Though she had no idea who Nabila might be, the old fear crept from its hiding place like some night animal. The hall was too crowded, too close. She needed to breathe. She hurried outside and huddled in the shelter of a hid- den doorway. Then the tears came. A fugitive forever, that’s what she would be. Afraid of even the most innocent questions, because even if she wasn’t Nabila, she was certainly not Jenna Sorrel. Not for the first time, she wondered if perhaps she should never have left al-Remal, surrendering to whatever fate had been writ- ten for her on the day of her birth. And what about Karim? Would he be better off living the life he’d been born to?

“Give me a break,” she muttered reproachfully. She wouldn’t put up with such whining, such self-pity, from a patient. Why should she indulge in it herself ? Just do the best you can, Jenna. And hope that it’s good enough.

36. Travis

Travis

The group who sought refuge at the Sanctuary—the shelter where Jenna did volunteer counseling twice a week—was as varied as America itself.

Rich, poor, black, white, young, and old, the women had only one thing in common—spouses and lovers who used their fists to abuse and intimidate.

Now, as Jenna moderated the shelter’s Tuesday night group session, she encouraged Pamela Shields to go on with her story. Pamela, who reminded her so much of Carolyn, was an affluent matron who, a short time ago, had lived in a sumptuous home.

But when she’d finally decided not to tolerate her husband’s assaults any longer, he cut her off financially, leaving her nearly destitute.

“I never realized that nothing was in my name,” Pamela said. “As long as I did what Burke wanted, money was never an issue. If I wanted new clothes or new jewelry, I just told him, and the money was there. It was only … only when I couldn’t go on the way we were that I realized he controlled everything.” Wiping her eyes with a shredded tissue, she sighed raggedly and went on. “He says I’ll have nothing if I try to divorce him. He says he’ll take our children and make sure they see me for the no-good mother I am.”

“Bull!” shouted Polly Shannon, a diminutive blond of fifty. “Just because he says that doesn’t make it so. He has money? Good! The law will make him share it with you. And there’s no way on God’s Earth the law will give him your kids— especially, not if you get it on record that he beats you up.”

“I don’t know …”

“Just look at me,” Polly insisted. “I whipped Kevin’s ass in court. He took so much away from me, but I finally said ‘no more.’ Now he’s in jail—and I’m starting to put my life together again.”