A/N: Warning: references to paedophilia


The blood boils in Tate's veins as she turns onto the highway and accelerates, hitting the speed limit in seconds. She wants to press further, to let the rage and regret pummel away at the asphalt until it hurts as much as she does. But she doesn't because she knows how abruptly crashes can happen, and Taylor's tucked away in the backseat. Tate may not care about what happens to herself anymore, but she will always care about her daughter.

The daughter who someone Tate trusted almost molested. And it's her fault, all hers, because she knew Taylor's life would be safer and more stable if she stayed with Hannah and Jude all those years ago, but she made them give her back anyway. All because Taylor has her aunt's level-headedness, her father's sunshine smile, and her mother's loyalty and passion – all things Tate lost long ago.

'Where are we going?' Taylor asks, squinting out at the orange sunrise peeking through the gaps in the skyscrapers.

How can Tate possibly describe the freedom and chaos and beauty that is Jellicoe? The answer hits her like the moment of clarity when a lightbulb flickers through a dark room. 'To heaven,' she says, and she laughs because even that doesn't fully capture it.

Jellicoe started as hell with the car crash, became heaven in the years following, then turned into a purgatorial wasteland after Webb's death. But for Taylor, she's sure it will be bliss. The place owes it to Tate. After all, it's taken everything she's ever loved – her parents, Webb, and now in a new way, their daughter.

Regardless, Jellicoe will be better for her than Sydney. Taylor can live in the house by the river, hidden away from the harsh realities of the back streets of Sydney – from prostitutes and drugs and all of Tate's demons. She'll never again be forgotten by her own mother in the city or homeless under a bridge or unknowingly left with a paedophile.

Tate grips the steering wheel until her knuckles turn white. The instant she stepped through the door, she could have killed him – would have, if it wasn't obvious the kids were untouched.

'Talk to me,' Tate tells Taylor. If this is the last time she'll see her daughter for who knows how long, she doesn't want to waste it thinking about that man.

'About what?'

'Anything.'

So Taylor talks about everything. About a game she and Sam invented involving empty toilet rolls and string. About trying to do a handstand and falling flat on her face. And about how she wanted to walk to the beach for her next birthday and collect shells. Her chatter – simultaneously the least and most meaningful thing in the world to Tate – doesn't cease until long after they've left behind the bright, dangerous glare of the city.

And when it does, replaced by yawns and drooping eyelids, Tate takes over. She yammers on as if she's sixteen again, free and fearless and on top of the world. Her memories are all too raw and painful, so she sticks to places. The Prayer Tree. The Jellicoe Road. The school with the secret tunnel. The wild, untamed beauty of the bush that became their backyard.

From the way Taylor's head lulls back in the seat, Tate suspects she's too tired to pay attention, much less remember anything Tate says. But that's okay. Maybe she'll dream of Jellicoe, just like Tate does whenever she's sober. And the next time Taylor wakes, she will be in the most beautiful place in the world.