They go to the beach. Fi doesn't want to spend another minute indoors, and Michael's too far inside his own grief to have much in the way of plans.
There's a six pack of beer, nine yogurts, and two half-dead boxes of Chinese take-out in the fridge. She grabs some yogurt, two spoons, and a blanket. It wasn't the first meal home she was dreaming of, but it will do.
They get to the beach and eat quietly. When they finish they lay back, watch the sky, and listen to the waves.
"What did you do after Claire died?"
She tells him. Tells him about how the IRA was happy to get its hands on her. Fifteen-year-old Catholic school girls don't get searched all that carefully and can easily go places men who look like IRA members can't. She tells him about how much she loved it. Loved learning new skills, loved the power, loved the revenge.
She never told her mother, not specifically, what she was doing. But each time one of the men who killed Claire died, she handed her mother an obituary. Each time, her mother smiled a little more often, joked a little more loudly. Each time, she bought a brush of happiness to her mother at the cost of a man's life.
To this day, she doesn't regret that. She doesn't think she ever will.
And to this day, she'd have happily given it all up if she could have just not had that argument with Claire.
She kisses him when she says that, absolutely sure he's feeling the exact same way. Sure that he'd rather have Anson alive and her still in prison, if it meant Nate would be home and breathing.
And she doesn't disagree with that. Her freedom wasn't worth Nate's life.
This should have been the happiest night of their lives. Tonight should have been celebrations, dancing 'til dawn, with the whole family there. Tonight should have been joy, and love, and relief.
Instead they're lying on a blanket, seeing the lights of Miami reflected off the clouds, with the occasional glow of the moon visible when the clouds are blown thin.