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Chapter Text

Ravenhill Federal Correctional Complex, Administrative Segregation, E Block

Fifty miles north of Cody, Wyoming, carved into the gray ribs of the Absaroka Range, two miles of razor wire and reinforced concrete held the monsters at bay and the men who made them in comfort.

Ravenhill had two cages. Ravenhill Max held the killers and lifers, while Ravenhill East pampered the white collar tycoons of organised crime. Mark Winters had arranged himself comfortably between the two.

He lounged behind a polished desk that had no business inside a maximum security complex, flipping through the Financial Times like he was killing time in a first class airport lounge. His head was clean shaven, his skin was smooth, and his posture pure boardroom. Even in state issued khakis and a threadbare gray T-shirt, Winters looked more like a man waiting for a personal flight than a prisoner with a rap sheet longer than Interstate 80.

Fraud, extortion, “misunderstood negotiations”, all just lines on his resume. He called it creative accounting and tactical persuasion. The judge, tragically, lacked his imagination.

The cell door was open just wide enough for the smell of fresh coffee to drift into the corridor, a reminder to every poor bastard out there that Mark Winters lived better in prison than most men did free.

There was a knock on the door and the creak of hinges.

“Boss?” a baritone voice rumbled. “You might wanna hear this.”

He didn’t spare a glance for the burly guard, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else than bringing this news.

“If it’s about the Senator, tell old Ronny to wire the money before I find something else to make him cry.”

The guard hesitated. “It’s not that.”

“What is it then? The Warden still whining about those photographs? Shoulda been more careful about dressing up his secretary in a Girl Scout uniform while cheating on his wife.”

The guard snorted. “Uh… no, not exactly. Intake just logged a new fish. Federal transfer. Name came through the system this morning.”

“And? Winters turned a page. “Spit it out.”

“P. J. McCabe, sir.”

The smirk faltered and the paper stilled. For a moment the only sound was the clock on the wall. Winters’ thumb calmly smoothed a crease on the newsprint, and when he finally looked up, his expression hadn’t changed but the air in the room turned frosty.

“You sure?”

“Positive.” The guard nodded, “Death row transport from Montana. They’re storing him in max as we speak.”

Leaning back, eyes half lidded, the ghost of a smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. “Well, fuck me sideways.”

The guard shifted, waiting for an order, panic, rage, something. Instead, Winters drummed his fat, perfectly manicured fingers on the desk and chuckled.

“Bastard’s like Lazarus. Send him a welcome basket… soap on a rope, a Playboy, jar of Vaseline. The card should say, ‘Looks like it’s just you and your hand now, Pete. Love from an old friend.’”

“You want someone to rough him up?”

“Nah. Let him stew.” Winters’ grin sharpened. “Let the bastard sit there waiting for the punchline till I get bored.”

The guard looked at him like he was insane. Everyone in the California system had heard the stories of Peter McCabe. The guy had crafted a reputation for himself in Carson City halfway between Houdini and Hannibal. Poking the bastard was like lighting matches in a fireworks factory.

“You still here?” Winters snapped.

The door clanged shut and the smile vanished. He stared at the wall until the clock ticked holes in his skull, replaying every sound from that day in the shop, the cold bite of electrical wire on his wrists, the blood, the weight of McCabe’s boot crushing his jaw.

He lit a cigarette and exhaled. “Should’ve finished me off while you had the chance, you psychotic son of a bitch.”

The smoke wound upward, blue and lazy, twisting through the thin shaft of light that slipped between the bars. Flicking ash into an empty espresso cup, Winters grinned to himself. He’d forgotten how good anticipation could feel.

Ravenhill wasn’t really a punishment to men like Mark Winters, it was an office with a better security system, and business, as far as he could see, was about to get very, very good indeed. He’d been so close, stood in the middle of Harper’s vault, touched the unmarked bills stacked neatly beneath the junk shop floor. Winters had never seen so much money. It made him salivate just thinking about it.

He could still smell the shop, oil, varnish, Josie’s perfume. Could still feel the moment that little bitch kicked him in the ribs, twice, for being a creep. To be fair, he had been a creep. He could admit that now. She’d made him furious and alive all at once, and money like that can rot a man’s brain. He’d almost admired her that night, right up until her pet psycho had knocked out two of his teeth. Winters scowled and rubbed his jaw, feeling the faint ridge where bone had healed crooked.

If the Feds hadn’t found the vault, the case was closed. They had their fugitive, now they could forget the rest. All he had to do was wait.

Three people on earth knew that vault’s location. One was a scared little basket case. One was caged. The third was already planning his retirement in the Bahamas. The Syndicate, Winters’ bosses, would never need to know. Why split the prize when it could all be his?

The lawyers were already working on a compassionate release, health issues, model behaviour, whatever fairytale bought him an out, and if the state dragged its heels, he had other options. Mark Winters always had other options.

He straightened his tie and studied the small steel mirror bolted above the sink. Beady calculating eyes stared back.

“Still dangerous,” he murmured.

Somewhere, across a field of grass and electric chain link, Peter McCabe was in a cage and Mark Winters had never felt freer.

Chapter Text

Two Days Previously: Livingston, Montana

The joke of it was, they were twenty-five miles from the finish line.

Peter McCabe had taken over the wheel that morning because the love of his life was currently curled up in the back of the motorhome looking like she’d been punched in the gut.

Josie had been off for two days, tangled brown hair stuck to her temples and her skin had gone a clammy, pale grey. She’d been sweating through her shirt and snapping at him every time he so much as looked her way, but that smart mouth of hers had gone silent now, and that was what worried him most. He kept tossing glances in the rearview, one hand draped over the wheel, the other white knuckled like he wanted to throttle the illness out of her himself. Two days of this shit. Two days of her refusing food, curled foetal on the faux leather bench, looking like she had the hangover from hell.

“You need fluids,” he growled. “Gatorade, somethin’ with sugar. You look like a goddamn cadaver.”

“Stop fussing,” she croaked. “I’m fine.”

“You ain’t fine, Harper. You look like a flu season PSA.”

Josie rolled over with a groan and flipped him the bird making him crack a grin despite himself.

It was easy for a minute, too easy. The fancy RV with the fake wood panelling, her pottering in the back, him squinting at road signs through the scratched lenses of his appropriated glasses.

Montana was close enough to taste. They had a plan, cross country, no lingering, get to Bozeman, find whatever Josie’s family had left buried out there, and get the fuck out of dodge.

The treasure was the last proceeds in a string of robberies her father and grandfather pulled back when they were alive and it was close enough to taste, the cherry on the cake of an impossible shot at the dream. If they got there before the Feds, it meant enough money for them to vanish clean.

McCabe should have known by now nothing in life was ever that easy. He should have told her no, the vault she’d already found buried behind her shop was enough, but she had that spark in her eyes and he was high on the chase, thinking with his dick instead of his head.

To make matters worse, the RV screamed arrest me. It was a ridiculous looking thing. A rolling billboard of bad fucking decisions. The kind of rig that made people turn and stare. He’d told her, over and over. She’d told him tough luck, she liked the space. They hadn’t spoken for two days after that fight.

Then came the gas station burrito that looked like roadkill. She’d insisted. He’d snorted and warned her not to. She’d locked eyes with him, smirked, and took a heroic bite, then puked her guts up half an hour later. She’d been green ever since.

He hadn’t said “I told you so,” but she could hear it every time he glanced at her in the mirror.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Livingston was a postcard town. White clapboard, clean sidewalks, eyes in every corner. McCabe rolled straight down Main Street in broad daylight, no disguise, no cap, just the glasses perched on the end of his nose.

He had an unmistakable profile, sharp boned, hard blue eyes, dark hair cut close with a few silver threads catching the light. His expression was built for frowning, though a trace of wicked humour lingered somewhere behind his eyes. He should’ve been more careful. The traffic cam got him in one clean shot.

Somewhere, a server lit up. Somewhere else, the FBI started moving.

They pulled in off the main road around ten and parked outside a rundown row of shops that was trying really hard to be a strip mall. Josie needed stomach meds and McCabe needed cigarettes and something cold and alcoholic to drown the creeping dread.

“You want me to come with?” he asked, standing at the RV’s open door.

“No,” she said, too fast. “You’re acting like a helicopter parent again. Go get your stupid smokes.”

He squinted at her for a second, studying her face. She looked fucking awful but she was giving him the patented Josie Harper “don’t fuck with me or I’ll lose my shit” look and knew better than to argue.

“Fine, but you drop dead, I ain’t draggin’ your sorry corpse to Bozeman. Just sayin’.”

She threw her empty water bottle at his head and he caught it with a smirk before walking off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The pharmacy was quiet apart from the buzz of fluorescent lights and the tinny sound of a TV playing some music channel above the counter. Josie stood there smiling politely at the clerk while trying to describe her symptoms without sounding like a complete lunatic.

“Not cramps, really. I just feel… off. Like seasick but not? It’s like butterflies but if they were fighting a bunch of drunk wasps.”

The pharmacist gave her the expression people reserve for unstable women and hypochondriacs. He started by suggesting vitamins.

Then the sirens came.

Josie turned, stomach flipping again, just as Special Agent Jennifer Ramirez stepped into the shop like a nuclear warhead in heels. Tall, cool, and blatantly pissed off. She pulled her badge and swayed down the makeup aisle like she had all the time in the world.

“Josephine Harper,” she smirked, “How’ve you been, Josie?”

Josie balked. “Shit.”

“Yeah. Someone’s been a very naughty witness.” Ramirez mimed air quotes around the word witness with her fingers and smiled sweetly before spinning Josie on the spot, cuffing her hands behind her back, then spinning her back round again, “Frank says hi.”

Josie didn’t manage to get a word out before she vomited spectacularly down the front of the agent’s immaculately pressed trousers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The liquor store was less clinical.

McCabe had just lifted a six pack of something cheap and nasty when the door slammed open behind him and someone screamed “DOWN ON THE GROUND” like a bad action movie.

He turned slowly, hands empty, shoulders up, with a half smirk on his face like he could’ve predicted this two states back. He had, in actual fact, predicted it two states back, but she’d told him he was a paranoid old bastard and to stop worrying. Another thing he wouldn’t say I told you so for but…

They hit him like a brick wall. Guns out, voices overlapping. He saw the cuffs, saw the SWAT guys, then he saw Ramirez dragging Josie out of the pharmacy with her hands cuffed behind her back and his expression changed on a dime.

“Get your fuckin’ hands off her! I swear to God I’ll kill every last one of you motherfu…”

A taser to brought him down before he managed to finish his sentence and the last thing he saw was Josie being shoved into the back of a waiting cruiser.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Booking was a blur. Josie barely registered the lights, the questions, the cold vinyl of the chair. Her hands trembled through fingerprints, mug shots and meaningless questions.

“Have you ever used illegal drugs?”

“No.”

“Are you currently on prescription medication?”

“No.”

“Are you pregnant?”

“No,” she said automatically. Then her mouth went dry, and every nerve in her body replayed the last two weeks in vivid, X-rated detail.

The lake.

The rain.

Indiana.

The layby.

The way he hadn’t even gotten the car into park before…

Fuck.

Her birth control pills had run out somewhere around Cincinnati and she’d never got round to stopping for a new prescription.

Shit.

“N… No?” she said again, weakly.

They made her take the test anyway.

It took exactly twenty three minutes of staring at the clock and trying not to bite all her fingernails off until the result came back. She counted.

Josie’s eyes were wide and unfocused as she ran through all the possible scenarios again. They’d been careful, well, apart from that one time when he’d pinned her to the headboard and done that thing with his tongue… and that other time with the curtain ties from the motel…

Fuck.

Her whole body felt cold.

When the prison doctor came back, he didn’t say a word, just slid the result across the desk like it was a parking ticket. Josie picked it up with a hand that shook like a leaf in a storm.

Positive.

Her ears rang. She felt her heartbeat hammer behind her eyes, and her breath caught halfway up her throat and refused to go further.

No, no, no…

She stared at the strip of paper like it might turn into something else if she looked hard enough.

Outside the window, a siren screamed past and disappeared into the mountains. Josie didn’t move, she didn’t cry, she just whispered, “Shit,” and tried not to pass out.

Chapter Text

Josie walked out of the county holding facility with a paper bag of belongings and the weight of the world in her chest. She had bail, barely, courtesy of Danny Halloran, who was already waiting for her outside, arms crossed, his whole face saying for the love of God what did you do this time?

Danny had the build of a linebacker and the flair of someone who’d never quite grown out of high school, broad shoulders, sun bleached hair always in need of a cut, and a tan that clung to him all year round. He looked like a man who ran five miles before breakfast, then spent the day solving everyone else’s problems but his own.

“You wanna tell me what the hell this is?” he barked, the second she stepped through the gate.

“I didn’t ask you to come for me,” she muttered. The RV was gone, evidence now, so she was secretly glad he had.

“Well, I’m sure as hell not here for him.”

She didn’t answer. She hadn’t seen McCabe since Livingston. Not a word. No phone call. No message. Nothing. He’d disappeared, and now… And now.

“Are you even listening to me?” Danny snapped. “Jesus, Jo, arrested? By the FBI? This is… You don’t date wanted men, Jo! Fugitives. You don’t go cross country camping with ‘em…”

She bit her tongue. He’d once dated Heather Williams, Heron High’s easiest extracurricular. Everyone had a type.

He was still ranting. “… and you damn well don’t…you don’t…”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t get attached to fucking psychos!”

“Too late, Daniel.”

He took a deep breath and opened the door. “Get in the damn car.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The drive back was four hours of silence interspersed with one tense pitstop at a dusty roadside diner. Josie pressed her forehead to the glass and let the world blur while she thought about that night.

McCabe had insisted on a bed without wheels and a shower with real water pressure. The motel he’d picked was a hate crime against good taste, mirror on the ceiling, pink light flickering in the corner, and a carpet that might’ve been pink in the eighties but was now fifty shades of no thank you. She’d laughed the second she saw it.

“You serious?” she snorted, “I think I’ll sleep in the RV.”

Never one to admit defeat, McCabe recovered fast. “You judgin’ the honeymoon suite, Harper? I just dropped fifty bucks on this slice of paradise. The least we can do is test the mattress… For science.”

“Science, huh? We role playing now, Professor?”

He was already close, crowding her against peeling wallpaper, eyes twinkling. “That’s Doctor to you, darlin’ and you’re way overdue for your exam.”

She barely had time to protest before his mouth crashed down on hers, teeth catching her bottom lip. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging like she couldn’t decide whether to fight him or pull him closer.

“Oh, it’s gonna be like that, is it?” he mumbled against her throat, already dragging her skirt up while he pushed her panties down to somewhere around her knees. His eyes glanced at the mirror. “Five bucks says the headboard won’t make it.”

“If it breaks, you’re paying for breakfast,” she breathlessly shot back.

“Deal. Now let’s see how much noise you can make before they throw us out.”

It wasn’t gentle, it was rough and urgent, two people running on borrowed time.

Afterwards, they lay tangled in dusty sheets, her hair wild, a curtain tie still hanging off one wrist. She looked well and truly conquered. The headboard was somehow still standing out of spite.

He brushed her hair back, eyes admiring her in the mirror. “Patient’s gonna have to stay overnight for observation. I ain’t done with her treatment yet.”

“Pervert,” She’d murmured into his chest.

His chuckle rumbled under her ear. Outside a truck roared past. Inside, nothing but the gentle sound of their breathing until he drifted off with his hand tangled in her hair, possessive even in sleep. She lay there, watching him, listening to him snoring softly, wondering how long the universe would let them pretend to be ordinary before ripping it all away.

Four weeks later, he’d be in chains.

Josie rested her head against the window and tried not to think about the sound of his laugh.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Danny pulled the car to a jerky stop outside Josie’s Oddments and Etceteras, the engine whining like even it didn’t approve of her poor life choices.

Heron Hollow still had that sleepy hush, like it didn’t give a shit if you were the Pope or public enemy number one. Josie climbed out and leaned against the side of the car fighting the urge to hurl and Danny’s face did that worried golden retriever thing, head cocked to one side, eyebrows up, mouth fighting between a scowl and a plea. He was all heart with none of the sense to go with it

“Jesus, Jo,” he said, fishing out her spare set of keys and finally finding it within himself to look her in the eye. “You look like shit.”

“I puked on an FBI agent,” she said flatly, too exhausted to bother with a lie, and kept walking.

Danny followed her, scanning the street out of habit before realising he wasn’t actually on duty.

“You’re seriously outta your goddamn mind, you know that? You got so many charges hanging over you, I can smell that paperwork from here…”

“I didn’t ask for another lecture, Dan.”

“I didn’t prepare one, but I am gonna say it anyway... I told you so.” he drawled, jogging up the porch steps in front of her.

The shop bell rang, like it was tired of her bullshit. Dust danced through beams of late afternoon sunlight and the taxidermy crow behind the register squinted at her like, “Well. That escalated.”

Josie made it as far as the stairs before she turned. “I didn’t think they’d catch him. We were careful. He only drove for an hour so I could sleep it off.”

Danny’s eyes narrowed. “Sleep what off? You sick or something?”

She didn’t answer. Just went up the stairs with a haunted silence that usually meant we’re not discussing this right now.

He followed her anyway.

Dropping her bag, she kicked off her boots, and collapsed into an armchair. Danny hovered.

“I made some calls,” he said. “You got bail but it’s federal. You’re on the radar now. Conditions are tight.”

She said nothing, just stared out the window chewing her lip like the answer was somewhere in the clouds.

“No contact with him. Twice weekly check ins, and before you argue, I had to pull every string I had to make sure you could leave the state if needed. They weren’t gonna go for it.”

“Why did they?”

Danny shifted his weight and looked down at the floorboards, running a hand through his hair. “Because I covered your bail with a donation from a very anonymous benefactor.”

Her breath caught. “You…?”

“I just went down to that cellar under your office and took what I needed.” He met her eyes. “It’s blood money, Jo but it’s yours.”

That hurt more than it should have.

“And your dad and grandpa didn’t leave it there for it to rot under floorboards while you rot in a cell,” he added.

That felt like a slap.

“Thanks.”

He gave her a bitter smile. “Don’t thank me. Fucking killed me to do it. I’m a goddamn cop, Jo. A cop! I don’t think I even know who the hell you are any more. You used to call me when the cat went missing. Now I’m bailing you out of a federal holding cell?!”

She traced the hole in the arm of the chair. The one McCabe had stabbed the night Frank had kissed her.

“You’re not allowed to see him by the way. Remember that before you go driving off into the sunset again.”

She turned away. It wasn’t gratitude she felt. It was humiliation, like every part of her life had become a debt someone else had to pay. Her lawyer’s words rang in her ears.

“You can leave Wyoming if it’s related to legal proceedings, but no calls, no unscheduled visits. If you want to see him, you file for official visitation and you wait…”

Danny was watching her concerned. “What did he do to you?”

She met his eyes. “He loved me. That’s what he did.”

Danny looked like she’d shot him point blank in the chest. She brushed past him, sat at the kitchen table and picked up a pen and paper.

“Peter,

I don’t know if this’ll reach you. I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you on time. It all happened so fast.

I’m okay. Danny got me home. I’m not supposed to write, but I have to.

I’m applying for visitation. I’m going to see you soon. I promise.

Hold on. Please.

Jo x”

She sealed the envelope and pressed her thumb over his name until the ink smudged, the closest she’d been to him in three days. Downstairs the front door creaked open.

“Josephine Harper, what the hell’s been going on?” a woman’s voice called.

“Oh for the love of...”

Josie stood quickly, with a look of guilt on her face, as the door swung wide and Joyce Halloran marched in. Danny’s mother, local legend, retired substitute teacher, and part time menace. Her perfume hit first, vintage eighties, heady and heavy with moral authority. She was wearing a lilac twin set and looked like she belonged in a church bake off right up until she opened her mouth.

“You didn’t call,” Joyce said, setting a Tupperware container filled with soup on the counter with all the ceremony of the Eucharist. “So I figured either you were dead or too stubborn to admit you needed help.”

Danny hovered behind her, muttering, “Told you she’s fine, Ma.”

“She looks like the walking dead,” Joyce said. “Sit, Josephine. Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re not fooling me. The last time you said that you had the flu and you fainted in my kitchen. Sit.”

Josie sat because no one in Heron Hollow argued with Joyce Halloran for long.

Joyce ladled out the soup, steam curling around her blonde helmet of hair that hadn’t moved since 1989.

“I saw the news. Don’t slouch, dear. That man of yours has half the county gossiping. I told Mrs Cranston it was all nonsense but she’s started bringing her notebook to the post office again, thinks she’s Miss Marple. Ridiculous woman. You want my advice?”

“No thank you.”

“You’re getting it anyway.” Joyce handed her a spoon. “Don’t let the bastards make you forget who you are. They act saintly at church, but every person in this town has a scandal stuffed down the back of the sofa. Hypocrisy’s an epidemic in this town.”

Josie stared at the bowl. “I love him, Joyce. We were chasing something stupid, not hurting anyone. You believe me, right?”

Joyce’s perfectly manicured hand found hers. “I believe you’re a good girl who’s made some spectacularly bad choices, Josephine… but I also believe nobody fights this hard for something that isn’t worth it.”

Danny groaned. “Ma!”

“Quiet, Daniel. Girl talk.”

He subsided, glaring at the floor.

Joyce squeezed Josie’s hand once more, then let go. “Just don’t go falling for any more wanted posters. Now, you finish that, then get some rest. I’ll check on you in the morning and don’t you dare argue with me. I’ve still got my spare key.”

Josie almost smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”

When the Hallorans finally left, she looked at the letter.

“I don’t care what they say,” she whispered. “I’m coming for you.”

Chapter Text

The messenger dropped a stack of mail onto Ava Krane’s desk, narrowly missing her morning coffee, and she shot him a scathing look. “God forbid someone in this building learns how to be civilised.”

The Western Standard features desk had, had a slow week, and she was this close to submitting a feel good story about a duck that had befriended a family dog. It was so far beneath her she could weep.

She sifted through the envelopes, half bored, until she saw the one stamped FCC Ravenhill. Her pulse kicked up as she tore it open.

Request denied. Inmate Peter J. McCabe does not consent to interview or media correspondence.

At the bottom, scrawled in pen pressed hard enough to dent the page, ‘Stay the hell away from Josephine Harper’.

Ava raised an eyebrow. “How gallant, Peter.”

She ripped it in two and dropped it into her trash can with an irritated sigh.

“Fine, Romeo. Don’t talk to me. You had your chance.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

FCC Ravenhill Prison, Warden Noah Grayson’s Office

“Yeah, well, she’s out on bail. Pregnant… Yes, I know… We’ve kept it from him. Problematic? That’s one word for it.”

Warden Grayson was leaning in close to the receiver, speaking softly but not softly enough.

Outside, the janitor paused mid mop and whipped out a duster, making sure to take his time polishing a particularly troublesome spot on the trophy cabinet.

Grayson let out a bellowing laugh. “No, no, no… well, yes… Would you like to tell Mr McCabe he’s back in lockup while his woman’s walking around… with child? No?”

The janitor shifted closer to the open door, ears straining.

The Warden laughed again and toyed with his wedding ring, his eyes drifting to where his secretary was bent over the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. She smiled over her shoulder, knowing exactly what the sanctimonious bastard was watching, and shifted her weight just enough to make him groan before he remembered the phone call.

“If Carson City had taken him back, we wouldn’t be in this pickle now, would we? Have I met Mr McCabe yet? Goodness no, he’s been in time out since they dragged him in from… I know! Exactly! I’ve got enough headaches without fielding calls from the press all day…”

The Warden straightened his tie, tugging at it like a man adjusting a noose. He turned toward the open door just as the janitor peeled away smoothly, whistling as he pushed his squeaky mop cart down the hall. In this place, secrets were currency, and he’d just struck gold.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peter McCabe hadn’t spoken in two days except to ask about Josie every shift change. Any messages? Any mail? You check the board again? He already knew the answer but asked anyway.

No, no, and go fuck yourself, CO killer. The guards thought it was funny.

“She probably bailed, man. You’re not exactly marriage material.” One had laughed, goatee, mid-twenties, built like a wet noodle. McCabe mentally filed him under “Future Examples”.

His cell was smaller than the RV. He’d measured it twice, not out of boredom but to feel the limits. He liked knowing the exact dimensions of his cage. There were no windows, no clock, just a slab of concrete disguised as a bed, a toilet welded to the wall, and a man quietly pacing himself into psychosis.

He was seated on the floor, back against the bed, knuckles red from taking his frustration out on the door the night before. His glasses were gone. They’d confiscated them along with anything else he could craft into some kind of deadly weapon or escape tool. They’d taken everything except the fact that she was still out there… somewhere.

“Back against the far wall.” The guard barked from outside the cell door. “Chow’s up.”

McCabe didn’t move. “Just slide it in, hero.”

“That’s what she said,” the guard laughed.

McCabe didn’t laugh. He just smiled a little, gave him that look he got when there was math going on behind his eyes.

There was a clank, the food hatch slid open and a tray appeared. Grey potatoes, grey cabbage, and something brown hidden under cold gravy with a skin. Ravenhill’s spécialité du jour. A small white teddy bear was looking up at him from the side of the tray and next to that, a pale blue greeting card, expensive looking, embossed with a white bird silhouette mid flight. A heron?

“The fuck’s this?” McCabe asked, turning it over between two fingers. He wasn’t in the mood for anyone’s shit today.

The guard just smirked.

The writing inside said “Congrats, Daddy. Sleep well. M”

“Who gave you this?”

“Came with the food. Cute, right? You made history, man. Must be the only lifer to knock someone up twenty years into their sentence.”

McCabe’s head tilted slightly, the movement almost reptilian. He studied at the guard for a long moment, the way others might study a chessboard. His expression was nothing short of venomous.

“What’d you say?”

“Word is, your old lady’s eating for two. Gotta be hard, huh? Not bein’ able to check your own work. I heard she…”

The tray flew across the room as McCabe lunged at the door, hitting it with enough force to make it rattle on its hinges. A hand shot through the food hatch, catching the guard’s ID lanyard, and yanked so hard the his head cracked against the steel with a dull thud.

“Who. Sent. It?” The tone was soft and surgical. He twisted his grip tighter, the lanyard digging deep into the flesh of the man’s neck.

The guard’s hands scrabbled at the cord, feet kicking, choking sounds echoing down the corridor.

Someone hit an alarm and the lights turned red. Suddenly the whole corridor exploded, inmates shouting and banging on doors, the crash of boots bouncing off concrete. The first baton struck his forearm with a sharp crack that made him grunt but not release. The second slammed into his wrist. Blood streaked the metal. The third caught him across the fingers but still he held on.

“I WANT MY LAWYER! YOU HEAR ME?! GET ME MY FUCKIN’ LAWYER!”

A taser prong snapped against McCabe’s arm and the current hit both men at once, one screaming, one silent. The smell of ozone and burned fabric filled the air. McCabe’s body jerked hard, but his grip held for a heartbeat too long before the voltage forced his hand open. The guard crumpled, gasping, eyes rolling, while McCabe hit the floor on one knee, still trying to drag air back into his lungs.

The bear lay on the floor beside the overturned tray, beady eyes staring up at him through a mess of spilled gravy.

Guards swarmed the door, shouting orders, calling for a medic, but McCabe didn’t hear a damn word. He just stared at the stupid bear with its neat little bow until the alarms faded into the distance. He was bleeding but didn’t feel it. All he could feel was the card, now crumpled in his fist. It wasn’t a heron. It was a stork.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Twelve hours later, he was perched on the steel cot, with a face like a rabid Rottweiler. Mattress stuffing littered the floor. The poor bear stared at him from the far corner, a traumatised witness of the previous night’s events.

Just inside the threshold stood Alan Tickle, Esq, thirty-something, mop haired, and visibly out of his depth. His tie was too short, his grin too wide, and he was sweating buckets through his collar. No one could blame him for the nerves. The whole arrangement broke half a dozen regulations, but no one wanted to argue with Peter McCabe today.

McCabe’s eyes had him pinned to the spot. “I asked for a phone call,” he said quietly in an almost civilised tone.

The lawyer was all nervous laughter and damp palms. He looked like he wanted to chew his way out through the door.

“You’re in solitary, Peter. No calls approved. It’s federal hold. They’re nervous. You’re on every watchlist they got, buddy.”

McCabe’s voice stayed level. “She’s pregnant.”

Tickle shifted warily. “Yeah. I heard. Uh, I believe it’s confirmed. Agent Ramirez filed an internal…”

“I don’t give a shit if Agent Ramirez put an announcement in the New York fuckin’ Post, Alan,” McCabe cut in, soft as snow. “You get me contact. I don’t care how.”

Tickle let out another a nervous titter and McCabe’s hands, which until now had been loose on his knees, slowly formed two fists, like he wanted to punch something but couldn’t decide whether it was the wall, the lawyer, or the smug dick of a guard watching them through the plexi glass.

The lawyer clocked it and clutched his briefcase tighter. The quiet was worse than shouting.

“I wanna speak to her,” McCabe said finally. “A call, a letter, motherfuckin’ smoke signals, take your pick. You tell the Bureau they can drop me in the Mariana Trench for all I care, but I talk to her first.”

“She’s not allowed to contact you, Peter.”

McCabe’s stare could have sandblasted paint. He raised an eyebrow and Tickle felt his legs start to shake.

“Yet, Peter! Yet!” His voice climbed an octave higher. “We’ll try!”

McCabe rose with an unnerving calm and the lawyer’s back found the door. He groped for a handle that wasn’t there.

“You are gonna try, Al,” McCabe said softly, “and if you don’t try your very, very best…” His fist slammed the metal beside Tickle’s head with a sound like a gunshot. “… I’ll hit you so hard your grandkids’ll be born in traction.”

Tickle’s mouth worked soundlessly. “Okay. Alright. I’ll… I’ll escalate it.”

McCabe leaned in close, his voice a low hum against the lawyer’s ear. “No, counsellor. You’ll win it. Or you better pray to God I forget how inventive I can get.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tickle emerged out of the side gate looking like he’d been been through the wringer. His tie hung crooked and his nerves were jangling louder than his keys.

Ava Krane was waiting for him by the chain link fence with a coffee and a winning smile, her platinum blonde hair still immaculate despite the rain.

“Rough session, counsellor?”

He squinted at her through the drizzle, already suspicious. “Who the hell are you?”

“Someone who appreciates a man in public service. How’s Ravenhill‘s newest celebrity inmate today?”

He hesitated. “How’d you…? We’re not supposed to discuss…”

“Supposed to,” Ava repeated sweetly before reaching into her coat and producing a slim envelope. “For your gas. I know the commute is murder.”

He stared at it. “You a cop?”

“Journalist. Western Standard.” The way she said it sounded like a threat, “You help me understand what’s going on in there, and nobody ever needs to know your name. You’ll just find yourself very… solvent.”

“You trying to get me fired?” He asked glancing toward the tower cameras.

“Only if you disappoint me, Alan.”

The envelope passed between them like a secret handshake.

“Nice doing business with you,” she said lightly, like they’d just shared a cigarette instead of a committing a felony in broad daylight.

“We never met.” He said looking around nervously.

“That’s the beauty of it.” Ava winked. “My card’s in there. Call me.”

She watched him drive away, then opened her notebook, jotting down one line before the ink bled in the rain.

Peter McCabe, America’s Most Wanted. The Lifer And His Lover.

The notebook snapped shut. This was the type of story reporters waited their whole life for. She could almost smell the Pulitzer.

Chapter Text

Josie sat at the back of the courtroom, gripping her purse like it was the only thing keeping her steady. Twelve hours ago she hadn’t even known there was a hearing, then Alan Tickle had called, sounding more like a man on the edge than a defence attorney.

“Please don’t tell anyone I called,” he’d pleaded. “It’s an emergency motion. Filed it himself. The judge fast tracked it. He told me to call you and I’m not sure I want to find out what happens if I don’t!”

Now here she was, sitting between Danny and his mother like a kid who’d been caught shoplifting.

Danny had driven her from Heron Hollow to Cody, grudgingly, breaking his stubborn silence only to remind her she didn’t owe Peter McCabe shit. Joyce had filled the rest of the trip with small talk about Danny’s driving, parole boards, and “girls who lose their heads over the wrong sort of men.” She’d invited herself, declaring that if Josie was going to sit in a courtroom swooning over that man, then somebody with some common sense had better be there too.

By the time they’d reached Cody, she felt like she’d been charged, cross examined, sentenced and paroled all before breakfast.

They were now sat wedged together on a hard wooden bench, too close for comfort, with Danny scowling at the floor on Josie’s right, and Joyce, primly rummaging through her handbag in search of candy, on her left.

Half the seats in the courthouse were empty. A few locals lingered out of boredom. A man in front of them scribbled in a notebook, press, probably. Behind them, a woman wearing expensive perfume sat perfectly still.

The bailiff called the hearing to order and McCabe appeared from a side door escorted by two U.S. Marshals. His right hand was bandaged and the skin underneath was mottled with angry purple and yellow bruises from where the batons had struck.

Joyce leaned forward, squinting. “He’s not as tall as I expected.” She whispered, “Good bone structure, though. Strong jaw.”

“Jesus, Ma.”

“What? I’m just saying.”

“Don’t say.”

McCabe scanned for the exits first. Three doors, one armed marshal, a bailiff built like a tank, two others off to the side. He’d escaped worse setups. His eyes drifted to the gallery and Josie and something in the air shifted. The guard on his left tensed as he faltered mid stride.

“State of Wyoming versus Peter Jones McCabe,” the clerk read. “ Defence requests a motion regarding visitation access to one Josephine Katherine Harper, presently on bail under a no contact condition.”

Judge Farrow, a seventy-two year old, ex marine with a face like granite, peered over his glasses. “Proceed.”

Tickle immediately dropped his pen, then his papers. “One moment, Your Honour…” He bent to grab them and cracked his head on the desk.

McCabe stared at him blankly calculating whether homicide in a courtroom counted as contempt.

“Uh… just a second…” The attorney’s laugh came out strangled.

Before the poor bastard could make things worse, McCabe leaned toward the mic. “Motion for visitation rights, Your Honour. Pursuant to Rule 452B of the Wyoming Penal Code.”

Farrow blinked. “Counsellor, your client appears to be more prepared than you are.”

“Yes, Your Honour. He, uh… he reads.”

Laughter ripped through the court but McCabe didn’t join in, he just stared at the ceiling, practicing his slow breathing before murmuring something that made Tickle’s expression instantly turn to horror.

“Uh, your Honour?” He croaked, “My client is requesting to, uh… address the court directly.”

“The accused has counsel,” Farrow replied.

“Unfortunately,” McCabe muttered, standing anyway. The cuffs rattled. They’d kept him chained. No one wanted another lanyard incident.

“Your Honour, may I speak?”

“No, you may not. Sit down.”

Before the judge could continue, a woman rose from the state’s table.

“Rachel Short, Your Honour, Department of Corrections. Before the proceedings start, may it please the court to learn that the prisoner’s request violates multiple security protocols. Mr McCabe is a Category A risk and currently under internal review for…”

“Alleged,” McCabe said without looking at her.

She ignored him. “… for documented behavioural misconduct. Granting correspondence privileges with his co-defendant, Josephine Harper, compromises facility control.”

Farrow sighed. “Ms Short, he’s asking to write letters, not start a prison fight club.”

“With all due respect, Your Honour,” she replied crisply, “Mr McCabe’s ability to manipulate others through written communication is well recorded. His history of psychological leverage…”

“Ma’am,” McCabe interrupted, faintly amused, “you makin’ me sound like Charles Manson.”

“Your Honour, may I approach the bench?” Stone sighed.

Farrow raised an eyebrow at McCabe until he reluctantly sat back down, then waved Stone forward. They whispered, she gestured discreetly toward the gallery, and the judge’s frown followed. McCabe’s gaze followed too.

Josie was parked between Deputy Juice Box and some older woman… same eyes, same jaw, same air of uninvited moral authority. He bit back a grin. Halloran had brought his fucking mother to court.

The woman leaned toward Josie and said something that made her roll her eyes. McCabe couldn’t hear it, but he’d bet a month’s commissary it was about him.

He tilted his head and gave the old broad a smile that landed somewhere between a polite acknowledgment and a how you doin’, honey?

Joyce, who was watching him, froze halfway through unwrapping a candy, feeling the colour creep into her cheeks. Josie shot him a look that said behave, and the linebacker looked like he might run a play.

McCabe tried his damnedest not to laugh. God, he’d missed messing with the big dumb bastard.

“So, to be clear,” the prosecutor was saying, “the defendant’s girlfriend is present, but she’s currently under a no contact bail condition. This hearing is being used as a workaround, Your Honour.”

Farrow gave her a wry look. “It’s a public hearing. She hasn’t spoken. She looks like she’s might pass out. Would you like me to toss her out of my court for having bad taste in men?”

The prosecutor snapped her mouth shut and stormed back to her seat.

Farrow rapped the bench. “When we’re all done making eyes across my courtroom, Mr McCabe, Defence may proceed. Counsellor?”

McCabe rose.

“Mr. McCabe, sit down!”

“Your Honour,” McCabe again, “The county assigned me a counsellor who clearly got his law degree from inside a box of cereal. If you would just allow me…”

“Mr McCabe, I will not tell you again!”

“Your Honour…”

Farrow’s patience disintegrated. The gavel cracked so hard the stenographer almost hit the ceiling.

“Counsel, both of you, approach the bench!”

There were several minutes of exasperated murmuring. The bailiffs looked highly amused, the gallery buzzed, and people around the courtroom started whispering between themselves, adding to the chaos. McCabe was the only unmoving thing in the room, eyes fixed on the exit to the left of the bench, like he was calculating his odds.

Josie stood and Danny reached for her.

“No, Jo, don’t!” he hissed.

She went anyway, slipping into the row directly behind McCabe’s table, just a few feet shy of the plexiglass screen that divided inmates from the gallery.

The marshals were caught up with a court official and for a heartbeat, no one was watching.

McCabe didn’t move at first. Just a slow tilt of his head, like he could feel her there. Then, barely turning, he looked back.

It was a warning. A promise. A silent I’m trying. Let me do this.

“Mr. McCabe,” Judge Farrow snapped, “Against every part of my better judgement you may proceed… assuming you’re done reenacting Casablanca back there.”

Tickle gave him an awkward thumbs up as he returned to his seat.

“Thank you, Your Honour.” McCabe stood slowly. “Apologies in advance. If I say anythin’ outta line it’s because I don’t get out much.”

A few soft laughs rippled through the gallery. He let it settle and fought the urge to let his eyes flick back to her.

“My name’s Peter McCabe. Born and raised in Pittsburgh. Currently incarcerated in a tax funded shoebox for the crime of escaping from lawful custody… among other things.”

“Kidnap.” Tickle cheerfully offered, pulling out a notebook, “creation of unregistered destructive devices, uh, assault with a deadly weapon, theft of a vehicle, arson, that's a biggie,” he looked up and stopped reading when he saw the look of exasperation on McCabe’s face. “Assault?” He squeaked.

“Thanks, Al. That paperwork you got, huh?”McCabe deadpanned.

One of the bailiffs coughed to hide a laugh and Farrow shot him a glare.

“Look, I ain’t here to tell you I’m innocent. I’ve got enough charges to wallpaper this place twice over. What I am here for is simple, a request for communication privileges with Josie Harper.”

He paused, tongue running along the edge of his lip, weighing each word before he said what came next.

“I found out she was pregnant after half the damn prison knew.”

Joyce gasped and Danny’s eyes went so wide they looked like they might fall out his head. Even the stenographer’s fingers froze above the keys.

Josie sat stone still. He knew?

“A guard thought it’d be funny to tell me over lunch. Got a goddamn congratulations card in my mashed potatoes.”

Judge Farrow shifted his glasses. “Yes, Warden Grayson has already filed a misconduct complaint regarding your behaviour, Mr. McCabe. You assaulted a Corrections Officer.”

McCabe’s mouth twitched. “I fuckin’ corrected him, alright.”

“Mr. McCabe!”

“You wanna talk about punishment, Your Honour?” He snapped. “Half the damn joint knew I was gonna be a father before I did. I didn’t hear it from her and that’s the kind of fucked up shit that gets in your head.”

“Mr McCabe! Control yourself or…”

“I ain’t askin’ for sympathy. I’m just askin’ for the right not hear about the most important news of my whole sorry life like it’s a fuckin’ joke!”

“I understand you’re passionate about this, Mr McCabe but one more outburst like that and I will have you removed from this courtroom and the application will be denied.”

McCabe exhaled hard through his nose, trying to regain his composure.

“I’m sorry, Your Honour. That was outta line.” He stopped and counted to five in his head while his pulse slowed. “I just… I ain’t been allowed to speak to her.” He said softly. “Not a letter, not a call. They tossed me back in solitary and yeah, fine, I get it, high risk inmate, big scary monster, but I ain’t lookin’ for special treatment. I’m just askin’ for basic human rights.”

Farrow clenched his jaw.

“I never had a family,” McCabe continued. “Not a real one. Never thought I’d get one either. Honestly, figured if I ever knocked someone up it’d be a criminal before it was a birth certificate.”

Tickle snorted. McCabe ignored him.

“This ain’t a stunt,” McCabe went on. “She’s doin’ it alone and I… Look, I get why people don’t trust me. Hell, I wouldn’t trust me either.”

He turned to face Josie.

“But she does. This woman saw every goddamn part of me, the good and the bad, and she didn’t run. You get that? I’ve spent my whole damn life not givin’ a damn who I disappointed. Then she showed up and for the first time I do.”

The room was silent.

“So that’s it,” he finished. “Just let me write to her. Talk to her. Let me try. I’ll follow every rule. You want the letters screened, fine. I’ll write in crayons if you want. Hell, I’ll even learn to knit if it keeps the goddamn peace.” He caught himself and winced. “Sorry for the language, Your Honour. I’m really tryin’.”

Farrow leaned back, studying him.

Short adjusted her papers. “Your Honour, this is precisely the sort of manipulative rhetoric I referenced…”

“Lady, you call it rhetoric, I call it talkin’ like a man who finally gives a shit.” McCabe shot back.

There was a long pause then Farrow motioned Tickle back to the bench, mumbling something that sounded deadly serious. Tickle, the idiot, grinned like he’d just won the goddamn lottery, nodded like a bobble head at the judge, then fired off two giant thumbs up at McCabe across the room.

Short threw him a look that could’ve melted glass and Tickle tried to save face by smoothing back his hair, but managed to trip over his own shoelace as he lurched back toward the defence table.

“The petition for monitored contact under special circumstances will be taken under advisement. In the meantime, Mr. McCabe, you keep your nose clean, exemplary behaviour, no fights, no threats, nothing that could be constituted as violence. You will a model prisoner or this court will withdraw the application, is that understood?”

“Yes sir,” McCabe grinned and Josie blinked fast, trying to control her breathing.

Joyce sniffled audibly at the back of the room. “A baby?”

Danny was still gawping. “He’s got a hell of a sense of timing, huh?”

When the gavel fell, the room exhaled all at once and Josie stayed seated.

The woman behind the Hallorans rose, tucking her notebook neatly into her bag. “Well, that sure was something,” she chirped.

“You can say that again. Pregnant!” Joyce replied.

“Ma, please.”

“What? The whole courtroom heard him. I’m hardly breaking news.”

“Not yet.” Ava smiled warmly, “Ava Krane, Western Standard. I’m covering the hearing for a small piece.”

“The press.” Danny muttered.

Ava’s smile didn’t falter. “Are you and Miss Harper related? You seem close.”

“Oh heavens no.” Joyce distractedly adjusted her scarf, while fumbling with her coat, “She’s like my own daughter. She and my son grew up together. Thick as thieves. Lovely girl, smart too, stubborn as a mule though, Lord help her, she’s made some interesting choices...”

“Ma,” Danny hissed, “don’t.”

Joyce ignored him.

“Choices like Mr. McCabe?”

Joyce leaned closer, dropping her voice like she was sharing state secrets. “She loves him. Don’t ask me why, but she does and as for him? You see the way he looked at her today? Like she was the only thing keeping him alive.”

Danny groaned, “Ma, Jesus, stop giving her headlines.”

Ava didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, this isn’t for print.”

“Yeah,” Danny muttered, “and I’m the damn Pope.”

Joyce swatted his arm. “Don’t be rude, she’s only doing her job.”

Ava smiled like a cat with a very gullible mouse. “That’s very kind, Mrs…?”

“Halloran. Joyce.”

Danny threw his hands up exasperated and turned to look for Josie.

“Just one more thing you said you were like a mother to her?”

“Her poor mother passed when she was little. Cancer,” she mouthed the word as if saying it out loud might make it contagious, “Tragic. Josie was raised by her grandparents, salt of the earth, good people. Her father too, before… well.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “You know how men are when grief turns them mean.”

Ava’s pen was flying. “Oh, I do. So you’re…”

“Like family,” Joyce said proudly. “She’s always over at our place. My son, Daniel,” she patted Danny’s shoulder and he scowled ant her, “Thought they’d end up together, but, well, can’t force the heart can you? It knows what it wants.”

“Ma!”

Ava’s smile deepened. “Thank you, Mrs Halloran. Lovely to meet you both.”

She slipped away, notebook vanishing into her coat pocket.

Joyce sighed. “She was nice.”

Danny pinched the bridge of his nose.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Outside, the courthouse steps were almost empty except for a few stragglers. Josie stood off to the side, staring at the concrete like she could fall through it. Another reporter had spotted her.

“Miss Harper! Do you have a comment? Did you know Mr McCabe knew about the pregnancy?”

She froze like a deer in the headlights until Danny appeared. “Back it up. She’s not talking.”

The reporter hesitated, then moved on. Danny put a steadying hand on her arm.

“C’mon, Jo,” he said quietly. “Let’s get you outta here.”

She nodded numbly.

Behind them, Joyce was still chatting to a courthouse clerk about parking validation, completely unaware she’d just given a shark the headline of the week.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ava flipped on her recorder. “Ravenhill Federal Courtroom. Peter Jones McCabe, articulate, dangerous, devastatingly calm. Girlfriend, Josephine Harper, pregnant, trembling, loyal. Adopted family confirms tragic backstory, childhood trauma, possible redemption. Headline…” She paused, grinning to herself. “Pregnant Lover of Federal Inmate Peter McCabe… The Woman Who Tamed a Killer.”