Chapter 90
AN HOUR EARLIER, Justine was sitting in an overstuffed chair in her bedroom, both dogs in her lap, still dressed in her workout clothes, wanting to cry again. She’d seduced a married man with a pretty wife and kids who rode in car seats and sang about the wheels on the bus. Pulling Joy and Luck close to her, she thought miserably, I’m a home wrecker.
The idea went against nearly everything Justine stood for, and yet there it was, hovering about like a ghost, trying to get her to break down, to succumb to the weight of what she’d done with Paul, and of the attack in Mexico.
She was suffering, but it didn’t mitigate things, she thought fiercely. A diagnosis of PTSD would not change what she had done, who she was, what she had become.
Justine’s next thought was that she had to right things somehow, atone for her sins. Should she go to Paul’s wife and confess? But what good would that do? She’d scar the poor woman and destroy their marriage. The truth was, Justine had been the aggressor. She had encouraged the tension that had been building with Paul, knowing nearly nothing about the man, not even his last name. It was true that he’d allowed himself to be seduced, and asked her out for coffee the day before, but …
It was all so confusing. She didn’t know what to do. Then she did. She called up Ellen Hayes, a fellow psychologist she admired, got put through.
“Justine,” Hayes said. “So good to hear from you.”
“It’s been too long, Ellen,” Justine allowed. “But I’m looking for a recommendation for a therapist who specializes in the aftermath of trauma.”
“That would be you, dear.”
“The referral is for me, Ellen.”
Silence, and then, “Are you all right?”
“Physically, yes,” Justine said. “The rest I’m trying to figure out.”
“Then you’ll come see me,” Hayes insisted. “I can fit you in … how about tomorrow afternoon, four?”
“Perfect, and thanks,” Justine said, and hung up.
She went into the shower, stood there under the beating hot water, trying to take hope from the fact that she’d soon be able to talk to someone about what had been going on in her life. In the meantime, she told herself she had to have some purpose for the rest of her day, or she’d surely drive herself guilty, bitter, and quite possibly crazy.
Drying off, Justine forced herself to make a list of options.
She could return to Guadalajara, find Adelita Gomez, figure out her relationship to Captain Gomez, if any. But that idea made her almost breathless, and she realized she feared Captain Gomez almost as much as she did Carla, the big woman in the jail cell.
That left, for today, anyway, the Harlows’ charity, Sharing Hands.
After drying her hair and dressing in yoga pants and a USC Trojans sweatshirt, Justine got her laptop, sat on the floor in her living room, and called up the Sharing Hands website. Tom and Jennifer Harlow dominated the charity’s home page, heads touching, hands clasped, shooting the camera fetching looks, as if they’d been interrupted in a moment of deep intimacy but were still darn happy to see you.
Indeed, at first glance, Justine had trouble understanding that this was actually a website for an organization that benefited orphans. But then she saw that in the background of that photograph of the Harlows, there was a jungle landscape with a clearing and a bright-white school building.
Reading through the rest of the site, which showed orphanages being built and happy children gathering around one or both Harlows, Justine was struck by the scope of what they were trying to do, how many children they were trying to help, and the gentle, respectful request for money to fund that vision that appeared on every page: “Help Our Hands Share.”
And a PayPal button. They made it that easy.
Justine decided to check the California attorney general’s site for any complaints about the charity, and found none. She consulted several online charity watchdogs. Sharing Hands received exemplary reviews for transparency and innovation, as well as gushing praise for the actors’ involvement. Several reviews also noted the Harlows’ decision to keep back fifty percent of all raised money to build an endowment for the non-profit, much the way universities do to ensure that scholarships and other good works continue far into the—
A tremendous crashing noise out in the street in front of her house tore her away from the computer.
Joy and Luck went nuts, racing across the living room and up onto the couch below the front window, howling and barking. Justine got up, looked out through the blinds, and saw Jack’s Touareg smashed into the side of a black Trans Am.
Jack was holding a gun on a man who was obviously bleeding to death.