Page 5

Ava

“We got the estimates in.” Juliette drops a manila folder on my desk, and I don’t miss the unspoken “I told you so” emanating from her.

She plops down on the sofa and immediately sits forward, readjusting the pillows.

I designed my office with the explicit purpose of creating a comforting space.

The seven cutesy throw pillows work within the comfort goal, but it’s also telling to observe how a person sits on the sofa.

Some will sit and won’t adjust a single pillow.

Some will so intently focus on adjusting the pillows that they delay the start of a session.

One man picked up all the pillows and placed them on the floor.

Juliette picks her favorite pillow out of the lineup, stacks it in front of another pillow, and crosses one leg over the other.

Her straight, blonde hair skims a thick pearl necklace.

The outline of her bra straps shows under the cream silk, something she probably didn’t notice this morning because she left the house in a suit coat.

Every day, she hangs her suit jacket on the back of her desk chair until it’s time to leave, when she’ll put it on again.

“How bad?” I could open the folder and read the answer, but I’d prefer to hear it. I don’t know why. Hearing it, reading it, if someone came in and sang the numbers, no matter the delivery, it’s going to be bad news.

“Seventy-five thousand. That’s the lowest bid. But that’s an estimate.”

“If we go with them, can they start work today?”

“Where are you going to get that money?”

“We could do a fundraiser. Or raise money online through Kickstarter or a similar service.”

“They want fifty percent upfront.”

Of course they do.

When Patrick and I joined forces to create Nueva Vida, we did it because we understood firsthand how difficult it is to transition after going through rehab.

What we failed to comprehend is how difficult our lives would become, constantly raising money to keep this nonprofit afloat.

Many people just don’t care about drug addicts, making us a much tougher donation story than, say, cancer.

“Every. Single. Year. Something goes wrong.” I say this to the ceiling with my eyes closed, letting frustration and annoyance and a sense of defeat swirl. And that’s it.

I slam my palm down over the folder. That’s all I’ll give the negative. I open my eyes and meet Juliette’s skeptical expression head on. “Can you do me a favor? It’s July now. Can you please review our financials for the rest of the year? Tell me how much we need?”

We always try to avoid peppering Mark Sullivan for additional funding beyond his annual donation. Patrick especially hates it and generally refuses to do so. But Mark understands unexpected events happen, especially when one buys apartment buildings originally built in the seventies.

“The forecast is useless if you don’t follow it.”

“Jules.” My fingers clasp the end of the armrests. She’s jabbing at me. But it’s not because I’m asking for updated financial projections. She’s annoyed with me. We’ve worked together for years, and I can see through her attitude. “Are you still upset that I gave that apartment to Reid?”

“He wasn’t next on the list.” She crosses her arms. “You let him jump nearly fifteen spots.”

I exhale. She’s correct. I broke policy for Reid, and I shouldn’t have. But if you can’t help those you care about, what’s the point in doing something like this, anyway?

“I hear you.” I look her directly in the eye. “I promise. I won’t do it again.”

I hope I won’t do it again. I shouldn’t have done this for Reid, but I couldn’t help it. Juliette has been working with me for a long time, but she doesn’t know my dirt. She knows the glossed over website version. The cleaned-up version one shares with women who don pearl necklaces.

“You should follow the process,” she says with a softer tone. When she stands, she repositions my sofa pillows. “All decisions should be up to the admissions coordinator. They’ll follow the process, and you won’t have to say no.”

A hard rap on the doorframe nabs our attention. Jack Sullivan strolls into my office. I peer past him, searching for Sarah, our receptionist.

Juliette backs up into my desk. Any trace of confidence and determination is lost in his presence.

Of course, Jack’s bespoke suit puts hers to shame.

The navy material sculpts his broad shoulders in a way only a custom suit could.

He’s undeniably handsome with thick, dark hair and tanned skin.

His countenance speaks of power, his suit money, and the way the dress shirt binds to his chest and neatly tucks into his slacks, it’s clear he’s fit.

If memory serves, he used to be in the Navy.

He has the look of an athlete, the kind of man who has prioritized health for decades.

His gaze wanders around my office, no doubt reading the affirmations and positive thoughts hanging on wooden boards and in frames all over the room.

We don’t get many put-together clients in our offices.

The successful businessman might find my affirmations silly, but the people who come through my door are often crawling on life’s rock bottom, and you never know which positive thought will click.

The set of Jack’s angular, shaved jaw reveals a determined mindset. It doesn’t matter that Sarah isn’t sitting at her desk. He would have bypassed her and entered unannounced, anyway. A man like Jack Sullivan does not ask permission.

“After you get those numbers, please come back in.” My voice jolts Juliette out of her startled trance.

“Right. Ah, can…do you want to go over the project bids?” She glances at the manila folder on my desk.

“When you come back with the numbers.”

Time is of essence, something she reinforces with a harrowed glance at the folder.

She needs to award the job, so work can be scheduled.

We have people in two apartment units without running water, and we had to identify alternative accommodations.

I could let one of the tenants move into my apartment and stay on Patrick’s sofa.

I could sell my car, but the couple grand I might make wouldn’t come close to meeting the initial payment. What is half of seventy-five?

“Ava?” Juliette’s question pulls me back into the room. “Call me?” From behind Jack, she gives him an inquisitive look. “Should I close the door?”

“No,” I answer as Jack commands, “Yes.”

She closes the door.

“Mr. Sullivan. How may I help you?” I stand behind my desk and fold my hands in front of my waist. “Would you care to have a seat?”

The sofa is low, considerably lower than my desk chair. As expected, he stands.

“This is where you work?”

“Yes. These are our offices. We took one apartment in the first building we purchased and converted it into a series of offices plus one larger meeting room for group therapy. Would you like for me to show you around? We have a small community—”

“No, thank you.” He walks to the window and peers outside. There’s a street that runs below the window, but a broadleaf tree partially conceals the asphalt. “Sophia likes you.”

I sit down in my desk chair and wait. A man like Jack Sullivan doesn’t drive through city traffic without a reason. He wants something. There’s no need to guess because a man like Jack will tell me exactly what he wants.

“Things have changed since we saw you on Saturday.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk for him to sit. He folds his arms across his chest. He’s so tall I have to lean my head back to direct my gaze at his face. “I’d like for you to meet with Sophia.”

“Jack. Sit.” I push out the most cordial tone I can, but the words don’t particularly convey softness.

Still, I’m exhausted, I need to do math, and he should be sitting for this conversation.

“Tell me more about what Sophia needs. I’m familiar with the case, but only through the news.

If you tell me more about what you are looking for, what she needs, and your expectations, I can recommend a qualified therapist. I have connections all over the city. ”

“My uncle swears by you. He says there are a lot of bad therapists out there.”

I stifle the grin that wants to break out. Mark Sullivan is a jaded man. I can totally see him not only saying that, but fully believing it. I snuck into his circle of trust through my friendship with Patrick.

“I promise to recommend only the good ones. The absolute best.” Jack Sullivan is a man who only wants the best. He and his uncle are the same.

“The man who arranged for Sophia’s abduction has been released on bail.”

My eyes widen, and he nods, silently agreeing with my nonverbal reaction.

“There’s no need for her to be afraid. She’s secure. I have significantly expanded our home security since her abduction. She is safe. But she’s…I can’t get through to her.”

“What is she doing?” If she’s endangering herself, she might need to be hospitalized.

“She’s barely eating. She won’t speak to friends. I struggle to get her out of her room. She’s depressed. Or anxious. Or maybe she’s going through withdrawals. I don’t know.”

I remember the articles in my news stream. I only skimmed them, but Patrick told me that men who do both drug and human trafficking had taken her.

“Did they give her heroin?”

He nods, and his lips tighten into a straight line.

Heroin and I are old friends. But they didn’t have her that long.

Could she be addicted? Certainly. But what he’s describing to me sounds more like trauma.

He wants her to bounce back, but sometimes recovery takes years.

“If she’s in withdrawal, there are drugs to soften the withdrawal, but they only had her for a week, right? ”