Harry only just managed to catch her before she hit the floor. He clasped her to his chest and lowered her carefully down to the ground, cradling the back of her head with his hand until he felt Ruth shove a cushion into his grasp. He fumbled with it for a moment, still trying to come to terms with the shock of it all. Catherine. Catherine, his daughter, his eldest child – was here, in Beechworth... in their house. What on earth was she doing here? How had she found them? How was this even possible? How... just how?

In the ensuing chaos, there seemed to be an overwhelming flurry of noise. He could hear poor little Lottie, confused and frightened; demanding to know in a heartbreakingly small voice what exactly was going on. Harry didn't feel capable of answering, for he himself had no idea. Ruth appeared to be trying her best to reassure their daughter, but even her voice was shaky, uncertain and riddled with shock.

"Is... is that who I think it is?" he heard her ask.

"It's Catherine," he confirmed weakly, casting the briefest of glances at her, trying to communicate just how lost he felt in that moment. "It's my... my..."

His eyes fell on Lottie, who seemed to be growing more and more distressed, her ocean eyes filling with tiny treacherous tears. Oh God. How was he going to explain all this? To either of his children. Ruth clearly saw the fear in his face because all traces of her own alarm immediately evaporated, replaced by a dogged determination. Within seconds, she was taking charge of the situation, hurrying to the sink, filling a glass with water and shoving it into Harry's hand. Then she snatched away two lightbulbs and a piece of cake which were somehow clutched in each of Catherine's hands, before swooping down and picking up a weeping Lottie.

"Come on, my darling. Let's go upstairs," she murmured, wiping away her baby's tears as she carried her towards the door.

"But what's wrong with her?" Lottie sniffed, blinking fearfully at Catherine's prone form. "And why did she call Daddy 'Dad'?"

"She's alright, darling. She's just fainted, that's all. She'll be fine in a little while."

"But – "

Ruth hushed her gently and proceeded to carry her from the room. Harry was grateful for the intervention. He wasn't sure he could deal with both his daughters at once – not right now. He closed his eyes, his heart quietly shredding as he heard Lottie's cries echo all the way up the stairs. Then, with a strength he really didn't feel, he braced himself for what was about to come, re-opened his eyes and stared at his eldest child.

She didn't look that much different from when he last saw her, a few weeks before the Albany fiasco. Her hair was perhaps a little lighter, dyed an even heavier shade of blonde in an attempt to mask the hints of natural reddish-brown. And as he traced a trembling finger along her cheekbone, he noticed that her face was a little more lined than before – though whether they were laugh lines or worry lines, he couldn't really tell. Her grey cargo trousers were caked in sand and mud, and her dark black top, which smelled as though it hadn't been changed in a good few days, contrasted painfully with her sickly pale face.

He wondered if she might be chilly, and moved to fetch a blanket from the living room. However, just as he tried to stand, he saw her eyelids begin to twitch.

"Catherine?" he murmured softly, kneeling back down and stroking his finger a little faster across the plane of her cheek, gently teasing the skin to try and wake her.

Catherine groaned, her head lolling from side to side as she gradually came back to herself.

"Catherine?" he prompted again, a little louder this time.

She finally opened her eyes and blinked confusedly at the ceiling. Harry said nothing, part of him not wanting to rush her, and the other part – the cowardly part – too afraid to find out what would happen next. Yet it was inevitable that her eyes would eventually land on him, and when they did, he knew immediately that this reunion was not going to go well. He watched the sheer terror and confusion return in full force. Catherine pushed herself up and scrambled backwards, her eyes wide and wild, her breathing staggered.

"What... what are you...? How – how are you here?" she stammered. "You can't be here. You're dead – "

"Catherine – "

"No... no, no, no, no," she rambled, shaking her head so quickly he feared she might pull something.

"Take it easy," he tried to advise. "You've just fainted. Don't move your head so much," He held out the glass of water Ruth had given him. "Here. Drink this."

Catherine's eyes grew wider still. She ignored the water and simply focused on Harry's reddening face, raking in every minute detail: every hair, every blotch, every uneven bump. Her own face was pale and sickly-looking. Its chalk-white tone gave off the distinct impression that she had just seen a ghost – which in some respects, Harry guessed – she had.

"I... I went to your funeral! Y-Y-You're dead. You drove into the fucking Thames! How can you be here?" she ranted, becoming increasingly hysterical as huge fat tears trickled helplessly down her cheeks. "You can't be here!"

Harry didn't reply. He just knelt there, head bowed; feeling small and feeble and ashamed and completely at a loss. What could he say to the child – no, the woman – who had thought him dead for six years; who had grieved his loss, and had had to live with the lie that her father had died a traitor? What could he say to the daughter he had left behind? There was nothing. There wasn't a single thing he could say that would make that sore better, or excuse what he had done. Catherine and Graham had been the elephants in the room during these last six years of bliss; the constant shadows in the back of his mind reminding him that whilst he had a partner and a daughter who he loved so very, very much, his family was incomplete. His heart was incomplete.

His silence clearly wasn't an acceptable answer to Catherine, who had always been a tempestuous young woman, and, like her mother, impatient when it came to Harry's failings as a father. Without warning, she suddenly launched herself off the floor and started aiming punches – hard, painful, bruising punches – at whatever part of his anatomy she could reach.

"You bastard! You fucking BASTARD! YOU LYING... DECEITFUL... FUCKING PRICK!" she shrieked, barely taking a breath as she drove her fists into his chest again and again and again, without reprieve.

The glass of water was knocked from his hand, and sent shattering across the floor, its contents splaying out over the cold stone tiles. For a moment, Harry just took the blows, one after the other after the other. He knew he would ache tomorrow, but he also knew that he deserved each and every strike. It wasn't until it dawned on him that Catherine might actually hurt herself that he moved to stop her, catching hold of her wrists and trapping them forcefully again their chests as he pulled her into his strong embrace.

But Catherine was a fighter in every sense of the word, and wouldn't allow herself to be consoled so easily. She kept screaming and squirming and straining in his arms in a wild attempt to break free. When she realised she was fighting a losing battle, she tried to use her knees, her feet – anything that would likely cause him a fraction of the pain he had caused her.

"Catherine," he pleaded, sucking in a pained breath as her knee collided with his groin.

Thankfully, his daughter's movements seemed to be slowing, exhaustion winning over her need for revenge. She managed to screech out one last "You BASTARD!" before finally giving in, her voice completely wrecked. She collapsed against him, spent. And Harry didn't know what else to do but hold her; rock her with him, just like he used to do when she was a baby.

She wasn't sobbing. She too far gone for that. She just buried her head in his shoulder and howled out her rage into the fabric of his shirt. Each muffled wail sent daggers into his already battered heart. He found himself wishing for the billionth time in six years that he had just told her the truth. It could have been possible, couldn't it? He had had the means to let her know. He could have asked Malcolm, who he contacted that one time with a postcard, to tell her the truth. Or he could have asked Tom, before they parted ways in Amsterdam. But he didn't. Why didn't he? He had told himself that it was because it was too risky – for everyone involved. But that was only half the reason. The other half was that he hadn't wanted his two eldest children to think he abandoned them. Better that they believed him dead than that he abandoned them. But, he had abandoned them hadn't he? He had. And he would never forgive himself for that. He could try all he liked to be the doting father to Lottie, but that would never disguise or make up for the brokenness of his relationship with Catherine and Graham.

"I'm sorry," he murmured miserably against her temple. "I'm so sorry."

Catherine barely responded; simply ground out another frustrated howl into his shoulder. And at that moment, however guilty it made him feel, he was rather glad that she was too tired to fight him on this. He revelled in the feel of her in his arms; his eldest child, his first born – the daughter he didn't think he'd ever get to see again – was here. And though she was fierce and frenzied and every bit as passionate as he remembered her, she had become such a beautiful young woman.

"I love you," he whispered.

And the moment was gone.

With surprising agility given how exhausted she was, Catherine used her elbows to force herself free; shoving him away with such vigour that he nearly fell over backwards.

"Don't," she warned hollowly, her voice dangerously quiet. "You don't get to say that to me."

"It's true," he insisted, but his plea sounded pathetic even to his own ears.

Catherine stared at him for a second, incredulity heavy in her eyes. Then she blinked and shook her head.

"I... I can't deal with this," she muttered, clambering unsteadily to her feet.

"Catherine – " Harry pleaded, unable to keep the desperation out of his voice as he too hoisted himself up.

Alas, Catherine didn't pay heed to his pleas. She darted from the kitchen, refusing to look back. Harry followed, the shards of broken glass crunching mercilessly beneath his feet.

"Catherine, please... wait," he begged, stumbling to a halt behind her as she reached the front door. "Please... can we just talk?"

The blonde laughed scornfully, an ugly, hard sound that just didn't match up to her sweet features.

"Oho, so now you want to talk? Six years. Six years you let me think... let me believe you were... were..." she swallowed, and shook her head again, as if unable to even fully comprehend what was happening. "Not a word from you in those six years. Not a fucking word to let me know you were still alive. And now you want to... Well guess what? Now I don't want to talk."

Harry frowned, utterly confused, "But surely... I thought... I thought you came to..." he groaned, frustrated by his inarticulacy. "I thought you came here to – "

Catherine laughed a second, scornful scoff, "That's what you think?! You think I came here for you?! Well, typical. It always was about you. You and your dick and your fancy women – you selfish prick!"

She wrenched open the door and flounced outside, storming across the grounds with a seemingly rejuvenated energy. Harry didn't even hesitate. He hurried after her, running as quickly as his aching legs would carry him.

"Catherine, wait. I... I don't understand – "

"No, you never did!" Catherine spat over her shoulder. "If you're so curious to know how I ended up in your fucking front room, why don't you ask your new fancy woman?!"

She didn't even stop to look at him as she said that, and eventually she strayed beyond the perimeters of the Caravan Park, her shadow fading into the black.

"Catherine!" he called desperately, but this time there was no answer.

Harry hesitated, wondering if he should follow her. Beechworth was as safe a small town as any, and Catherine could more than handle herself. But that wouldn't stop him from worrying. Plus she'd fainted not fifteen minutes ago; it was hardly advisable for her to go running off. But at the same time, he knew she wouldn't thank him for following her. Not when she was in such a state. She clearly wanted to be on her own, and with every step he took; every sentence he uttered, he only seemed to make things worse. He hadn't thought it possible to go down any further in Catherine's estimation. Clearly he had been wrong.

He stopped and stood haplessly in the warm night air, staring at the spot where his daughter had vanished. A light breeze tickled the tips of his ears, ruffling through what little locks remained on his balding head. He blamed this breeze for the bitter tears dribbling slowly down his face. It was easier that way.

It was a mix of confusion and blind shock that carried him back across the grass, past the rows of static caravans and into the warmth of the cottage. Without quite knowing what he was doing, he shut the door, slid the bolt across and collapsed on bottom stair, his head hidden in his hands. The tears were coming thick and fast now, and he forced himself to take deep, shuddering breaths in a bid to calm himself. He couldn't be like this when he faced Lottie. He couldn't.

He heard creaking on the landing, then tentative footsteps on the stairs. The sounds grew louder and louder; closer and closer, until he felt someone sit down beside him. There was only one person it could possibly be. He had cried dozens of times in her presence by now, and yet, for some reason, he continued to hide his face in his hands, willing the remnants of his tears away.

"Harry," came a tender whisper, and that voice – oh, that voice – soft, and gentle, and warm and so full of a love that he really didn't feel he deserved right now; it only made him want to weep harder.

He swiped a hand under his nose, trying to stem the ugly dribble that had come part and parcel with his tears. Then he cleared his throat, praying that he might be able to maintain a modicum of self-control, just for long enough to assure Ruth that he was alright; that things were under control. It was only when he felt her comforting hand on his arm that he realised how stupid that resolve was. Ruth was clever. Far, far cleverer than he was, or ever could hope to be. There was no hiding this from her. She knew that things weren't under control; that for the first time in a long time, control wasn't even within the realms of possibility. And of course, she didn't need her powers of deduction to see that he was crumbling from the inside out.

He took another shuddering breath and peered up at her from beneath tear-soaked lashes. Her face held no fear, no anger or judgement; only concern. Concern and understanding, for she knew better than anyone the price he had paid for leaving England. She had been right there with him through his heartbreak; through the moments when he'd seen Lottie do something, only to think of how Catherine and Graham had done the same when they were her age. She had consoled him when she sensed that he was silently longing for his children: to find out how they were; whether they were doing well; whether they were happy.

He watched her take in his misery, a tiny, empathetic frown adorning her features. Then, with a tenderness that made his heart clench, she reached out and wiped away his tears, bringing his forehead to rest against hers as she simply breathed with him: in and out, in and out, over and over again. He knew what she was saying: I'm here. I'm right here and whatever happens, I'll stand by you. And there, in the safety of her arms, he finally let himself go and sobbed.

"Here," Ruth whispered, setting a glass in between his clasped hands.

Having been lost in the flames dancing merrily in the fireplace, it took Harry a moment to come to. She watched him stare at the contents of the glass, blankly at first, and then with discernible surprise.

"Scotch," he murmured, his voice croaky from crying.

"I thought you could do with one," Ruth said quietly, easing herself down onto the sofa beside him.

Harry blinked, "You hate it when I drink scotch."

Ruth smiled good-naturedly and patted his knee, "No, I don't. I hate it when you drink too much scotch. There's a difference. Whiskey is very good for shock. And you've had really rather a big shock."

"I'll say," he muttered, downing the drink in one and visibly relishing the burn that ignited at the back of his throat.

Ruth couldn't help but worry about Harry as he sat there, numb and almost catatonic after his breakdown. She wasn't a stranger to seeing him cry, of course. She wasn't the only one to suffer from soul-crushing nightmares. There had been numerous times when she awoke to the sound of roars and expletives emanating from Harry's mouth at a pitch that she hadn't thought possible from a human being. These roars nearly always dissolved into an awful falsetto keening, and then finally, sobs. And Ruth would hold him, kiss him, and try to rouse from the torturous torment of his dreams. But when he woke, Harry would have no memory of why he had been crying. Or at least, he claimed not to.

He had told her a little about his fractured relationship with his two eldest children, and any fool could see the sadness in his eyes when he talked about them. She knew that he hid an immeasurable amount of pain inside; that he was practically brimming with regret, and that there were so many instances in his life where he wished he could simply turn back time and make things right. But life just wasn't like that. And Harry, who was good, and kind, and moral, yet so plagued by past actions, had paid a heavy price for his younger self's indiscretions.

Ruth herself couldn't help but feel horribly guilty. She, after all, had been the main reason for him leaving England. Their 'deaths' were her cockeyed plan. And she realised now that she had been selfish in dragging Harry away. He and Catherine may not have been close, but they had at least been on speaking (or rather emailing) terms after the November Committee business. And she was kicking herself for not recognising Ava as Catherine. Although she had never met Harry's daughter in person, she had seen photographs during that case, and she felt unbelievably stupid for not making the connection. No wonder Catherine's eyes and smile had looked familiar. They were the spitting image of her dear Harry's.

Back at the beach, she hadn't understood why she felt so inexplicably drawn to this young woman; so compelled to help her. Now she understood perfectly. She had never much believed in fate, but if this wasn't proof of its existence, she didn't know what was. The situation seemed too neat, too perfect for it to be mere coincidence. She didn't know how or why Catherine had ended up in Beechworth, but she felt bizarrely inclined to believe that it was indeed fate that led them to cross paths.

"Lottie?" Harry questioned hoarsely, worry clouding his eyes as he turned to stare at her.

"She's... asleep now," Ruth assured him slowly, unsure of how much to reveal; how much he could take.

It had taken a long time for her to get Lottie off to sleep. The little girl had been almost inconsolable after the shock of watching Ava (or rather, Catherine) go down, and her inquisitive nature had had her probing for answers. Minutes before her bedtime, Ruth hadn't felt comfortable revealing that Ava was actually Lottie's estranged big sister. Had she done that, none of them would have gotten any sleep at all. So she merely promised that everything would be explained in the morning – which, of course, was a big promise to live up to.

Lottie had become distressed again when the screaming started. She couldn't exactly hear what was being said (for which Ruth was eternally grateful, as the language being used was definitely not suitable for little girls), but she had picked up on the fury in Ava's tone, and the desperation in Harry's. When the sound of shattering glass echoed throughout the house, seemingly bouncing off every surface, every wall and every floor, Lottie had started shaking with terror. Ruth had made her watch cartoons on her iPad in a bid to distract her, holding her tightly in her arms and whispering promise after promise that everything would be alright. That was the second promise she wasn't sure she could keep.

"Did she hear... ?" Harry trailed off helplessly.

Ruth hesitated, before deciding that honesty was probably the best policy, "Yes."

"Was she alright?"

Ruth couldn't bring herself to answer this time. But her silence was damning.

Harry sighed miserably, returning his stare to the pretty flames which were licking their way higher and higher up the chimney, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Ruth told him, covering his hand with hers. "It's not your fault."

"Of course it bloody is, Ruth!" Harry suddenly snapped, slamming his glass down on the coffee table with such force that it was a wonder it didn't break. "It's always my bloody fault!"

A painful silence erupted in the room. Ruth reminded herself that it was simply Harry's insecurities talking. Like Catherine, his defence mechanism was anger. Retaliating in kind would only end in an argument, and she wouldn't allow herself to be baited. Harry clearly regretted his words as soon as he said them. He winced and threaded his fingers between hers.

"Sorry," he whispered, squeezing her hand in apology. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not," Harry said fervently. "It's really not. You didn't deserve that."

Ruth couldn't really think of anything to say to that. Whilst she had been a little hurt by his anger, she also fully understood it. He had needed to project, or else break down again, and she just so happened to be in the line of fire. So rather than say something vaguely mundane, she leant across and kissed him gently on the lips; a simple, chaste peck to reassure him that all was forgiven. When she leant back again, his lips had broken out into a tiny, lopsided smile. His eyes were still red-rimmed and puffy; his skin flushed with emotion, but at least he looked a little more present – as if that simple kiss had breathed new life into his weary body.

"I love you," he murmured, stroking his thumb along her cheekbones, and Ruth felt her skin ripple deliciously at his electric touch.

"I love you too," she smiled, inclining her head and kissing his outstretched hand. "Never forget that."

Harry's smile faded, and that horrible, yet familiar sadness dulled the honeyed hazel of his eyes, "At least you let me say it. Catherine wouldn't even hear it. The way she looked at me when..." he trailed off and sighed, shaking his head so vigorously it was as if he was trying to rid himself of the mere memory.

Ruth bit her lip, "To be fair to her, Harry, she had just had an almighty shock."

Harry snorted petulantly, "And I didn't?"

"Put it this way. If it had been her that died, and you that found out six years later that she had faked her death and moved on to start a new family, how would you react?"

Harry thought about this for a moment, before his shoulders sagged in defeat, "Fair point."

Ruth nodded and busied herself by playing with their interlinked fingers. Holding hands with him was such a beautifully intimate gesture. They had made love countless times over the years and yet her inner romantic still experienced a silent thrill each time they simply held hands. She loved the safety and warmth of his grasp; the weight of his palm against hers.

Harry let out another frustrated sigh, using his other hand to massage his brow, "I don't know. What on earth is she doing here, Ruth?"

"I have no idea," Ruth murmured. "But something pretty awful must have happened for her to end up in the middle of nowhere, sitting on a beach crying her eyes out."

"What do you mean, sitting on a beach...?" And then the penny dropped. "Wait, she's... she's Ava? She's the mysterious woman you found on the beach?"

"Yes."

"But that's... that's insane."

"I know."

"She said she didn't come here to find me –"

"– And it was obviously a shock for her to see you –"

"– Which means... she ended up here by... by chance?"

"Exactly."

"But the odds of that are –"

"Zero to none, I know," Ruth finished, smiling a little. She had already had this conversation with herself about a thousand times.

Harry exhaled a low whistle, a despairing frown passing over his features like a dark cloud on a summer's day.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do now," he admitted quietly

"You give her the space she needs to make sense of this. When she's ready, she'll come to you," Ruth told him firmly.

She knew that she had to be the strong one at this point, because she had never seen Harry so... so vulnerable... so un-Harry. Even during Lottie's infant years, he had seemed so sure of himself; always there to lend a helping hand. He was the one that showed her how to get her off to sleep, how to calm her, how to burp her, how to look after her everyday needs. He was her rock. He was Lottie's rock. So how was it that when Catherine returned, he took on the personality of a teenage father; bumbling and awkward and heartbreakingly clueless? It was as if he lost all the confidence and experience the older Harry had gained, and reverted back to his twenty-something-year-old self. Or maybe it was the bridge between raising a young child and a young woman that, despite his best efforts, he had never quite managed to cross. The look of devastation upon his weary face as he dwelled on Catherine's rage just made her want to gather him in her arms and never let go.

Harry released another unhappy sigh, "We don't even know if she'll come back."

"She'll come back."

"How do you know that?"

"Because if she's anything like you, she won't be able to leave without getting answers," Ruth replied with a cheeky smile.

Harry outright laughed at that, "Like a dog with a bone," he confirmed.

Ruth smiled just watching the tension release from his face. She loved his laugh – so deep and rich and husky, and full of unbridled joy.

"Plus," she added a little more seriously, remembering her relationship with her own father. "All any girl wants is their father's love. She may be angry right now, but once those feelings subside and she remembers that you're alive and well, she'll realise that she's got a new opportunity to rekindle... some sort of relationship with you – an opportunity she thought was lost to her forever. I'm sure she won't take that for granted."

Harry smiled softly, squeezing her hand gently between his, "You always seem to find the best in people," The smile turned wry and bitter. "Alas, I think Catherine might just surprise you with how long she can hold a grudge."

"Or maybe she'll surprise you. She's not a teenager now, Harry. She was a young woman when you reconnected thirteen years ago, and she's even older now – and probably a lot wiser for it. The ability to forgive and forget often comes with age and experience."

For an instant, Harry looked as if he might argue. Then an odd smirk shaped his lips and he gently lifted Ruth's chin, inspecting her throat with great interest and infinite precision.

"What are you doing?" Ruth frowned.

"I'm checking to see if you swallowed a book of Chinese Proverbs," Harry quipped, with an infuriatingly straight face.

Bloody impossible man! She swatted him lightly on the chest in reproach. She didn't expect him to give a pained hiss and flinch away.

"Harry?" she whispered, dread rocketing through her veins and clutching tightly at her stuttering heart.

Harry didn't say anything; simply looked away. Ruth reached out and touched the fabric of his shirt, a silent request for permission. He gave a slow nod, his face deceptively blank as she carefully undid the first few buttons.

"Oh, Harry," she breathed, utterly horrified.

His whole torso was covered in dark, blotchy, purple bruises. There was hardly an inch of him that wasn't sporting some painful-looking sore or other. Even the tender areas around his gunshot wounds had been beaten red-raw, and despite the brave face that Harry put on it, she could tell he was in quite a lot of pain – physically and emotionally. She ran a soothing hand over an especially tender sore, and he hissed again, recoiling from her touch.

"Sorry," she said quickly, jerking her hand back.

"Don't be," he assured her, flashing a smile that she guessed was supposed to be reassuring, even though it came out as more of a grimace. "I like it when you touch me... usually. It's just..."

She nodded in understanding. She couldn't touch his chest, so she reached up and stroked his cheeks lovingly, feeling the late-night stubble prickle delightfully under her palms.

"Harry..." she fretted, and he closed his eyes at her tone.

"I'm alright."

"You're most certainly not alright."

"They're only bruises, Ruth. Surface damage. They'll heal. I've had much worse."

He reopened his eyes, and she could see the honesty in his hazel orbs. He genuinely meant that. Ruth could hardly bear seeing him in this state, so the thought of him enduring anything more sent horrified shivers rippling down her spine. She had witnessed him, bed-ridden and barely coherent in a hospital bed that time after Tom shot him. That had been frightening enough. And at that point, she had only noticed the gentle connection between the two of them; the meeting of souls. How much more would her heart splinter now if anything happened to him: the man she loved completely without question? She suspected it would shatter into so many microscopic pieces, it couldn't ever be repaired again.

"What did I tell you about Catherine and grudges? She's a... a bit of a firecracker," Harry sighed despondently.

"She's a passionate woman alright," Ruth agreed quietly. "I'll give her that."

"She was upset."

"I know," Ruth nodded, forcing herself to understand even though her heart was still ravaged by the sight of the raw welts and mottled bruising darkening her love's chest. She sighed, reaching up and planting another brief kiss on his lips. "I wish I hadn't given you the whiskey now. You could've taken some painkillers."

"I regret nothing," Harry shrugged. "I'd take Scotch over Nurofen any day. Hell, there was a point twenty years ago when I'd take both together."

"Oh good, that's healthy."

For some reason, they both took one look at each other and chuckled. Of course, they recognised that they hadn't said anything particularly funny, but they needed the laugh to defuse the tension brought on by the night's unexpected ordeal. Harry gave one last hearty chuckle and slid his arm around Ruth, kissing her hair and bringing her head to rest against his shoulder. Ruth ensured she didn't rest her full weight against him; the last thing she wanted to do was cause him more pain.

"We should get you some ice, at least," she murmured.

"It can wait."

"You'll be in agony in the morning."

"A few more minutes," he begged, pulling her closer and breathing in her scent. "Just let me hold you a few more minutes."

Ruth smiled softly. She could do that. She nestled herself further into his side and kneaded his knee affectionately.

"Ruth?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you for helping Catherine."

She glanced up at Harry. His eyes were brimming once again with regret and sadness. But there was also another emotion there. Concern. Complete and utter concern, such as a parent could only ever feel for their child.

"I said that I could feel this... this overwhelming connection to her," she reflected quietly. "I just didn't know why. Now we know."

"What I said earlier... I feel like a complete prat now."

"What you said, under any normal circumstances, would've made complete sense," Ruth said firmly, before blinking up at him, her own concern evident. "But we have to help her, Harry. People don't cry the way she was crying over something trivial and meaningless. There's a reason she ended up in Beechworth and I don't think it was a happy coincidence."

Harry nodded. His face grew suddenly stormy, and Ruth could practically see the dark cloud hovering over his head as he spoke, "If anyone's hurt her, Ruth..."

"Then we'll help her through it," Ruth told him. "Just like you helped me."

She felt goosepimples prickle up her skin at the mere thought of the attack over six years ago. She still couldn't bring herself to really think about. Neither of them could. They had made an unspoken pact to lock up that particular box, throw away the key, and stow it deep down in the mausoleum of their memories, out of sight and out of mind. Harry silently slid his hand into hers, a welcome gesture of reassurance and solidarity, before he leant back into the folds of the squashy sofa and groaned:

"What an end to Lottie's special day."

"Mm, I don't think tonight was quite what she was expecting."

"I don't think it was what any of us were expecting," Harry sighed, his beautiful brown orbs glistening with worry. "And what do we tell her when she wakes up?"

Ruth gave this some considerable thought. There was no way their daughter was just going to let this lie. Her inquisitive nature would keep her probing until she got answers. And Lottie was no fool. She would spot a flaw in any lie they might tell her; mainly because the truth was probably the only scenario that actually made sense. How else would you explain a woman who called Harry 'Dad'?

"We'll have to tell her the truth, I expect," she concluded.

Harry hummed in agreement, obviously having come to the same conclusion, "That's one conversation I'm not looking forward to."

"We can do it together," Ruth promised. She wouldn't dream of letting Harry go through this alone. After all, they were a family now, and they would deal with things as a family. "I don't think she'll be put out at having siblings. On the contrary, she admitted to me today that she sometimes gets a bit lonely. And she seemed to like Catherine. The thing she's most likely to get upset about is us not having told her before."

"I'm not sure my body can withstand another round of punches," Harry joked feebly.

Ruth gave a wan smile, "Funnily enough, I don't think Lottie will react in quite the same way. She usually bounces back from things quickly, thank God."

"Thank God," Harry echoed.

He grew quiet, his face withdrawn and distant. Judging from the way his eyebrows kept knotting into a frustrated frown, Ruth guessed that he was picking over every little detail of his interaction with Catherine. He was his own worst critic. He was always far too hard on himself, and never gave himself enough credit for his familial achievements. Keen to drag him away from the dark abyss he was spiralling down into, Ruth patted his knee and heaved herself up from the sofa.

"Come on, you," she said softly, holding out her hands for his. "Let's get some ice on that chest and go to bed."

Harry blinked again, "But the washing-up... and Catherine's still out there."

"The washing up can wait until tomorrow. And I don't think Catherine will be coming back here tonight. She's got the keys to the caravan. She's got somewhere warm and safe to sleep tonight, and it'll give her some space to mull things over."

"But I think I should – "

"She's a grown woman, Harry," Ruth reasoned gently. "She won't want you standing at the door, waiting for her to come home like an errant teenager."

Harry sighed, "Yes... you're probably right."

She wiggled her fingers to beckon his hands to join hers.

"Come on then," she encouraged softly.

Harry finally gave in and allowed her to pull him to his feet.

"The glass... there's broken glass in the kitchen," he muttered almost as an afterthought.

"Not anymore, there isn't. I swept it all up. We don't want Lottie treading on it if she decides to go barefoot to breakfast."

"When did you do that?" Harry frowned.

"As soon as I got you onto the sofa," Ruth confessed. "You've been sitting there for quite a while actually."

He consulted his watch and reeled at the lateness of the hour. Ruth noticed that the mantle clock now read five past ten. Harry had been so overwhelmed when she found him weeping his heart out on the bottom stair. It had been a quarter past nine before she managed to coax him onto the sofa. Once there, he had entered into an almost trance-like state. Ruth had given him some time to come to terms with what had just happened, lighting a fire so that he wouldn't be cold and lonely. Then she had busied herself hoovering up the mess in the kitchen, before pouring him a large scotch to help with the shock. It seemed to have worked, for the most part.

"Ice?" she prompted gently.

Harry yawned and stretched his tired limbs, only to flinch once more in pain, "Ice," he agreed.

And with that, they curled their arms around one another and stumbled their way into the kitchen.

The airport terminal was virtually deserted as he stepped through the automatic doors. He smiled and heaved in a deep, satisfying breath of fresh air. Melbourne definitely had that rich, 'big city' smell. And he liked it. It was a change from the stifling heat and burnt-out slums he had been trudging around for the last two years. But he didn't have time to reflect. He had work to do.

He spotted the information desk standing not too far away. There was a grey-haired man sitting behind it, sipping from an insulated flask. His eyes were dull and bored-looking. Well good, Kinkaid thought. He was about to make this man's day a whole lot more interesting.

"Excuse me," he said as charmingly as he could upon approaching the desk. The grey-haired man barely glanced up. "I said excuse me."

The man tutted and finally looked up.

"Yes?" he said, plastering a blatantly false smile across his face. "Can I help you?"

"Yes you can," Kinkaid replied, slipping the photo out of his pocket and sliding it across the desk. "I'm looking for this woman."

The grey-haired worker didn't even bother to look at the photograph, "I don't do missing persons," he muttered dismissively.

This man was seriously starting to irritate him, but for the sake of the odd passenger or two passing by, Kinkaid remained civil.

"Her name's Catherine Townsend. I know that she arrived on the 11:30am flight from Damascus International," he said calmly. "I need to find out where she went next."

The grey-haired man sucked his teeth disinterestedly and took another swig from his flask," Why? Is she in some kind of trouble or something?"

"Yes," Kinkaid answered coolly. "I'd say she's in a fair bit of trouble."

"Are you police?"

"No, I'm not police. I'm just... concerned about her welfare. She's stolen something. Something that doesn't belong to her."

"Well I'm sorry, but there's not much I can do about that, mate," the other man shrugged, not sounding sorry in the slightest. "I'm night staff, you see. I wouldn't have seen her."

Kinkaid smiled an ugly, twisted smile, before checking the sign written in big bold letter across the desk.

"You are an information desk, are you not?"

"Yeah."

"Then give me some information. Where could she have gone from here?"

The grey-haired man snorted, "Just about anywhere, mate. It's an airport. She could've hotfooted it into Melbourne, taken another flight, or hopped on a bus."

Kinkaid thought about this. There was no way Catherine would have boarded another flight. She had been short of cash, and she'd used the last of what was on her card to purchase the ticket to Melbourne.

"Where could she have ended up if she took a bus?"

The rude worker rolled his eyes, "Again. Just about anywhere. Our buses go to all the major connections: Sydney, Brisbane, Albury, Gold Coast – "

"I need to see your CCTV."

"Not a chance, mate," The man replied churlishly, dismissing him with a wave of the hand and returning to look at his computer. "You either need clearance or a police warrant. And you don't seem to have either."

Right. That was it. Kinkaid had had just about enough of this man. He checked out of the corner of his eye that no one was watching; that there were no nearby cameras. Then he pulled out his handgun - the handgun he had bribed the young security bloke back at Damascus International to overlook. He slid it subtly across the desk and aimed it so that its barrel was pointed squarely at the man's forehead.

"This is my clearance and my warrant," he said coldly. "Now, I suggest you cooperate with me, 'mate', or this will be your very last night shift."

Thank you so much to wolfdrum, Eggwhisker, katmuel, Alias47 and Gregoriana for your lovely reviews. They inspired me to keep writing this week despite real life threatening to get in the way! And thank you to all who are reading this story. Take care. All the best x