"They won't really take those kids away, will they?" Garcia asks me softly. She isn't looking at me, staring through the glass at Emily and her children. Even after all the years she's been doing this job, she still can't stomach a family being ripped apart.

"No," I tell her firmly because I won't let them. With the very last fibre of my being, I won't let them. Those kids don't deserve to be punished for the sins of their father.

She chances a look at me, daring to hope I can do what I say; she always looks at me like I hung the moon, like I'm her hero. I hope one day to be worthy of it. Today, I am not.

I join her in staring through the glass without further comment and try not to wonder 'what if...' as I watch Emily with her little family, even though it's all I can think about. What if? What if? What if?

Declan is the spitting image of his father at his age, but for the premature ageing. He's trying to be strong, to be brave – for his sisters, for Emily. But every so often, his glacial blue eyes flick up from his homework to look at Emily, as if looking for reassurance that everything is okay. She meets his eyes every time and smiles, if a little tightly, runs a hand through his blonde curls, and occasionally presses a kiss to his forehead and he's trying to pretend he doesn't like it.

It doesn't escape my notice that he had to have been conceived shortly after Emily ran away. I try not to wonder whether she had wanted it, wanted a baby, when so recently before she had not. Either way, she obviously loves him a great deal. I always knew she'd be a wonderful mother.

Aisling must get her genes from Ian's family because she's every bit the stereotypical little Irish girl with flouncing red curls, a smattering of freckles across her nose, and big blue eyes. She's wedged herself into the same chair as Declan and is studiously colouring (and singing Disney songs at the top of her lungs no matter how many times Emily asks her to use her inside voice), apparently oblivious to the situation at hand. Her face and dress are stained red with juice the officer watching the kids had offered her.

Morgana takes after her mother and I'm selfishly grateful for it. The three year old is seated in her mother's lap, cuddled as close to Emily's body as physically possible, either shy or frightened. She's clutching tightly to a stuffed rabbit wearing a tutu and she's got one of its paws and her thumb both in her mouth; she's a little old to be sucking her thumb, but Emily seems to allow it, given the stressful situation. Every so often, the toddler glances at the two way mirror, cocks her head, and narrows her eyes, as if she's looking clear through at me and into my very soul and I'm oddly unsettled by the look in her brown doe eyes.

Emily looks exhausted, like now that her children are all safe and within reach, her powerful, almost imperious, facade is crumbling away to the desperation underneath. She's terrified – I can see it in her eyes, but only because I know her as well as I do...she's doing an excellent job of hiding it, for her childrens' sake.

"Where's Papa?" Aisling asks innocently, almost curiously, glancing up from her colouring.

"Papa's talking to the police right now," Emily tells her, practiced calm in her voice.

"Is he helping them?" Declan asks, leaving the alternative unspoken. He's old enough to be suspicious, to know what's going on, even if no one's told him. He's picking at his nails, a nervous habit he must have picked up from Emily.

"Yes," Emily lies, "He's helping them catch a very bad man." Then, she adds, "Don't pick your nails."

Declan looks at her like he sees right through the lie, but knows that it's more for the younger children than it is for him. He says nothing.

"I wanna go home," Aisling whines, breaking the weighty silence.

"We'll go home soon," Emily assures her. "Finish colouring your picture, so you can give it to him when you see him, okay?"

"Oh. Okay." She seems appeased by that. "More juice!" she demands.

"That's not how we ask for things," Emily sighs like it's a hard fought battle, like she's embarrassed by her child's lack of manners. "You know better."

"More juice!" she says again, stabbing emphatically at the air with her crayon."

"Keep your voice down, please, your sister is sleeping," Emily scolds quietly, as the youngest Doyle has nodded off in her lap.

Aisling sighs dramatically and rolls her eyes in a very Emily-esque gesture, and returns to her colouring.

Declan reaches over to cover his sister's ears. "You're not telling the truth," he says, not accusatory, but pointed nonetheless. "About Papa..."

Emily looks lost for a response; she sighs heavily, shrugs, like 'what do you want me to say?'

"He's not a good man," Declan adds and it isn't a question.

Her face is oh so tired, oh so sad. "Your father made some bad choices, but he's always done it out of love for us. He loves you so much, mo stórin."

"They're going to take him away, aren't they?"

"I hope not," she whispers, but it's with a hint of acquiescence.

"Are they going to take you away too?" His voice trembles and he sounds so much younger than fifteen.

"Of course not," she vows. She wraps him up in a tight embrace.

"What happens to them, if she's arrested?" Garcia asks.

I want to tell her they have a living grandmother, but I have no idea if Elizabeth would even want them, if she cares that Emily's still alive. They have half a dozen citizenships each, but they were all born on American soil, no doubt Emily's doing, just in case something like this were to happen. "Foster care," I answer instead. "They'll probably be separated."

She says nothing, but I know what she's thinking anyway. She had her aunt and uncle, but not all kids are that lucky.

"But I won't let that happen," I promise. I wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her close against my side. "I won't let that happen."