'I don't love you, but I always will. I always will.' Poison and Wine, The Civil Wars.

'Miss Macado, you've been charged with multiple drug offences, even while inside this prison.'

'So what?' Tina hisses like a snake poked into a corner.

The red recording light shines brightly on the camera that is set up in front of her.

The detective pauses before speaking again.

'Just calling your character into question is all. Now, Miss Macado, the staff that work here have reported a recent alliance with Joan Ferguson, who is currently missing. Do you have anything to say about that?'

Tina simply shrugs, her already crossed arms seeming to fold tighter around herself.

'Okay. Did Joan Ferguson ever ask you to lie to the police for her?'

'I do not know what you are talking about.'

'Okay, well let me make it a little clearer then. Did Joan Ferguson either ask you, or pay you, to say you witnessed Franky Doyle murdering Iman Farah.'

'Are you deaf? I said I do not know what you are talking about.'

'Okay, well we've had some new evidence in the case that makes Franky Doyle a less likely suspect, and she maintains she didn't do it.'

'What evidence? You have none.' Tina spits her words out as though she has been chewing on them individually for the last twenty minutes.

The Detective sighs, 'Miss Macado I'm going to paint you a picture here. Joan Ferguson is missing. Now if you maintain that you know nothing about her disappearance then that means she's left you here with some pretty weighty charges to deal with. Are you aware that falsifying an official statement will add some serious time to your sentence? Not to mention the fact that if this goes to trial, and your statements are proven incorrect, then the maximum perjury sentence is an additional ten years?'

'The fuck? I had nothing to do with any of this, that white ass bitch-'

The Detective holds her hands in the air and leans forward, 'Woah. Now, I'm going to ask you again. Did you see Franky Doyle murder, or perform any act of violence against Iman Farah.'

Tina is silent. Sullen in her chair. The red light of record holds steady.

'Miss Macado?'

Tina sighs, her brows draw together and her upper lip curls but she spits out a, 'No.'

'So you didn't witness any interaction between Franky Doyle and Iman Farah that would give you reason to suspect Francesca killed Iman?'

'That is what I just said isn't it?'

'Why did you lie before Miss Macado?'

Tina sits back against the plastic sit stiffly. She looks away from the camera with a jerk of her chin.

'Miss Macado? Did Joan Ferguson pay you to lie to the police?'

Tina's nostrils flare, 'That giant ass honkey played me.'

Go to Iman's. Find the photos. Find something.

Franky's heart near beats out of her chest as she walks up the stairs to Iman's house. Being out in broad daylight like this is unnerving her completely. She's kept most of her movements to a minimum, and always under the cover of darkness. Now she feels like the entire street is watching her.

She steps onto the cracked cement of the front patio and looks around wildly for anything a spare key would be hidden under. It's not like she can crawl through a window in broad daylight.

And then she hears music coming from inside the house.

FUCK.

Iman had roommates. Of course she did.

Jesus fucking fuck.

She half turns agitatedly, hands coming up to smooth at her hair, ready to leg it out of here.

But as she forces herself to breathe it occurs to her that she has nothing left. These are the only cards she has. It is this, in an attempt to prove her innocence, or a life on the run.

And so she swallows. Her throat is so constricted that this action is near impossible. She pulls her black jacket down over her hands, making sure all her tattoos are covered, and she raises her fist to knock at the front door and she prays to god that Iman's roommates haven't been paying close attention to the news lately.

She knocks.

She waits what feels like an age before the door heaves open.

She is faced with a man a little younger than herself, in trackies and a loose grey t-shirt. Roughly shaven, dark circles under his eyes.

'Whass'up?'

'Hey um, I'm a friend of- was, I was a friend of Iman's and uh seeing as she doesn't have any family I was wondering if I might take a look through her stuff? If now is good?'

'How'd you know her?'

'We were in the same therapy group a while back. I hadn't spoken to her for a while and then she uh- went inside.'

He tilts his head at her like he is looking for a lie. Franky doesn't breathe. And then he shrugs, pulling the door open a little wider.

'Guess so.'

He disappears back into the hall, jerking his head at a room on his left.

'That one is hers there. I wasn't sure what I could do with her stuff. We weren't room mates that long.'

'Thanks.' Franky calls after his retreating figure, heart going a million miles a minute in her ribcage.

She steps inside the room that used to be Iman's and she stands there for a second. Just looking. White bedspread, no posters or photos around. Just a few clothes. A guitar.

And then she goes for her life. Literally.

Long fingers file through everything in every draw, eyes scanning every piece of paper, looking for something, anything that could help her.

She is buried in the last drawer in the cheap, timber dresser and just about ready to tear her hair out when she finds a thick, worn envelope.

'Oh please god, please, please, please.'

Trembling fingers push the flap of the envelope up and she peers inside.

'Oh thank fuck.'

Her own face looks back at her. Just some random day on the street. And she is careful not to get her prints on any of them, but by the looks of it they're all there. All the photos Mike took of her. She is too busy trembling with relief to feel sickened at the thought of how long he had been watching her. The things he'd seen.

She slips the envelope back into the draw and quickly combs through the wardrobe. Lifts the bed just to confirm that she isn't leaving anything behind.

And thank god she did.

Underneath Iman's bed…a journal. Nothing fancy. Just a black bound book.

Franky flicks open the first page. A few words jump out at her.

Zoe. Group therapy. Maybe it will help.

Bridget had told her about this. Therapists asking their patients to write their thoughts down in a journal. A type of catharsis.

Frantically she flicks to the back.

Praying. Praying.

She starts to tremble as she reads the final entry.

'He had a shrine built to her. To her instead of me. I was the one that loved him. Not her. If he had built one to me none of this would've happened. He learned. She will too.'

She slips the journal back underneath Iman's mattress and pulls open the door.

She breaths deep. She wants to run now. Run for the front door and disappear. She found what she needed. But that is far too suspicious.

So instead she ignores her rising heart rate and walks further into the house. She sticks her head into the open plan living room, observes the containers of take out lying around and the sound of trashy day time television.

'Hey uh, I think I'm done here. I've had a look through most of her stuff and I'll bring some boxes by in a few days to clear it.'

Iman's roommate hardly looks her way, 'Yeah sweet, guess I can start looking for another housemate then.'

And Franky bites her tongue and forces the words out, 'Hey listen, I found a guy's shirt with some of her stuff. Did she mention seeing anyone?'

At this he turns.

Franky feels like she has thrown herself off a cliff and is in freefall.

But he just shrugs his shoulders, 'Some guy used to pick her up sometimes. She never said anything though. Don't reckon I would either though hey, guy had a face like melted wax. Fucking burns all over.'

Franky nods quickly despite wanting to scream.

She jerks her thumb towards the door, 'Okay well uh, I'll see myself out. Be back in a few days. Thanks again.'

And she slips out the front door and onto the street. The sun is bright in her eyes and the wind cuts through her jacket until goosebumps appear on her skin.

She fucking loves it.

She had gone to Fessler's place right after. Scared the living shit out of her by tapping on her back window. Had pleaded and pleaded with her not to call the cops. To just hear her out and that then she would hand herself over.

She has the photos Mike took of me in her bottom drawer. A journal underneath her bed confirming that she was mad with Mike about it. Zoe Taylor can confirm they knew one another, and Iman's housemate says he saw Mike pick her up a few times. Imogen this is real evidence. I know Shane will back my story about where the gun came from and how my DNA got on it. So if you can take this evidence to the police they'll have to look into it. Please Imogen. Please. I don't have any other choice, and I didn't do this.

And now she sits in a holding cell at the police station waiting to hear her fate. They'd brought her here from an isolation cell in Wentworth. She'd been there about a week she thinks.

The realist within her recognises a week as not long enough. She has been put through a system that did not assume her innocence. Which took a day to convict her as guilty and months to come anywhere near investigating anything alternative to this.

Her ribcage feels like it is about to cave in when she understands that they haven't done it. The police haven't looked into anything at all and this is it. This is where she will lose.

She can see it. See herself slipping away into a sea of teal. Just a number. Behind bars. Not a person. No longer Franky with a sharp tongue and a desire to be better. But a criminal. Doyle. 40 years.

But she will sit up straight and she will not take any of this lying down. At this moment, she still exists.

So when the detectives walk through the door she lifts her wrists in their metal bracelets and places them on the table in front of her. She raises her chin, back straighter than a steel pole and she listens.

It does not immediately dawn on her when it is said.

She is still focussed on restraining herself from trying to fight her way out of this room.

And then she hears the words free to go.

'You will still have to complete the amount of time left on your parole period. But aside from that Francesca, in light of new evidence, we don't have sufficient grounds to keep you here. The charges will be dropped.'

She stares at her wrists while the handcuffs are slipped off. Studies the skin underneath.

She stands as her things are brought in and placed in front of her. Wallet, phone, jewellery. The clothes she had been wearing when she was arrested.

By the time she looks up there is only one person left in the room with her. One of the detectives.

'Would you like us to call anyone for you?'

She shakes her head quickly.

'Nope.'

So he opens the door and she walks through and no one grabs her and shoves her back inside. She follows him through the halls and out into the main reception and no one gets in her way.

She nods in his direction and she walks through the doors onto the street and no sirens blare.

It's loud and cold.

She's free.

She pays the taxi driver and slips out onto the street.

It's almost evening, sun red and orange and pink over the backs of houses and all she has is a plastic bag full of her old clothes.

She walks up the driveway and looks around at what she hopes is still her home.

She sits on the front step and looks out into the street and she does not know whether she wants to laugh or cry.

It isn't too long before a silver Volkswagen pulls into the drive.

Franky watches from the shadows of the veranda as Bridget checks her phone quickly, leans over to pull her bag up from the passenger side and slips out the car door.

Franky closes her eyes for a second when she hears the familiar clatter of heels on concrete as Bridget makes a quick little jog up the rest of the driveway.

Franky stands and Bridget stops, alarm and then shock written all over her face as she registers someone on her front step. Eyes wide and breathing a little more pronounced when she realises who it is.

They stand on the street for what feels like a lifetime.

Franky at the top of the steps, fading fire of sun in her eyes. Bridget on the pavement, skyline lit up behind her in a mixture of wispy clouds on a pink background and the crisp black outlines of houses.

Eventually Franky tries to smile. She is sure it comes out as a grimace. She spreads her arms wide.

Here I am.

And then she looks at the sky above her before she collapses into a complete and utter fucking mess.

Bridget's hands hang, keys dangling from her fingers and her voice is quiet when she does speak. A little shaky, a little desperate.

'Is this hello or goodbye?'

Are you coming back to me?

It is a small knife in Franky's side that Bridget can no longer tell the difference between the two.

But she still cannot find her words. She wonders if there are any.

'Franky?'

This is hardly more than a whisper but the small note of desperation that had been in Bridget's voice before has taken over now.

Franky chokes on the words as they come out of her throat, like she is terrified that the second she says them out loud they will be taken from her. But they won't be. They won't be.

'I'm cleared Gidget. I'm free.'

Bridget's eyes search her face, blue flickering rapidly, looking for confirmation.

That knife in Franky's side twists as she realises that Bridget has possibly come to expect lies from her mouth.

Oh God. She will fix that.

And then Bridget is walking up her front steps, stepping right up to Franky, and automatically Franky's arms are around her waist, fingers splayed across the small of her back.

Jesus how long has she wanted to be able to hold her for?

Bridget's hands cup Franky's face, thumbs sliding over her cheeks. She pulls Franky's head down so their foreheads are touching.

Franky hums a little.

Bridget smiles. She's feeling everything at once. She is relief, exultation, hope, devastation and a tiny bit of fury.

And Franky is free.

How can coming back to this woman be both the easiest and the hardest thing she has ever done?

They make it inside eventually, after standing on the front step and watching the sun go down.

Bridget had taken the plastic bag of Franky's things out of her hands wordlessly as they stepped in the door and disappeared into the laundry. Emerging with the slight rattling sound of the washing machine behind her.

And it is easy because there is literally not a single place that Franky would rather be than right here, in Bridget Westfall's kitchen, watching her over the island bench.

And it is so hard because she has never wanted her this badly. Wanted to hold her. Wanted to be held by her. Wanted to hear her laugh. Wanted to taste her.

But at the moment she has lost the right to just take what she wants. So she will let Bridget come to her.

She does. Thank God. Steps around the bench and wraps her arms loosely around Franky's waist. Presses her lips gently against Franky's. Franky doesn't notice the tear that slides down her own cheek. She is too busy feeling awe at the way her fingers are able to immerse themselves in the short hair at the back of Bridget's head. Is too busy opening her own mouth and praying to God that Bridget will kiss her back the way she knows she can.

By some small miracle, she does.

And oh hasn't Franky missed the taste of her, the warmth of her, the languid way in which she moves her tongue. The way that she can enthral Franky just by simply kissing her.

They are both breathing a little heavier when Bridget pulls back gently, taking one of Franky's hands in her own, kissing the knuckles gently and with all the composure in the world asking, 'Time for a chat?'

Franky follows Bridget to the couch, feels warmth spread through her chest when Bridget sits first and spreads her bent knees, showing Franky that there is space for her to sit back against her if she wants to.

And it is not a position that they have taken often. Bridget against the arm of the lounge with Franky leaning back in between her legs. But tonight it is necessary.

'So,' Bridget's voice is soft, home, 'tell me everything.'

And Franky does. She tells her all of it while Bridget's fingers trace soft patterns up and down her arms.

When she finishes they enjoy the silence for a moment. Each focussing on the solid warmth of the other.

'Gidget?'

Bridget's voice is low, next to her ear and Franky thrills at being able to feel the vibration from Bridget's chest through her back, 'Mmm?'

'What happens now?'

'What do you want to happen now?'

And Franky turns a little so she can look over her shoulder at Bridget's face. She looks Bridget in the eyes unwaveringly, hopefully.

'Us.' And oh she will prove it. She will. If given the chance.

Bridget's mouth quirks up the tiniest bit at the sides, but she closes her eyes. Franky feels the air leave her.

When her eyes do open she tilts her head on the slightest angle. Her voice is soft.

'It'll take some time, yeah? There's a lot to deal with. For me too.'

Franky just nods and then offers the only thing she can think of immediately. Even though the idea makes her sick to her stomach.

'Do you want me to sleep in the guest room? For a while?'

'Do you want to?'

The words run from Franky's mouth before she has a chance to catch them and lock them in, 'I just wanna hold ya.'

And there is the shadow of a psychologists room full of anger, disappointment and heartbreak between them still.

Bridget has heard these words before.

She stands. Slips out from behind Franky and stands in front of the couch. She considers the woman in front of her carefully and then she nods softly.

'Then hold me.'

Bridget does not say that beneath it all she wants the same thing.

Instead she turns the lights off and slips down the hall to their bedroom.

Franky will figure it out when they slide into bed and Bridget rolls into her immediately. One arm sliding underneath Franky to wrap around her waist. Head resting on Franky's chest. One bare leg slipping between Franky's for as much skin on skin contact as possible.

Suddenly freedom does not mean the ability to run and run without ever hitting a wire fence or a wall with barbed wire at the top.

Right now freedom just means holding Bridget Westfall.

Author Note: Y'all are like, 'But didn't Franky just get locked away for 40 years!?' Yes. Parallel story lines. I wanted to explore the dangerously different dichotomies within Franky side by side, based on what happens to her. So from now on even chapters are in a universe in which Franky is convicted. Odd chapters are in a universe where she is free.

But which universe is the real one?