Private L.A. (Private 6)

THE THERAPIST SAT quietly for a moment, then nodded, said, “You do have to own what you’ve done, Justine. You also have to own the fact that you went through an extremely traumatic experience and because of that experience acted on a romantic impulse when you didn’t have all the facts. Isn’t that right?”

“He’s married,” Justine said.

“Yes,” Ellen said. “And he has to own that. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. He asked you out for coffee. He didn’t try to stop you in the gym.”

“I was the aggressor.”

“You’re saying you were more powerful than Paul was, able to bend his free will so easily?”

Justine blew her nose, tried to smile. “I am stronger than he is. I can do more pull-ups than he can, anyway.”

“But can you control his will?”

&nb

sp; Justine thought about that, then shook her head.

“Good,” the therapist said. “Now, I don’t want you to minimize what happened with Paul. But at the same time, I don’t want you to minimize his free will in failing to tell you he was married, and a father.”

Justine said nothing for a moment, but then sniffed and nodded.

“Okay,” Hayes said. “I think we’ve made more than a little progress. But our time’s up. I have another client coming. Shall we schedule another appointment?”

“But what am I going to do about—”

“What you’re going to do about Paul is a subject for our next session. It’s enough for today for you to have gotten it off your chest.”

Justine wanted to argue, but sighed, “You’re the therapist.”

Outside, she could hear the din of rush-hour traffic—it was five o’clock. She got to her car, feeling a little less confused, a little lighter, more … Her cell phone rang. She answered.

“Justine?”

“Cynthia?” Justine said, recognizing the voice of the Harlows’ personal assistant.

“Can you come to the Warner lot?” Maines asked, agitated. “Right now?”

“What’s wrong?” Justine demanded.

“It’s worse,” Maines choked. “Much worse than you could ever imagine.”

Chapter 113

CYNTHIA MAINES WAS waiting in a golf cart at the main gate of the Warner lot in the last light of Halloween. Justine hadn’t remembered the date until she’d seen the kids dressed in costumes running from house to house.

The Harlows’ personal assistant looked shell-shocked. She’d obviously been crying.

“What’s happened?” Justine asked, climbing into the passenger seat.

Maines drove on, her shoulders hunched forward as she said, “I’ve learned that my life is not what I thought it was. I’ve learned that my beliefs are suspect. And that my instincts are worthless.” She glanced over at Justine, looking lost. “How is that possible? How is it possible to spend years of your life with people and not see them?”

“Tell me,” Justine said.

Maines shook her head in disgust. “It’s something that has to be seen.”

They drove past the turn to the Harlow-Quinn bungalow, past the soundstages, and parked not far from the cafeteria. They walked into a nondescript building with a central hallway.

“I got a friend of mine to let me use the screening room,” Maines said, putting a key into a lock and opening a door for Justine.