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Ava

The top windows lining one side of the basement room let in light but are high enough to provide privacy.

A host of low-light plants sit in raised planters.

Small cacti in cream ceramic pots are scattered about on shelves.

To create my office, the designer brought in a comfortable sofa, two inviting armchairs, a small corner desk with a chair, plus colorful abstract artwork hanging on the walls.

When I texted Jack Sullivan asking if there was a room in his house that I could use for meeting with Sophia, he first suggested her bedroom.

I had to explain that’s not a good idea.

She needs a safe space to share, but it needs to be one she can leave and return to at will. Not one she must sleep in every night.

Of course, this whole idea is insanity. I am a licensed therapist, but I’m out of practice.

It didn’t take me long after meeting with patients to realize I carry too much of their burden.

In psychology, we call it identification.

I identify too closely with my patients; I feel too much of their burden.

Keeping my emotions in check during sessions proved to be too challenging.

And yes, maybe it’s because almost all of my patients were addicts and I, too, am an addict.

They wanted me to tell them how to kick it, how to stay away from the drug, but it’s not that simple.

There’s no special sauce to share. I’m lucky.

I kicked it, and I don’t know why I was able to, but some others can’t.

I wish I had the sauce, the words, the magic. I wish I could save everyone.

I’m far enough away from those dark days that my yearning isn’t nearly as strong. I love my life too much to throw it away. Shoving a needle in my neck holds no appeal. But how did I get here? What gives me the strength to sidestep temptation?

Determination? A self-hatred for who I was? A night inside a prison cell? Living in the back seat of my car? Living on the streets after they towed my car, and I didn’t have the money to get it back? And any time I got my hands on money, I spent it on my all-consuming priority.

There are several things I know after years of meeting addicts.

One, I’m shit at predicting who will make it and who won’t.

Two, there are a lot of factors that tie into success.

We founded Nueva Vida on this premise, and we do everything we can to promote a successful re-entry to real life after rehabilitation.

But so much is up to the individual and the universe.

That’s a hard concept for loved ones to grasp.

Which is part of the reason I’m sitting in this freshly painted room with brand-spanking-new furniture and a thick, lush rug that probably cost more than all of the secondhand furniture in my apartment.

Jackson Sullivan wants to do it all for his daughter.

I can’t blame him. From what I understand, unlike many addicts, she didn’t make any bad choices.

Someone kidnapped her and shoved a needle in her arm to gain control.

From what I’ve read, they didn’t intend to sell her, but they were human traffickers, and they applied their techniques to subdue her.

I’m not at all sure I’ll be able to help her. I tried to explain this to Patrick. On the drive over, we had a long conversation that mostly entailed me reiterating how I was not the best choice and Patrick refusing to listen.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that Sophia liked me because I dress more like a teen than an adult.

With all my earrings and jet-black nail polish, at least, I imagine that’s how she’d see me.

I bet every doctor she met in her ultra-elite private hospital setting was over the age of sixty and wore a business suit.

And if a person was younger, I bet she had conservative and judgmental written all over her.

I know, because I’ve been there. I’ve seen it.

The more expensive you go, the more expensive the degrees and the air of superiority suffocates.

He could find someone like me, but better. Someone who currently practices and has fine-tuned her skills over years of helping patients. But, as Patrick said, why not take the money? It’s a month at a beachfront mansion and one patient to meet with a couple of times a week.

Once Patrick and I got the idea to create Nueva Vida, I quickly discovered I get much more out of building a safe environment than meeting with patients. Or I should say, Nueva Vida fulfills me much more than counseling did.

But, as Patrick reinforced, in exchange for working remotely for one month, I get paid one hundred thousand dollars.

Working remotely won’t be an issue. He does it almost year-round.

I’m free to go back each week for my two group therapy sessions.

Those are the only two counseling sessions I currently do.

This arrangement is only for a month, and the center's current financial crisis goes away.

And there is always a chance I will be able to help Mark’s niece.

My hunch is she’s not truly an addict. Even if she suffered withdrawal symptoms, her risk of relapse is likely small, as she doesn’t have any idea how to acquire drugs on her own.

She doesn’t have that circle of friends pulling her down.

She will not walk into a party, judgment impaired with alcohol, and have someone offer her a syringe.

At least not for years, not until there’s even more time between her and the drug.

No, my hunch is she’s dealing with shame. And shame is a mighty cross. It’s my understanding no one really knows everything that happened to her. She doesn’t want to talk about it. And she might not be ready to relive it.

That, I can understand. I can offer a non-judgmental ear to let some of whatever’s inside her come out. If she wants help. Can’t force it. No matter how much Daddy Gazillionaire pays, you can’t force it. Recovery must come from within.

A shadow falls against the hallway wall. It becomes so still I wonder if the light out the front doors has changed, and something outside has cast a shadow. I call out, “Hello?”

Today is my first day in the Sullivan house. One of the security guards greeted me at the gate. After instructing me to park in front of the fountain, he took me to a guest room at the front of the house, gave me a tour, and left me in this temporary office.

The armed guard took my car keys and said he’d park it in the garage, because of course there's extra space in the garage for my car. Most people have six-car garages.

Sophia Sullivan edges into view in the hall. She’s wearing shorts, a long sleeve t-shirt, and socks. Like before, her blonde hair is pulled back. There’s not a wisp of makeup on her youthful skin, no earrings or necklaces. Her shoulders hunch forward.

“Sophia. Hi.”

Her gaze takes in the room, roaming from the sofa to the art on the wall to the plants. I’ll need to rotate these plants outside for sunlight, as otherwise they’ll die here, but I’m a big believer that plants make a space habitable.

“You think you can decorate the rest of the house?”

“Not a fan of your father’s style?” I smirk and bottle up the urge to wave a hand and urge her to sit. She hasn’t crossed the threshold yet.

“What style?” She crosses her arms over her chest and rests her back against the doorframe, angling her body so I’m directly in her sight path.

“Your bedroom’s quite gorgeous.” When Resnick, the armed security guard assigned to give me a tour, took me to her room, I’d been blown away. But it also hadn’t felt like a teen’s room. It felt like a hotel room, or a photograph from a high-end magazine.

“My mom picked out that furniture.”

“She had good taste. She did a good job with your room. Did she decorate the rest of this house?” The house has a traditional decor befitting someone with a royalty fetish.

“No.” Sophia’s posture hasn’t altered, but her tone has.

Something about my question bothers her. Her mother died years ago, but it could still be painful. I choose a therapeutic silence. It’s an uncomfortable quiet, but it will allow Sophia to choose our conversational path.

“I hate the furniture in this house.”

All right. Immaterial objects are as good of a place to start as any.

“I get that.” Agreeing with her will allow us to bond. And she’s right. The structure of the home is breathtaking, but the decor is nauseating. She resumes taking in the decor of this room. “You know, your dad put me in touch with the woman who decorated this room. Evie Cole. Do you know her?”

She shakes her head.

“I bet if you asked him, your dad would let you redecorate any room you wanted. Evie told me this room was storage before. She said she’s done a few of the rooms in this house.”

Her eyes narrow thoughtfully. I’m saying this without knowing the man at all.

He might actually like the formal vibe. Evie could have designed some of the rooms Sophia hates.

But her dad is paying me one-hundred grand to be around should she want to talk to someone.

He infamously paid one-hundred million for information leading to her safe return.

I’m pretty sure if I tell him giving her a project, like redesigning a room or two in the house, will help her recovery, he’ll readily agree.

“You think so?”

I nod and push out my lower lip for emphasis. “Absolutely.”

“I’d like to get rid of a lot of the mirrors upstairs. They’re freaky.”

“Not a fan of the gilded age?” In the dining room, enormous tapestries hang beside massive mirrors framed with baroque gold. The room is an odd room to me anyway because this house is chock full of ocean views and that room is toward the front of the house with a view of the courtyard.

She stands in the hallway, arms crossed, shifting weight from foot to foot.

“Do you want to come in?”

“No.”

I laugh. She’s acting like I’m going to bite.