Neither Harry nor Ruth slept well that night. Both lay awake for a long time, Harry agonising over how to approach Catherine, and Ruth trying to work out how exactly they could explain all this to Lottie. In the end, the weight of Harry's injuries and the emotional rollercoaster of the day won out, and he fell asleep first. Ruth followed not long after, though she awoke only a few hours later, feeling completely unrested, yet unable to return to sleep. As ever, her mind was racing a mile a minute. Some habits died hard. Despite the blissful cocoon that they had created for themselves here in Beechworth, she still was not very adept at switching off.

For a good couple of hours, she lay there watching Harry sleep, her heart silently breaking at the nasty purple bruises littering his chest and the unhappy frown contorting his face. He suddenly looked so much older and wearier than he needed to be; as if the heavy load he had shed upon leaving England had returned to his shoulders, heavier and more brutal than before. It wasn't fair. But, of course, it wasn't anyone's fault – except maybe hers. Catherine had every right to feel angry; Harry had every right to feel upset, and she, Ruth, had every cause to feel guilty. She had been an integral force in separating father and daughter, however unwitting it had been. She only hoped things could be put right. And if not put right, at least improved.

Eventually, the pre-dawn chorus started its sweet symphony, and Ruth decided that since sleep was eluding her so, she might as well get up. She kissed Harry's bare shoulder, slipped out from under the duvet, and wrapped a dressing gown around herself. She padded downstairs and drifted aimlessly through the house, her eyes lingering on random details: the books on the bookcase, the dust on the window sill, the photo frames on the mantelpiece. The pictures depicted a seemingly happy family of three. And though she knew that they had indeed been happy, she also knew how much Harry longed for his other two children to be up there, pride of place beside Lottie's school picture.

Ruth sighed and trudged into the kitchen, setting about making a pot of coffee. Her mug filled and in hand, she sipped at its contents gratefully, feeling the warmth of the beverage infuse some much-needed energy into her fatigued bones. Unable to bear any more of the still and silent house, she took herself outside and sank down onto the crumbling stone wall to watch the sun start its slow ascent.

This time yesterday, everything had seemed simple and elegant. She and Harry had been making love in the dim lamplight, lost in the exquisite heat of their sexes. It had been so beautiful, so tender, as they exchanged sweet kisses and loving caresses; as Harry slid home again and again and again until they unravelled completely, falling in each other's arms, a mass of tangled limbs and heaving bodies. And after, as she lay on his chest, listening to the drum of his heart, Ruth had silently reflected on how perfect everything was. Now... well, now things didn't seem quite so perfect.

And then, suddenly, an idea struck Ruth. It wouldn't make everything perfect by a long shot, but perhaps she could make things better.

She hurried back inside the house, set her empty coffee cup down and dragged the pouffe right up to the bookcase. Balancing on the little stool, she felt around the top of the bookcase and retrieved a small shoebox. The shoebox she knew had been hidden there. The shoebox Harry had put there, without knowing that Ruth knew about it. She couldn't help but feel slightly guilty. This was undoubtedly a huge invasion of his privacy. But Ruth also saw how invaluable it might be in getting father and daughter to reconcile. She was prepared to face his wrath as long as it helped the cause.

She carried it through to the kitchen, picked up the pair of discarded lightbulbs from the night before, and lugged them both outside to Caravan Five. Only once she got there did she hesitate, debating whether or not to just leave them outside for Catherine to find. She quickly discarded that idea. She already felt guilty about breeching Harry's privacy. The last thing she wanted was for the shoebox to accidentally fall into the wrong hands. So, taking a deep breath, she knocked three times and waited.

At first, there was no response. All seemed quiet from within the caravan, and Ruth began to wonder if the younger woman had even returned during the night. Perhaps she had been wrong. Perhaps Catherine had fled from Beechworth, too shocked and overwhelmed to cope with facing her estranged (and very much alive) father. Then, all of a sudden, the slow thump of footsteps was audible and not a second later, the door swung open.

Catherine's face was flushed with emotion, her cheeks blotchy, her eyes red-rimmed and sore-looking. She looked like she had been crying all night. Ruth's heart went out to her. Her brown puppy dog eyes were so much like Harry's that her instinct was to reach out and hug her. However, she just about managed to restrain herself. She didn't think Catherine would appreciate that right now. Not from her.

"What do you want?" the blonde spat, her eyes transitioning immediately from sadness to fury.

"Sorry to bother you," Ruth said calmly. "I just wanted to give you these."

She held out the lightbulbs and the shoebox.

"I don't want anything from you."

Ruth was unsurprised by this reaction. She had been in Catherine's position. She had experienced a similar sort of outrage when her mother remarried after her father's death. The difference, of course, was that she had been a lot younger than Catherine was now, and she had been far too much of a mouse to say anything. Catherine, like her father, was a lot more outgoing, and much less afraid to speak her mind. Still, Ruth hoped her experiences would serve her well in negotiating such fragile circumstances.

"I know you don't," she said slowly. "But the lightbulbs are hardly an extravagance, and the shoebox... it isn't mine. It's Harry's."

"Well, I don't want anything from him either," Catherine snapped, folding her arms stubbornly across her chest.

"He didn't send me. He doesn't know I'm here. I just think you'll want to see this."

"Why would I want to see a manky old shoebox?"

"It's not the shoebox. It's what's inside."

Catherine snorted impatiently, "I don't care, okay? I don't fucking care. So why don't you just go back to shagging my dad, or whatever else it is he keeps you around for?"

Ruth felt a twinge of hurt at that, probably because it resonated with the long-dormant fear that she just wasn't loveable to anyone but for the use of her body. That had been her gut reaction to relationships before Harry. Hence her constant urge to run from him for eight long years. But he had gradually broken down those walls, and now she lived safely in the knowledge of his love for her. So she remembered this, squashed down those old insecurities and stopped herself from rising to Catherine's bait.

"I'll go in moment," she agreed patiently. "But only once you've taken these."

"I don't want them."

"I think you do."

"Don't you dare assume anything about me!" Catherine snarled, eyes flashing. "You don't know me."

Ruth sighed, realising that this conversation was fast driving towards the same conclusion as the one the night before. Keen to avoid such an outcome, Ruth decided to just come out with what the boxed contained.

"They're letters, Catherine. Letters from Harry to you and Graham."

Catherine finally paused, surprise evident in her piercing eyes, "W-What? No. No, we never got any letters – "

"That's because he never sent them," Ruth explained softly. "It was too dangerous. I won't explain it now, not here in the open but... but he wanted to send them. I know he did. There are dozens and dozens of letters in here – each one handwritten, each one written with nothing but love for you and your brother."

"That's not true. Stop it. Just stop it," Catherine ordered, though her tone was considerably lower, and she was staring at the shoebox with eyes that contained a myriad of emotions: anger, surprise, confusion, apprehension and... and hope. Yes. Hope.

"It is true," Ruth assured her gently. "I've not read them – only who they're to – and Harry doesn't know I know about them. But I think these are what he wishes he could have said to you over the last six years."

"But... but..." Catherine whispered, her defences breaking down as she stared at the battered shoebox, utterly perplexed.

"Please. Take this," Ruth urged. "The contents belong to you anyway."

Catherine continued to blink in bewilderment at the battered shoebox. Ruth decided that now she had the blonde's attention, it was safe to leave the objects in her care. So slowly, ever so slowly, and with a somewhat sheepish smile, she set everything down before backing off.

"I'll leave them with you."

And without waiting for a response, she turned tail and walked away. No scathing words were fired after her. Just the sound of a door slamming shut. Unable to help herself, Ruth peered round at Caravan Five. Catherine had gone. And so had the lightbulbs and shoebox.

Harry eventually surfaced and joined Ruth downstairs. Ruth noted how he winced with every infinitesimal movement, and sat him down at the kitchen table with a glass of water and some painkillers. He flashed a grateful smile and popped the pills quickly into his mouth. By the time Lottie joined them, her hair mussed, her eyes crusty, and one of her socks mysteriously absent yet again, Ruth had already laid the table with toast and cereal, and Harry's pain was significantly more manageable.

Lottie seemed incredibly subdued. Yesterday, she had been a torrent of pure energy, which wasn't a far-cry from her usual character. This morning however, she padded downstairs and slid silently into her chair at the table. Her ocean eyes were dulled grey, and her face was set into an anxious frown. She didn't sit Moo beside her on the table as she normally did but gripped him closely to her chest.

Ruth came and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, squeezing her tightly for a second before shifting a stubborn lock of hair behind her ear.

"Sleep okay, my darling?" she asked softly, concerned by Lottie's solemnity.

"Mhmm," Lottie murmured rather non-committally.

"Right then. Toast or cereal?" Ruth questioned, deciding that it was best to stick to their normal routine. Then at least the girl would have that comfort amidst a time of greatly unexpected change.

"Cereal, please," Lottie opted quietly.

"Corn Flakes or Weet-Bix?"

"Corn Flakes, please."

Ruth dutifully filled a bowl with Corn Flakes and milk and set it in front of her daughter. Lottie dunked her spoon into the bowl but made little effort to eat. She simply stirred the spoon round and round until the cereal disintegrated into soggy mush. Ruth glanced at Harry and saw the same expression of concern mirrored in his eyes. She swallowed and sat down beside Lottie, taking a piece of toast and coating it in butter.

"I think we'd better talk about last night, hadn't we?" she said softly, glad to have the toast to focus on, otherwise she knew she would be twisting her hands in that annoying nervous habit she had never managed to break.

Lottie finally looked up at her, her eyes wide with worry, "Is Ava okay?"

"She's fine, darling," Ruth assured her gently.

"Did she come back?"

Ruth's gaze flickered towards Harry, who blinked in surprise as she answered, "Yes. Yes she did."

She hadn't yet told him about her early morning conversation with Catherine. Her gut was telling her that he would find out soon enough – probably from Catherine herself.

There was a pause as both parents tried to figure how best to approach the topic of 'Ava's' roots. In the end, Lottie saved them the bother.

"Ava's your daughter, isn't she?" she said bluntly to Harry.

Harry blinked again, taken aback for the umpteenth time by Lottie's intuition. Ruth couldn't help but give a small smile. She had already been expecting Lottie to have worked that out.

"Yes, squirt. She is."

The little girl turned her big blue eyes on Ruth, "But not yours?"

"No, my darling. Not mine. That's why I didn't know her when we met her on the beach yesterday. Your Daddy used to be married to another woman, a long, long time before he met me."

Lottie frowned, clearly trying to comprehend the fact that her parents hadn't been together all their lives, as her childish imagination had always led her to believe.

"So she's my... my half-sister?" she surmised slowly, checking the term with her mother, who she still saw as the fount of all knowledge.

"That's right, darling."

"But she's old," Lottie frowned.

Ruth chuckled at that. The girl was right. There was an uncommonly large age gap. After all, Catherine was probably only about ten years younger than herself.

"As Mummy said, Squirt," Harry interjected quietly. "I was married to Catherine's mother a long, long time ago. Which means Catherine was born quite a long time ago too."

Lottie frowned, "Who's Catherine?"

"Catherine is Ava's real name," Ruth told her gently.

It was Lottie's turn to blink bewilderedly, "But why did Ava – I mean, Catherine – call herself Ava if that wasn't her real name?"

Ruth swallowed heavily, noticing how dangerously close this topic was to hers and Harry's own backgrounds. They after all had been living under an alias – a big fat lie – for the last six years. Perhaps at this rate, they would have to confess all to their daughter, and Ruth definitely wasn't looking forward to that conversation.

"We don't know, Squirt," Harry replied, reaching under the table and squeezing Ruth's hand.

Lottie frowned again, thinking over this massive revelation whilst slowly mashing her cereal into submission.

"Is this a joke?" she asked suddenly.

"No, Squirt. No joke."

"I really have a sister?"

"You really have a sister," Ruth confirmed.

Harry hesitated before adding casually, "And a brother, actually."

Lottie's pupils blew wide with shock, "What?!"

"I had a daughter and a son in my previous marriage," he admitted quietly. "Catherine and Graham. Both of them are in their thirties now."

"So... so I have a half-sister and a half-brother?" Lottie murmured confusedly.

"That's right."

"But... but..." the little girl stammered, hugging Moo tighter to her chest. "Why didn't you tell me? And why didn't they come to see us?"

Ruth and Harry exchanged guilty glances at the heartbreak in Lottie's tone. Ruth just wanted to scoop her up, cuddle her and reassure her that everything would be alright. This was the moment they had been dreading. These were the questions they weren't quite sure how to answer.

"Sometimes, my darling," Ruth began softly, sensing that perhaps she had better take the lead given how raw the topic was to Harry. "Sometimes families are complicated. There can be arguments and lots of sadness, and horrible things that can make people not see each other for a very long time."

"What kind of horrible things?"

"That's not important, darling," Ruth ruled firmly. "The point is, because of all these things, families can grow apart."

"Is it because you and Catherine didn't like each other anymore?" Lottie asked Harry in a small voice. "Is that why she shouted last night?"

"No, Squirt," Harry answered, his voice shaking with barely contained emotion. "We did like each other. But we didn't see each other for a long time, and Catherine is angry because I... I didn't try as hard as I should have to see her."

"Why didn't you?"

There was no malice or accusation in Lottie's question; simply a genuine interest. As with every other thing she couldn't understand, she wanted to soak up as much knowledge as she could until the pieces of the puzzle finally fitted together.

"Well," Harry gulped, his eyes zipping from side to side as he thought about how to strip this complex matter down to its simplest terms. "I suppose because I was afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"Err... well... well, you see..."

Ruth could see that Harry was floundering, and her heart clenched to see him looking so vulnerable, so uncomfortable within himself. It was a rare look on her usually calm and confident partner and she felt compelled to step in before he broke down again.

"Lottie, do you remember when you and Jamie fell out?" she asked softly.

"When I was cross with him because he knocked juice all over my painting?"

"That's right," Ruth nodded. "And the next day you'd forgiven him, because you realised that it was only a painting and it wasn't worth losing a friend over. But you were too scared to go up and talk to him because you were afraid he was mad at you. And he didn't talk to you either because he was scared that you were still mad at him. And the more you didn't speak to each other, the worse the two of you felt. Do you remember that?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it's a bit like that," Ruth explained patiently. "Daddy felt too scared to speak to Catherine because lots of things had happened that he didn't know how to explain. And as more and more time passed by, he felt worse and worse."

"And the worse you felt, the harder it was to speak to her?" Lottie deduced, gazing at her father with soft and sympathetic eyes.

Harry's chin trembled, his eyes glistening with love for his two girls.

"That's right, Squirt. That's absolutely right."

"Maybe you should explain that to her," Lottie suggested sweetly. "Maybe then she won't be so angry."

"Maybe, Squirt," Harry smiled weakly, reaching out and ruffling the little girl's hair, "When did you get so wise, hmm?"

Lottie ducked her head bashfully, but couldn't hide the little grin on her face. It was a trait she had definitely picked up from Ruth.

"And what about you, darling?" Ruth asked gently, keen to nip any concerns Lottie had about this startling turn of events firmly in the bud before they spiralled. "How do you feel about all this?"

Lottie paused, sitting back in her chair and running her fingers thoughtfully across Moo's tufty fur.

"I like Catherine," she said decisively. "And I think I'd like to have a sister. And a brother. As long as they don't shout all the time."

Both Ruth and Harry chuckled.

"Don't worry, Squirt," Harry grinned. "Catherine's bark was always worse than her bite."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that although Catherine did a lot of shouting last night, she wouldn't really hurt a fly."

Ruth could have called bullshit, having seen the large, painful bruises tattooed upon his chest. But she didn't dare say anything that might worry Lottie. Plus, her instincts told her that last night's attack was a rarity; a cataclysmic result of six years worth of pent-up grief. And she was certain that Catherine bore absolutely no danger to Lottie. She wouldn't even think about keeping her on the grounds if she did. So she simply raised a pointed eyebrow at Harry from the across the table, whilst he studiously avoided her gaze.

"How long is it since you last saw her?" the girl asked, curiosity alight in her winsome face.

"Since before you were born," Harry admitted, regret emanating from every pore of his being.

"When you lived in England?"

"That's right."

"That's a long time."

"Yes," Harry nodded sadly. "It is."

Ruth squeezed Harry's hand which was still clutching tightly to her own beneath the table. Lottie stared thoughtfully at her father for a moment before getting up and winding her tiny, twig-like arms around his neck.

"It'll be alright, Daddy," she comforted him, leaving Ruth and Harry wondering just who the grown-up really was. "I'll help you and Catherine to make up again."

Harry smiled, releasing Ruth's hand and tugging Lottie into a big bear hug. Ruth noticed that he winced slightly as the little girl fell against his chest, but she didn't pass comment, seeing in his eyes how much their daughter's support meant to him.

"Thank you, Squirt. I might just need that help."

"Should I stay off school and talk to her?" Lottie asked seriously, in her best imitation of a grown-up.

Ruth grinned, shook her head and tapped Lottie's breakfast bowl.

"Nice try, you," she laughed affectionately. "But you're still going to school. Now come and eat your breakfast before the milk turns warm."

Lottie broke away from Harry, a flash of disappointment in her eyes. Her enthusiasm for helping out was admirable, but Ruth was adamant that she would continue her routine as normal. And that meant school. She watched her baby shovel soggy Corn Flakes into her mouth with a lot more gusto than before. It was then that her second sudden thought of the day occurred to her, and her eyes briefly met Harry's, communicating that she'd need him to back her up.

"There is one thing you can do though, darling," she said casually.

"Okay," Lottie agreed eagerly. "What's that?"

"For now... try not to tell anyone at school about Catherine. Keep her our little secret."

"Why?" Lottie frowned, and Ruth couldn't help but feel guilty. She knew that that was a big ask and a heavy burden for a six-year-old to carry. But what other choice did they have? They didn't yet know why Catherine was in Beechworth, and the image of the younger woman's distressed face down on the beach kept haunting her. Her heart was telling her that Harry's daughter was in some kind of trouble and until they could find out what exactly that trouble was, they needed to keep Catherine's presence on the down-low. Harry had clearly caught on to Ruth's brainwave and was nodding seriously.

"Well... because, Squirt... because... " he stumbled. "She's a very private person and... and..."

"And she wouldn't want everyone knowing about her getting so upset last night," Ruth finished, knowing that the excuse was lame at best, but there wasn't really any other reason why not.

Lottie stared suspiciously at the pair of them and they tried to maintain their best poker-faces.

"Why couldn't I just tell them I have a brother and sister? Just that. Nothing else. So I don't mention last night?" she wheedled, clearly desperate to boast to all of her friends that she wasn't an only child after all.

Ruth sighed. She could see the pros and the cons of the matter. Letting Lottie tell her friends would make the little girl so happy, but at the same time, she could be an utter motormouth when it came to people she knew. There was always a chance that once she started telling them, she might let slip other tiny, yet highly important, details. And until they had spoken properly with Catherine, that wasn't a risk they could afford to take.

"I don't think so, darling. Remember that Catherine called herself 'Ava'?" Lottie nodded. "I think she probably did that so she wouldn't be recognised."

"Why doesn't she want to be recognised?"

"I don't know," Ruth said slowly, before deciding that the only way they could get Lottie on-side was to let her feel part of a big, important secret. "That's what we need your help to find out when you get home from school."

She watched Lottie's eyes go wide as saucers, her chest puffing out with pride at being assigned such a valuable and grown-up task.

"Okay, then," she agreed solemnly. "I won't say anything yet."

"Good girl," Harry praised, his shoulders sagging in relief.

"But can I eventually?"

"What?" he frowned.

"Can I tell people eventually? I want to add Catherine and Graham to my Family Tree."

"What family tree?"

"Lottie's class are doing Family Trees," Ruth informed him with a gentle smile.

"Oh."

"So can I eventually add them to my Tree?"

Ruth and Harry glanced at each other, still so unsure about the lay of land. But at this stage, what else could they say but 'yes'? So they did.

"Good," Lottie grinned. "Just not now?"

"Just not now."

"For now, it's our little secret," the six-year-old recited, tapping her nose conspiratorially.

Ruth didn't quite know where she had picked up that little gesture, and decided that it must have been from playing 'Spies' with Jamie Peters. Oh, the irony.

"That's right, darling," she chuckled. "Our little secret."

Kinkaid trawled through the recent CCTV footage, growing more and more frustrated by the minute. How hard could it be to find one woman in an airport? And yet, Catherine seemed to have done a pretty good job of fading into the background. It was like the world was conspiring to keep her presence its own little secret. He aimed a bitter kick at the computer desk before throwing himself back into the squashy, swivel chair, folding his arms grumpily.

He cast a small glance across at the man in the chair next to him. The man sat there, cold and unmoving, his skin turning slowly grey and his eyes blown wide open with fear. Kinkaid took a second to admire the neatness of the bullet in the man's forehead. He knew he was a good shot. But there was something really rather fascinating about how little blood surrounded a clean-cut shot like that.

His eyes flickered to the open packet of M&Ms at the dead man's workstation, and he quickly snatched them up.

"Don't mind if I do. Thanks 'mate'," he said cheerlessly, tossing some of the candies into his mouth and relishing the sweet sugary goodness. Damn, he had missed these in Syria.

He twirled around in the office chair and held out the bag for his grey-haired companion from the Information desk.

"Want some?" he teased.

The grey-haired man also didn't move. That was no great surprise. It would have been a bloody big one if he had, for he was also now dead. He had led him to the security room, and as such had outlived his usefulness. Four other security officers lay lifeless on the floor. An empty airport in the early hours of the morning, combined with a silencer made for easy pickings for sharp shooter.

"No," Kinkaid chuckled darkly. "I didn't think so."

He turned once more to the computer, reclined back in his seat until he was comfy and put his feet up on the desk, scoffing M&M after M&M until he emptied out the packet. He smacked his lips, feeling a little more rejuvenated by the sugar rush, before returning his attention to the footage. So far, he had watched everyone who had boarded the buses to Gold Coast, Brisbane and Albury, all with zero luck. He opened up the recording for Sydney. It had to be this one. It just had to be. He wouldn't be a happy man if it turned out he had come all this way for a stupid dead end. And he knew that his employers wouldn't be happy with him if he allowed the trail to go cold. He was already skating on thin ice with them. After all, it had been due to his stupidity that Catherine had taken what she had in the first place.

He trilled his lips together, bored, as he watched passenger upon passenger climb onto the bus bound for Sydney. He rolled his eyes. What business did these people have being there? He wasn't looking for them. He was looking for Catherine. Except she seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

Until she didn't.

His eagle eyes caught a quick flash of shoulder-length blonde hair ducking inside the bus. He stopped the recording immediately and zoomed in. His lip curled into a small, sly smile.

"There you are."

24th October 2011

Dear Catherine and Graham,

It feels strange to be writing you a letter. Well, it's strange writing a letter, period, really. Nobody seems to write letters anymore, which is a shame because I always thought it quite a cordial, even romantic notion. You'd both disagree with me, of course; call me a sentimental old fool. You're of that generation where computers and emails and technology are far more alluring than a few simple words scribbled on a piece of paper. Oh dear. I'm only a few sentences in and I'm already rambling.

I think I'm rambling because I'm not quite sure how to say what I want to say. I was never much of a writer. I don't have your journalistic skills, Catherine, or your imagination, Graham. I suppose it doesn't really matter anyway, because this will probably never reach you. But still, I felt like I had to write this down. Call it what you like. Closure. A way of dealing with the guilt. A way of coping with the fact that I miss you. But anyway, here goes.

First off, I want you both to know that I love you so very, very much. So much more than I ever told you. And I regret that. You deserved to have been told that every day when you were young, and perhaps even more when you weren't so young. You deserved that. I was a bad father in many respects, but the thing I regret the most is not letting you both know that although I could be pushy, and difficult and absent, there wasn't a day that I wasn't thinking of you; that I wasn't proud of you. There still isn't. Above all, I hope that you're happy. I hope that you've both found someone with whom you can share your life and your love. I'm fortunate enough to have done that, now, after fifty-eight long years.

It is now six months after I left England and, to you, I am dead. To you, I am a traitor to my country. You will have had the funeral (if there was a funeral). I can't deny that I hope there was one and that if there was, that you were there. But if you weren't, don't worry, I understand. I truly do.

Sometimes living a life in complete secrecy is overwhelming. There are moments when I want to say 'sod it' and just give you a call; send you an email. I want to let you know that I'm alive and well and that I still love and think of you every day, and that I'm definitely not a traitor. I want to explain that I left in order to protect an officer of mine who was a dear friend but in an impossible situation. Had I not taken the fall, he would have spent the rest of his life in prison. The reckless side of me wants to explain all this to you. But I know how much danger that could put you in. Put us in.

Yes. Us. You see, there is now an us. You will probably know this from the coroner's report, but I was in the car with a woman and an infant when we 'died'. Of course, we didn't really die; these were plants by some very clever friends of mine. Myself, my wonderful partner and our baby daughter, I can very thankfully say, are alive and well.

Her name's Ruth. My partner. She is... wonderful. I met her at work. I was her boss. And Catherine, I can see your scowl as I write this, so stop it, because it's not like that. Not with Ruth. Our relationship wasn't some spontaneous affair based around sex. It had been slow-burning but ever present and every fervent for years. I've made so many mistakes in my family life. You both know that I wasn't faithful to your mother. I had a number of affairs. And she in turn cheated on me. It wasn't a happy marriage, and although we did once love each other, we were so very young when we got engaged. Time changed us. As we got older, our experiences altered who we were and we fell quite spectacularly out of love. We became hardened and bitter. It stopped being about love and instead became about getting one-up on each other. Relationships should never be about that. We hurt each other badly, and the two of you were always caught in the middle. Out of all of us, you got hurt the most. I wish there was something I could say or do to make up for that, but we both know there isn't. All I can really say is that I'm sorry. Deeply, deeply sorry.

But Ruth. Dear Ruth is different. She is not a casual fling or a rebound. In fact, I can't quite explain the depth of my feelings for her. The only word I can really think of to describe it is 'soul mate'. I've been around the block many a time, yet I still get those proverbial butterflies whenever I look at her. I think you'd have to meet her to fully understand. But just know that she is kind and gentle and loving, and far, far cleverer than I could ever hope to be. She's endured a lot in her work, but let's just say that she's not prepared to take crap from me (I think that might rather please you, Catherine). Ruth is the chance at love I didn't deserve. But I will hold onto and cherish that chance for the rest of my life. Because I love her. Utterly and completely. And, though I can't imagine why, she loves me back. I can only hope that you would be happy for us.

Our daughter – your sister – is now six-months-old and she is gorgeous. Her name is Charlotte. We can't call her that in the open, for her own safety, so we've decided to nickname her 'Lottie'. She's so very bright, like her mother. I wish you could meet her, because I think you would fall in love with her too. She's only six-months and we swear she's already trying to talk. I still remember what your first words were. I wasn't there a lot during your early years, a combination of work and your mother's insistence, but I was lucky enough to be there when you said your first words.

Catherine, yours was 'No'. Pure and simple. 'No'. Very telling. You were ten-months-old and you already knew what you did and didn't want. You were clever and passionate and stubborn and I loved that about you. You undoubtedly still are passionate and I'm almost certain you're just as stubborn. And I definitely, definitely do still love that about you.

Graham, yours was 'Bagpuss'. Unique and unexpected and very, very you. I bought you a big furry Bagpuss when you were born. I don't know if you still have it, but when you were young, the two of you were inseparable. You seemed to love watching endless reruns of that show. I think you liked watching the woodpecker, Professor Yaffle (why on earth do I still remember that bizarre woodpecker's name?!), because he was smart, just like you. I hope you're doing better – and I don't mean that in a critical way. I mean I hope you feel better within yourself. Last I heard from Catherine, you weren't so happy. You'd left another job and were back in rehab. She gave me a number for you, and I rang but you never returned the call. I hope you're okay. I love you, son.

The three of us have just settled somewhere for the first time in six months and it's very nice not to be constantly moving. It has kept us on our toes but being on the run is a young man's game and we all know that I'm not so young anymore. It's refreshing to be able to stay in one place for more than a month. You'd both laugh, but we're actually living in a caravan; one of those static ones which has its own water supply, its own kitchen and its own toilet, and though it's not quite what we imagined, it's actually very pleasant.

We get Wi-Fi here, and I've been able to watch a few of your documentaries on YouTube, Catherine. They're thought-provoking and evocative and although they make me miss you, they also fill me with so much pride. I try to watch them when Ruth's not around – not because I don't think she'd be interested, because she would – but because I feel quite afraid that I might break down, and I don't want her to have to cope with that.

I'm actually writing this to you whilst Ruth is in the other room, putting Lottie to sleep. She's reading her this story called The Velveteen Rabbit, and of course, Lottie's too young to understand, but just the sound of her mother's voice seems to lull her to sleep. And as Ruth's words drift through the crack in the door, it's reminding me of two things. Firstly, Catherine, it's reminding me of that old blue bunny you used to have when you were young. And secondly, it's reminding me of those rare times when I would get home from work early and Jane would let me read you both a story before bed. I was tired and upset and there was undoubtedly some imminent political crisis going on at the time, but at that moment I didn't care because I got to spend just five minutes with the two people I loved most in the world.

And I'm almost certain I read you this story – The Velveteen Rabbit, once. I vaguely remember making that old blue bunny dance you smiling, Catherine, which was lovely because I hardly ever got to see you smile. And I remember you asking me to do the same with Bagpuss, Graham. And then, Jane came and told me to leave because I was making you too rowdy before bed. And yes, I'm now positive it was The Velveteen Rabbit. I remember some of the words, and certainly the sentiment: when a person loves you, really loves you, then you become real. I feel like that's what Ruth does for me. She makes me feel real. And although we're both living life as lie, under names which don't belong to us, in a country which isn't our own, for the first time in a long time, I feel real. And I try to love Ruth and Lottie like that too. I don't want to make the same mistakes I did before. And it is my deepest regret that I can't turn back the clock and love the two of you like that too. If only I could do that now. Love you now like I should have then. But, of course, now it is too late.

Now, all I can really do is love you from a distance; be proud of you for the achievements that you'll never know I learnt of and write letters that I know I can never send. It's stupid, really. I had several commendations for bravery and even a knighthood, and yet I was a complete coward when it came to matters of the heart. I couldn't tell you all this when it mattered, and now I'm reduced to a letter. A letter you'll never read.

But I think I'll keep writing. I'll keep pretending I have that relationship with you, because, really, it's better than the alternative.

So until the next time.

All my love,

Dad.

A teardrop fell onto the page, smudging the thick black letters and soaking through the aged paper. Catherine cast one last look at the letter – the first of so many – before setting it down on the bed and sobbing into her pillow. It was just one thing after another, and even after the last 72 hours, that had been the last thing she had been expecting. She curled up under the floral quilt, dug her face into her palms and took several long, deep soothing breaths. She needed to speak to her Dad. She needed to swallow her pride and just speak to him.

Apologies for the posting delay - had a very, very busy week. But I hope people are still interested in the story. Thank you Alias47, wolfdrum and Gregoriana for your kind reviews; you inspired me to keep writing in spite of the hectic week. Next, we find out about the mystery surrounding Catherine, and who exactly Kinkaid is. All the best x