"Hi," she exhaled tucking her iPhone between her ear and shoulder while she placed her briefcase on a dining room chair. "It's Bridget."

"Hiya," Helen Stewart replied, familiar lilting Scottish brogue bringing a smile to the Aussie forensic psychologist's lips. "We were just saying that we needed to ring you. How are you?"

How was she? That would take a while to answer with any degree of accuracy, particularly given her tumultuous day and ensuing realizations…

"I, uh, am fine," Bridget replied in a high, breathy pitch that belied the words.

After a pause the Scot responded, "Nikki's grilling salmon." Helen's calm, firm voice that was soothing to Bridget's soul as her friend continued, "Grab a bottle or two from that terrific wine collection of yours and come over."

"You sure?" Bridget returned even as she started down the hall to her bedroom, shrugging out of her jacket as she walked.

"Yes," Helen said. "In fact if you're not here in a half hour I'll be forced to come round to your place to find you and –"

"Point taken," Bridget smiled into the phone, stopping Helen's friendly threat. In that moment Bridget felt so much love and relief that she had such a kind and trusted friend to talk with. "I'm just gonna change out of my work clothes and I'll be straight over."

"Excellent! See you soon."

Bridget ended the call as she padded barefoot on the hardwood floor, entering her bedroom and bee lining for her closet. Three years ago when she and Jyoti bought the condo they planned major renovations of the kitchen and baths, as well as fresh paint and hardwood floors throughout, and a fancy custom closet organization system that delayed their move in for two and a half months.

The accident happened two weeks before they were to move, which meant that though Bridget and Jyoti had chosen countless details of this home together but they had never actually lived together in this space. After the accident, Bridget had questioned whether or not to go ahead with the move. It meant leaving the smaller condo they had shared for the last five years of their nine-year relationship. But the smaller condo was already sold and the paperwork irrevocable, so even as she worked through the details and grief at the sudden, inexplicable accident that claimed her lover's life, Bridget moved into this new space on her own.

The tricked-out closet where she now stood was Jyoti's idea, with more than enough custom space for both women's clothes and Jyoti's sizable shoe collection. For months after Jyoti's death, Bridget couldn't enter the closet without tearing up at its obvious void of her lover's possessions, scent and energy. Now, three years later Bridget's possessions had expanded to claim more of the space - as was true for the entire condo. They were hers and hers alone now.

Clad in jeans, violet-black V-neck tee and black Birkenstock clogs, Bridget headed back down the hall to the open living/dining room and adjacent kitchen to retrieve wine. The floor to ceiling wine rack was another of Jyoti's ideas. While Bridget had never been a connoisseur, she had learned much through her lover's passion for the stuff. She stood before the collection and, after a brief search, selected a bottle each of Gamay and Pino Gris that would pair well with salmon.

Bottles stowed in a wine tote, Bridget grabbed her wallet and keys and, unthinking, looked in the mirror. Grief had left its mark on her still-pretty face but she saw the signs of worry, the scant deepening of fine lines around her eyes, something only she could see and feel but they were there. She smiled at herself and shook her head a little. How did I let this happen?

Helen and Nikki lived a quick 15-minute car ride away but with traffic, it would take every bit of her allotted time to get there. She smiled knowing Helen would make good on her threat to hunt her down if she was late. There were worse things than having such a protective, loyal friend.

Bridget had met Helen Stewart and Nikki Wade six years earlier, right after the couple relocated to Melbourne from Sydney. Helen and Nikki had first moved from London for Sydney years earlier when Helen was hired to helm the first St. Margaret's House project, a new model program for women parolees that combined housing, job training and placement, mental and physical health and social service support. The program had made headlines around the globe with an unparalleled success rate. It had been such a success in Sydney that the parent nonprofit expanded to open a similar space in Melbourne.

Once Helen and Nikki had made the move south, friends hosted a cocktail party for several community members with obvious possible ties to or interests in St. Margaret's. Bridget and Jyoti, who both fit that bill, had each gone directly from work to the party and Jyoti had arrived before her.

As she made her way through the crowd, Bridget greeted friends and colleagues, her ears picking up on distant laughter, including the melodic chortle of her lover. Bridget grabbed a glass of wine before pursuing the sound.

The house was Spanish style with a central courtyard where she found Jyoti, whose Indian skin glinted gold in natural sunlight, wavy black hair cut short, clad in a burnt orange tunic and flowing black linen pants – one of Bridget's favorite looks for her. Jyoti was speaking animatedly with a taller dark-haired woman, a shorter blonde stood between them, her back to Bridget.

As she neared, Bridget noted that but for differing skin tones, Jyoti and this women could be related. They were both long and lean with similar posture. She heard the tallest woman speak, English accent distinct as it reverberated off stucco and tile, "We'll have to strike up a match soon. Or doubles – does your partner play?"

"If the sport is tennis, the answer is yes but not well," Bridget replied, three faces turning to her.

She didn't miss the brightening in Jyoti's face as their eyes met. "Here she is!" Bridget moved closer as Jyoti extended her hand, guiding the blonde to her side. Jyoti placed a sweet, soft kiss on Bridget's cheek, breath warm in Bridget's ear as she exhaled into the embrace.

"Bridget, this is Nikki Wade," Jyoti indicated the taller woman. "She's a landscape architect." Bridget offered her hand, which Nikki shook, her open smile immediately endearing Nikki to the psychologist.

"How d'you do?" the brown-eyed Brit greeted her.

"Nice to meet you," Bridget returned.

"And this is her wife," Jyoti continued. "Helen Stewart." Bridget's head turned to meet bright eyes and a warmth and depth that Bridget felt at once in her solar plexus.

"Hi, Bridget," the Scot said. "I've been hoping to meet you." Bridget tilted her head, curious.

"They just moved down from Sydney and were in London before that," Jyoti continued taking Bridget's free hand in her own. "Helen's the brains behind St. Margaret's project."

Bridget and Jyoti had heard so much about it from their circle of friends, which included many lawyers, health professionals and social service workers. Bridget had spent her career in the first phase of justice – working with lawyers on both sides to determine psychological competence and usher charged women (mostly) safely through the prosecution phase. Increasingly, though, as she saw women succumb to the revolving door of incarceration and release, Bridget's interest had veered toward working with women who were in prison, helping them to work through the roots of what led them into criminal behavior in the first place. She was excited by the prospect of what a program like St. Margaret's could do to transform women's lives.

"In addition to Jyoti's glowing description of you, Abby O'Neill has brought your name up a dozen times," Helen said, smiling. " She says you've the most insight about the issues with the current state of prosecution, incarceration and parole of anyone in Victoria."

Bridget's eyebrow arched at the mention of her mentor's name. They had briefly been lovers too but the mentor relationship outlived the rest.

"Abby's totally biased," Jyoti said, lovingly teasing Bridget. "But she's also correct. Bridge is the best."

"Thanks, sweetheart," Bridget smiled at her lover. "Abby's told me about you and this wonderful idea," Bridget said to Helen. "I'm absolutely interested in seeing this come to fruition and I'm happy to help in any way."

That first evening had cemented their friendship. As Nikki and Jyoti chatted and worked the crowd, Bridget and Helen had settled into patio chairs and spent hours in deep discussion, punctuated occasionally by visits from Nikki and Jyoti to deliver drinks or small plates of hors d'oeuvres.

When it came time to go they had exchanged contact information and it hadn't been a week before Jyoti and Bridget had invited Helen and Nikki over for dinner.

Bridget's blue Audi convertible cornered perfectly as she turned onto Helen and Nikki's street. She drew in a deep breath, inviting the wind to wash her clean of thoughts, worries and desires. But as she slowed, nearing the Stewart-Wade house, she knew that wind, nor the crazy number of yoga classes she'd taken in the past several weeks, nor the long runs, nor the meditation sessions would help. All roads (and thoughts) led to one maddening, impossible, uncontrollable destination.

She was expecting Helen but instead, an apron-adorned Nikki greeted her at the door. "Hi, babes," Nikki greeted her, free hand reaching for Bridget's forearm, pulling her in to kiss her cheek. "It's been too long. So glad you're here."

They stepped into the foyer as Bridget said, "Thanks for letting me crash your dinner at the last minute."

"You're not crashing anything," Nikki assured her. "You're always welcome. Look, Helen's on a call. Care to join me at the grill?"

"Sure," Bridget agreed as they walked through the dining room and kitchen. "Wine?" she offered, placing both bottles on the counter.

"I'm working on a bourbon but go ahead and pour a glass," Nikki said. "I'll have some with dinner and I know Helen will."

Glass in hand, Bridget opened the slider and inhaled a delicious waft of smoke, bourbon, honey, lime and ginger as Nikki basted four salmon steaks on the grill.

"That smells divine," Bridget said over the sizzle of glaze hitting fire.

"Thanks," Nikki smiled, placing the glaze bowl on the nearby patio table. "I won't ask you to catch me up on everything until Helen gets here or you'll have to do that twice, but craziest damned thing. I just got off a job for someone you know. Joan Ferguson."

Bridget nearly spit out her mouthful of wine. "Sorry – what? A job?"

"Landscaping," Nikki continued. "She's got a gorgeous house – a touch severe but, you know, it would be. She wanted her backyard transformed a bit. It's a great bit of space. But yeah, in the final consult I was making small talk and it came up that she was governor at Wentworth. I nearly asked if she knew you – I mean she would – but I just… didn't."

The look on Nikki's face said it all – there was something dark and ominous about Ferguson. "Yeah, we are acquainted," Bridget confirmed. "But it's probably best you didn't mention it because she is – uh – resistant to the idea that mental health counseling can have beneficial effects on the incarcerated women. I'm a bit of a fly in her ointment."

"Well, watch yourself with that one," Nikki cautioned. "I ran up against a few with that dark streak when I was in and they can be vicious. She's a bit of a freak."

"That's what the women call her – the freak," Bridget said, somewhat amused but more disturbed by the growing bells and whistles in her mind that pointed to something being seriously wrong with Ferguson. "She seems to have it in for certain inmates. It's… something. It's on my radar." Particularly when it came to one inmate. And of course, that was the problem.

As she wiped her hands on the dark-colored apron, Nikki looked at Bridget and opened her mouth as if to speak but no words came out.

Bridget's eyebrows arched gently as if to encourage Nikki's words. Nikki's eyes narrowed ever so slightly and suddenly Bridget realized that this woman who she had remarked about on countless occasions as possessing a singular gift for reading faces with incredible accuracy, was now reading her.

Bridget willed her face to go blank but she was too late.

"You've met someone." It was a statement, not a question.

Nikki and Jyoti had quickly become the best of friends having a remarkable lot in common including childhoods where they were marginalized and largely ignored owing solely to their gender. Jyoti had been estranged from her parents since she left India and so in many ways Nikki had been her replacement family – a sister or close cousin, a confidant. Nikki had taken Jyoti's death nearly as hard as Bridget did.

Bridget had worried about how Nikki would react when she eventually started dating again. Nikki remained true to her nature though, smiling warmly, "Who is she?"

Bridget exhaled and was pondering where to begin when the slider opened and Helen emerged, glass of wine in hand.

"You'll never guess who that was," Helen said without preamble, taking the few short steps toward Bridget. Helen hugged her tightly and longer than usual.

"Who?" Bridget asked, hoping she could buy a little time before answering Nikki's question.

"Diana Southey," Helen smiled. As forensic psychologist for the prosecution, Bridget had worked on dozens of cases with Diana over the years. They had both been in long-term relationships all the while and socialized as couples. Jyoti's accident and Diana's divorce came within a year of one another and a little after the two year mark, Diana had called to ask her out on a date.

Bridget had never had the first thought about dating Diana. But it didn't take a genius to recognize that the slightly older woman was beautiful, smart, accomplished, engaging so Bridget said yes. It was her first date in 11 years, a fact that took her breath away and gave rise to nervousness.

Diana suggested dinner at a great little bistro. After ten minutes of stilted, awkward conversation the prosecutor had looked across the table and said, "You know, Bridget, this match looks great on paper. I mean you're beautiful and smart, accomplished and funny – I just – "

"We don't have chemistry," Bridget agreed.

"Yes!" Diana exhaled, letting out a relieved laugh. "Which is crazy because you're very attractive."

"As are you," Bridget smiled. "I think I just may not be ready to date just yet."

"Maybe that's the case for me as well," Diana said. They spent the rest of the evening in easy, enjoyable conversation and had parted on excellent terms. As she walked to her car she had called Helen to share the experience and the Scot had demanded she come straight over to give them a play-by-play.

"Get this – Diana's met someone," Helen said. "Another lawyer, heretofore hetero, single mother and they're getting married! She called to confirm our address for the invitations. You're invited too."

Helen threw her arms around Bridget, kissing her cheek. "Is it awful I'm glad you're not marrying Diana?" she asked.

"No!" Bridget exclaimed. "I'm glad too."

"Cheers to that," Nikki said, offering her highball glass in a toast.

As she clinked her wine glass with Nikki's, Bridget said, "I'm happy for her and wish them the best. And you know the wedding will be top of the line."

"Nothing but the best," Helen agreed. "Glad you're here, Bridge. It's been too long."

Dinner passed in a whirlwind of catching up over divine food. Nikki was a landscape architect by profession but her culinary skill was professional level and as she took the last sip from her second glass of wine, Bridget was thankful to feel nourished and somewhat relaxed for the first time in weeks.

Throughout dinner Bridget had deliberately turned questions of how she was into stories and remarks from her new job at Wentworth, but she knew the Scot wouldn't let the evening pass without the true answer. For her part, Nikki hadn't again brought up the question of who had caught Bridget's eye, though a few times Bridget caught Nikki studying her a little more intently than usual so that was a matter of time as well.

After they ate and cleaned up, Helen and Bridget settled into the broad leather couch in the living room while Nikki excused herself to the study in order to make a few calls.

"So, how are you – truly?" Helen asked when they were alone. "There's something… unsettled about you." Her calm, sure voice somehow made it easier for Bridget to confide in her.

Bridget smiled wryly. "Uh, yeah. I uh…" She drew in a deep breath. "There's someone… a woman… an inmate…"

She saw the space between Helen's jaw and eyebrows increase the slightest bit but the one micro-movement was enough to make Bridget know that Helen got the gist.

"I wasn't looking for it, it was just…" Bridget grappled for words. "There. I don't really know what it is. And then today…"

Helen's hand landed lightly on Bridget's forearm. "Why don't you catch me up from the beginning?" Bridget nodded, the even tone and sincere lack of judgment from her friend already making her more at ease. "What's her name?"

"Franky Doyle," Bridget said.

"Wait – the one from the reality tv show?" Helen asked.

Bridget nodded. "Have you seen the video?"

"Sure – didn't everyone?" Helen asked. "Anyone watching that with a shred of training in psychology could tell it was triggered. It doesn't excuse the attack but it certainly explains it."

"Be that as it may, she's doing seven years for assault," Bridget said. "Like you, I'd seen the video – hell, discussed it with colleagues even. It's textbook. So incredibly avoidable." Bridget sipped her wine.

"When I got to Wentworth her name kept coming up," she continued. "She was one of the top dogs – revered by some, feared by others. After hearing her name a few dozen times in the span of my first week – from inmates, from guards – I pulled her file to see for myself."

"Childhood abuse?" Helen asked.

"Mom was an alcoholic and addict," Bridget nodded. "Verbally and physically abusive. Dad took off when she was 10. She had to fend for herself in incredibly volatile circumstances."

"Interesting parallels," Helen remarked, her gaze steady on Bridget who simply nodded. Bridget's own story was remarkably similar except that when her mother left her alcoholic, drug addicted father, she had taken Bridget with her. If not for her mother's decision to leave, Bridget could have easily been in Franky's circumstances. As it was, Bridget knew what wonderful life was possible for Franky once she faced up to her emotional scars.

"In the three years she was in, she'd been to two counseling sessions and, judging from my predecessor's notes, she had no idea what to do with her," Bridget said. "What I knew before I met her was she was off-the-charts smart, a hard worker. Trust issues, sexualized toward women superiors, quick-tempered but only with specific triggers. She had been taking legal workshops and advocating for fellow inmates."

"Sounds like, more or less, a better-than-average inmate," Helen asked.

"Well…" Bridget hedged taking another mouthful of wine. "Allegations of violence against inmates, rumors of a drug ring but nothing ever proven, rumors that she had a thing going with the previous governor – again, unproven. So I had all of that swirling around in my head when we met."

"Tell me about that," Helen encouraged.

"She crashed group one day," Bridget smiled faintly, recalling. "No pretense, she just walked in and said she needed to speak with one of the women in the group. I invited her to stay but she looked at me like I just suggested she set fire to herself. I had seen her picture, of course, and the video but even if I hadn't I'd have known it was her. I just… recognized her."

"You mean in the metaphysical, soul recognition sort of way?" Helen asked, though she knew the answer – it was written all over Bridget's face, infused in her voice.

"Yes, exactly," Bridget nodded. "Kindred spirit."

"It's no wonder you feel like you know her or her situation given your similar backgrounds," Helen said.

Bridget nodded, "Of course you're right and at first I wrote it off to that but I've come to understand it's more than that." She was quiet for a moment. "You know… I don't feel this way often. Don't feel that sort of connection."

"I understand," Helen said. "Why don't you finish telling me about meeting her before we get into all of that."

Bridget nodded and returned to the timeline of her interactions with Franky. She told Helen about meeting her in the hall after session, that a group of Asian inmates were obviously pursuing her. Bridget tried to help but Franky was determined to get slotted, which she did after an outburst in the Ed Room. Bridget told Helen about orchestrating Franky's release from the slot, then about orchestrating Ms. Bennett's dropping the threat of an assault charge in exchange for Franky participating in therapy.

"Franky has a charm and wit that really came out at that point," Bridget noted.

"She was flirting with you?" Helen inquired.

"Yes, but playfully," Bridget said. "And it seemed like she was opening up a bit so I played right back – not flirting but humoring her, relating to her, fully aware of her possible history of relating sexually to women authority figures. Playing along may have been a bad call on my part but it's the call I made."

"You've been doing this job long enough to know where the boundaries are," Helen affirmed. "Wait – is Franky gay?"

"Yes," Bridget replied. "Out, very open about it. She was off-hand about it in our first session so it was known. I didn't react, of course. At our second session I pushed her a bit about her chief rival and then there was an incident in the yard where the rival was shived. It was unclear who did it. And I worried that I'd pushed Franky too far in our session, so I sought her out to see how she was."

Bridget took another swallow of wine and exhaled. "I could say that my interest and worry was professional because it was, but if I'm being honest, I felt it more deeply than I would for any other inmate," she confessed. "I should have noticed that then and, I don't know…"

"Go on," Helen prompted. "Tell me the rest."

"So I found her and tried to talk to her about it," Bridget continued. "But she took it as a violation of our trust that I could think that she could have been the one to do that." She paused a moment. "I don't think she could have done it. In fact I know in the core of my being that she's not that kind of person. I knew it the moment I saw her face. But she was upset and basically told me to sod off."

"The next day we had group," Bridget told her. "Another inmate pushed Franky to talk. Franky responded as she does when she's attacked – she turned the talk around on the other inmate, basically attacking her. We had a private session the following day and Franky went on about my breaking the trust and she wanted me to talk about myself," Bridget said. "I get it – she wanted to regain some power in the situation. She asked when was my first time with a woman. I asked whether she asked that because I said she behaved predictably toward the inmate. She was unrelenting and I finally asked whether her verbal attack on the other inmate had anything to do with my sexuality. She's not used to people staying calm when she pushes. She's also not used to being beaten at her own game. It shut her up but I acknowledged that I am a lesbian and suggested we move on and stick to her."

"That's not exactly a secret," Helen said. "That you're gay I mean. You're basically the most eligible bachelorette in Australia. Particularly with Southey off the market."

"Ha," Bridget smiled. "Hardly, but thank you for saying so. That bit of news seemed to do the trick but it turns out perhaps a little too well. At our next session she was in full-on flirt mode. I was prepared. It seemed fairly inevitable given her history of relating sexually to female superiors and with this – connection or energy or whatever it is between us. So I was calm and prepared. After a bit she got up out of her chair and walked toward my desk and eventually leaned over the chair where I sat and wondered how my new lipstick tasted."

She swallowed remembering. It had taken a lion's share of willpower to remain present and in control in that moment when Bridget wanted desperately to touch Franky.

"She had both hands on the arm of the chair, on either side of my arm and she was definitely in my space," Bridget said. "I asked if she was trying to intimidate me and told her I didn't like or respect it and she stopped immediately. Took her seat again. I knew then that my instincts were right about her. She's a good person at heart. Said she was bored which of course she is – she's so fucking clever. So bright."

"So you haven't had physical contact?" Helen asked. "At all?"

"No," Bridget smiled. "None. But there's one other incident. This afternoon I was on my way to a hearing and came upon Franky threatening another inmate – the one from the group session. I don't think she would've done anything but still – it was enough to make me know she wasn't doing anything about her anger issues. I sent the inmate back to her cell to sleep off her drink and then I told Franky I was disappointed in her – personally and professionally."

Bridget let that hang for a moment, studying her friend's face for a reaction. When none came, she continued, "I had no conscious awareness of the fact that I had personal feelings until that came out of my mouth. Or at least I didn't admit it to myself."

She looked Helen in the eye, "I do have feelings for her, which is… ridiculous and impossible, not to mention in violation of my ethics. Rationally I know that and yet there's a part of me… What the hell am I doing?"

Helen's hand again landed on her arm. "I understand." And she did. Helen and Nikki met when Nikki was incarcerated for a crime she was later cleared of while Helen was governor of the prison. Their story had a happy ending but it was against all odds.

"This is the first time you've felt such a connection since Jyoti?" It was more of a statement than a question and Bridget nodded in agreement.

"It's the first time I've even felt attracted to anyone in… forever," Bridget admitted.

"Who're you attracted to?" Nikki asked, strolling into the space. She took a seat beside Helen, arm draping naturally around her shoulders and then Nikki looked at Bridget.

"Her name's Franky," Bridget said. "She's an inmate. And in my care."

"Oooohhh," Nikki said. "Well, at least you have the right friends to talk with about this very specific situation."

"It's that Franky Doyle – the one from the reality tv cooking show," Helen told Nikki. The brunette's eyes widened a bit.

"Seriously?" Nikki asked. Bridget nodded. "We talked about her back when it happened. It was so obvious the guy hit on some emotional damage. I always felt badly for her. She could cook like nobody's business."

"Has anything happened?" Nikki inquired.

"Not yet," Helen said.

"Not ever," Bridget insisted. "I can't – I would have to give her up as a client if I wanted to pursue something and even then, it's one-sided or lop-sided at best. She has a history of relating sexually to women authority figures."

Nikki nodded, "Yeah but I think you can tell the difference in genuine attraction and her working you over."

"I don't know that I can," Bridget admitted. "But it doesn't matter. If I drop her case I don't think anyone will pick her up and she has a lot of past hurt to work through. I am confident I can help her through that. That's the only thing I should be thinking of."

"Is it just a physical attraction?" Nikki asked. "I mean it's been a while and she's pretty hot as I recall."

"No – it's deeper than that," Bridget said. "It was instantaneous. As it was with Jyoti."

"Love at first sight despite seemingly insurmountable obstacles," Helen said. "We know a thing or two about that." They were silent for a moment.

"It does bear some similarities to you and Nikki," Bridget acknowledged. "But you're the exception."

"When's she up for parole?" Nikki asked.

"Soon," Bridget admitted.

"Okay – can you catch me up?"

Bridget recounted the story again, throwing in greater detail the second time around. But when they came to the end of the retelling Bridget felt a new conviction that the only caring thing to do was to double down on her therapy with Franky and ignore the other.

"It's the way I can help this person," Bridget rationalized. "And if there's something else that's meant to be it can happen when she's out. I feel strongly about her getting out because justice, such as it is, has been served in her case. There are things she's meant to do beyond the bars. So I'll keep it professional with her. It seems crazy to entertain any other scenario anyway."

"Yeah, but the heart does its own thing, babes," Nikki smiled at her. "You feel the way you feel. Be honest with yourself about that. There's something to it when you talk about her. I'm not saying it's everything but it's something."

Bridget nodded, acknowledging her friend's wise advice.

"If it's meant to be you'll find a way," Helen remarked.

But Bridget had made up her mind. If Franky wanted to get real about her anger and issues Bridget would do anything to help her work through it and get to parole. If not, she would forget about her.

Or at least try.