' your time here; I've no idea why my brother left or where he went."

Ian dumped his cigarette into the tea she hadn't finished drinking. She threw him a dirty look and he smugly smiled at her as he rolled up the sleeves of the dress-shirt to his elbows.

He knew this was a waste of time, too. She'd never talk to him about any of this – he couldn't even get her to admit her involvement with the IRA while mid-orgasm. The woman was a secure vault of secrets.

"For me to be able to help you, you have to talk."

Catherine laughed. "I don't need help, and even if I did, you, Detective Wright, are the last fella I'd ever seek it from."

He hadn't been expecting her to react as harshly as she did. The truth was, he'd do anything to help her out a jam. He honestly cared for her and didn't want to see her life circle the drain as it did for so many others who've been in this same position. Maybe she didn't have reason to trust him; he needed to fix that.

Ian slid the statement which he said was from one of Liam's neighbors back in front of her. "I think you should read this."

"Nope," she said gruffly, pushing it away.

"Miss. O'Toole, I think it's in your best interest to read it."

The authority that Ian's voice held was the kind he used in bed. Through blonde eyelashes, she looked up at him. He smiled and picked up one of the sausage rolls, biting into it.

Picking up the paper with both hands, Catherine skimmed it. Just as she predicted, it was all true. But what made her do a double-take was the handwritten note Ian scribbled on the bottom.

Jimmy's due in court at 10am – keep talking to run out the clock. You'll be released once his case is dropped.

It all clicked. With Liam gone and his statements retracted, she was the Crown's last-ditch effort to make the charges against Jimmy stick. As long as she was talking, feeding them bullshit and giving the illusion she was helping, they wouldn't stall Jimmy's case.

So that's why Ian jumped on the opportunity to handle the questioning, she realized. He was helping her after all.


True to Ian's word, Catherine was released from Musgrave well after sunset. Patrick picked her up from the station and brought her back to her house.

During the short drive, she didn't say a word. He didn't take any offense to her silence as this was the only time she'd have a chance to decompress. When he pulled up to the curb, Patrick killed the engine of his car and unbuckled his seat belt. Catherine followed his lead, completely taken by surprise when he reached over to pull her in for a hug.

He held his daughter tighter than he'd ever held her before. A firm grip to the back of her neck, Patrick nuzzled his nose into her hair. It made him sick to his stomach that she smelt of the generic soap dispensed in the showers at the station.

No chance he would ever admit it to a single soul, but for the first time since she joined the Ra, Patrick was genuinely scared the night at St. Matt's was the last time he'd ever see Catherine outside of prison walls.

Curling her fingers into the collar of his shirt, her knuckles turned white. A hard wave of emotions crashed over her; there was only so much a person could take before breaking.

She finally reached her breaking point.

Tears exploding from her tired eyes soaked through Patrick's t-shirt. He knew there were no words of comfort he could offer to help soothe the agony gripping her soul. Instead, he did the only thing a father could do at that moment; he rubbed her back, kissed her head, and gave her a warm, safe place to be defenseless in.

Eventually, she calmed. The tears stopped and her breathing steadied. Lifting her head off Patrick's shoulder, she wiped the tears away with the back of her hands.

"I'll never know how ya put up with it so many times," she sniffled.

Patrick's heart sank. If he'd been half of a decent father when she was growing up, maybe he could have saved her from all this. He reached out and brushed away the last of her tears with his thumb. Her eyes were so bloodshot, nearly every one of the vessels were visible.

"The only thing that kept me from breakin', was you. I knew that if I just put up with it, I'd get to have my wee Catherine Mary back in my arms."

"Nuh-uh. Don't lie."

He gasped, "Hand to God, I'm not. Ya know, I'm slightly hurt that you think I'd fib about somethin' like that."

"I'm sorry," said Catherine, looking away from Patrick with shame. "You're just, I don't know, so head-strong that I guessed you breezed through that shite."

"When I first went to Castlereagh in '79, when your Ma was ready to pop with you, the RUC beat the absolute shite outta me for days. I wasn't head-strong then. To make it all stop I signed a confession and missed the day you were born."

"Don't feel too bad about it. I don't remember ya not bein' there, so no harm no foul."

"There are only five things I seriously regret in my life, and bein' locked in the H-Block the day you were born is one of 'em."

Curiosity got the best of her. Hesitantly, she asked, "What are the other four?"

Patrick cleared his throat and ran a hand through the mop of thick copper hair, which matched hers. "Bein' locked up when Filip left because I wasn't there for your Ma, bein' in Tralee on the day that fuckin' soldier attacked ya while you were walkin' home from school. The day I had my first drink, and…and the night I broke your nose. I'll never fuckin' forgive myself for what I did to you."

A heavy silence blanketed them. As much as they both tried to repress that memory, it never went away. Sometimes, she swore she could still feel the bolting pain of the solid blow which rearranged her face. The one thing she'd never forget was the sheer agony of having it adjusted.

Despite Jimmy's ability to pop the fractured bone back into place, she still avoided mirrors because she hated the fact it would never again be perfectly straight.

"T'was a long time ago, Da." Catherine placed her hand on top of his. "I forgave ya the night after; when I came home from Cross with Jimmy and ya were in the livin' room waitin' up for me."

Patrick's heart fluttered in his chest at the mention of that night. He remembered it quite well. Between Fiona being in Dublin with Kerrianne and Catherine showing up hours after her curfew, something about that night never sat well with him. He asked if anything happened, and of course, she denied it. But he had to know.

"Be honest with me, Catherine. Did he…did Jimmy put his hands on you that night?"

Catherine carefully considered her options. She could tell him the truth and risk him blowing up, or keep denying it and feel like an ass. Plus, she wasn't entirely comfortable with Patrick knowing what she'd been up at seventeen-years-old.

To be fair, she reminded herself, Oliva was seventeen when she got pregnant with Liam.

"Before I tell ya, I need to remind you it was over a decade ago, and that man is the reason ya have a handsome grandson who you love so very much."

"…I don't think I like where you're goin' with this."

She could feel herself going lightheaded, and it wasn't due to her lack of food over the last three days.

"All I'm gonna say is that I didn't shag him, but somethin' did happen and it was completely consensual."

"I'm gonna fuckin' kill him, and I should'a fuckin' killed him when-"

"Believe me," she interrupted, "There are days I wish ya would have, too. But then I look into those sweet eyes of my wee Patrick Eamonn and I don't regret a thing."


Getting Eamonn and Sean to bed was never an uneventful task. Baths, teeth-brushings, and wrestling them into pajamas took at least an hour. Now that Eamonn was learning to read, she had him read the obligatory bedtime story to her and Sean, before finally saying their prayers.

"Are you gonna be here in the mornin', Mammy?" asked Sean as she tucked him in.

Catherine simultaneously had the wind knocked out of her as a dagger drove straight through her chest. She watched the slight anxiety fill those big blue-gray eyes, but he did everything he could to hide his nervousness.

Brien was right; Sean took after Darragh more so than in just the looks department. As her brother so eloquently put it, "he's a resilient wee fecker."

Catherine brushed the locks of chestnut hair off his forehead and pressed a kiss to the soft skin.

"Aye, lovey. And then once youse are done with school, we're gonna go see Dessie and a few other of the fellas in Dundalk."

"Is my Daddy gonna be there, too?"

She looked up, to see Eamonn's head poking over the railing of the top bunk. He looked so hopeful, yet hopeless at the same time. Even though Jimmy was now home with Fiona and Kerrianne, she didn't have it in her to tell the boys he was back.

Not because she was trying to keep them from seeing him, rather she wasn't quite ready to hand over the role as chief of staff back to Jimmy. It may have the second most stressful ten-day period of her life, but Catherine surprised herself by easily falling into the role.

"Yeah, is Jimmy gonna be there?" Sean pipped in.

After the emotional rollercoaster, the boys and Jimmy have been through, maybe a quiet weekend in the Republic together was exactly what those three needed.

"I'll see what I can do," she said and placed another goodnight kiss on Sean's forehead. Standing, Catherine tucked Eamonn back in, kissed him, and turned off the light. "Goodnight, my loves. Sweet dreams, I love youse."

In unison, they responded with a chorus of, "Love you, too, Mammy."

Hearing those sweet words again, it was music to her ears.

Jogging down the stairs, Catherine shut off the television. She took a moment to enjoy the silence, listening to the soothing hum of heavy rain beating against the house.

Feeling grounded, she began straightening out the disorganization left behind by her brother. She deeply appreciated all the hours he gave up to watch the boys over the last three days. The mess? Not so much.

Once the toys were put away, the furniture was dusted, and a load of laundry was started, she tackled the kitchen.

Catherine rinsed off the final plate from dinner and placed it into the drying rack just as someone knocked on the back door. She quickly wiped her hands, then scuttled to the door.

At this point, she was so used to people showing up at her house at all hours of the day. A nine p.m. visitor didn't faze her; it came as a relief. Better to be bothered now than after midnight.

Unlatching the chain, Catherine popped the deadbolt and opened the door.

"Jesus, Jimmy; you're soaked, so you are. Get in here, you'll be catchin' the death of cold. Ya want a cuppa-"

Taking two steps inside, Jimmy swiftly placed a meaty hand on Catherine's hip to pull her closer to him. He drove his other hand into her hair, gripping the roots to keep her head steady as he sealed his mouth against hers.