That's why I'm here at the courthouse. I want to buy a warrant, or rather let Diana know what I'm up to and give a little under-the-table donation to our lovely county. Doesn't hurt that on this particular day, I know Priscilla's here as well. According to my PI in Napa, she's been here for an hour already. There's no reason she should be. No reason she should even be in the state this week.
I feel confident she doesn't expect to see me here, and catching her off guard is important to me. I slide my Audi into a narrow space and put it in park, then step into the radiant California sun.
I've got on one of my Vegas getups: cheap suit—still tailored for my shoulders and chest, but not from Seville Row—and my regular joe shoes, a pair of Ralph Lauren loafers. Marchant likes to look like a slick bastard wherever he goes, but I'd rather not stand out.
The Napa County Court House is a smart, Italianate building: two stories of smooth stone arches and brick detail-work with cement stairs that lead into a covered entryway where people like to mingle before going in. I get a f**ked up feeling when I come here, probably because the décor on the inside and the scent of cheap floor shiner remind me of Rita; she worked, for a time, as a secretary to the probate judge back in Orleans Parish. I try not to think about that.
Diana Mendez and I have been friends for years. She’s objectively beautiful—long black hair, fantasy-long legs, doe brown eyes. Her ambition—she's the youngest probate judge in Napa County’s history—only adds to her appeal. I try to imagine her naked as I make my way from my spot to the building's front—I have actual memories of her naked body to draw on—but Diana turns into Libby. Just like every other woman I’ve tried to jerk off to in the last few weeks.
I sigh, only because no one is around, and I want to let the birds know how troubling the girl is.
Speaking of trouble, Priscilla is standing by the courthouse doors in black stilettos and a shiny silver dress that, in her fashion, shows too much thigh and too much tit. When I see her, I paste on my surprised expression. The look on her face is confirmation: She's not expecting me. As I start up the steps, I notice a news van pulling up and I wonder if my Libby will be here. I wonder if he called her Libby, too, and decide it's unlikely. Lizzy, Liz, or even Beth are more likely. I like to think Libby is mine.
"Hunter, darling." Priscilla grabs me by the shoulders, like she owns me, and plants a kiss on my mouth. I know from experience that it leaves a slick red mark, just like I know that if I wipe it off, I'll pay with skin later.
"You look surprised to see me. I take it you don't know what's going on today?"
"What?" I lie.
"There's a hearing. The governor is coming."
"A hearing for what?" I ask, sticking my hands in my pockets, a submissive move I'm adopting purely for Priscilla's benefit.
"For poor Cross Carlson." Her voice oozes insincerity. She isn’t able to feel empathy.
"He get a speeding ticket?" I ask dryly. Truthfully my stomach churns thinking of what happened to the younger man, but sarcasm makes our ruse more palatable.
"No, the governor and Mrs. Carlson are cutting him off."
"Come again?"
"He'll be in a state facility now, instead of a private room at a private rehab. It was too expensive, so I heard," she says, winking.
I arch a brow, and deliver an important question. "How do you know the Carlsons?”
I know this answer, but I'm interested in hearing what she'll say.
She rolls her eyes and gives me a you-should-know-this look. "I was almost his step-mother, Hunter. Surely you know that. I care for him. They say he'll never be the person that he was."
She's wearing her liar's face, the one where her big, blue eyes are bigger and her skinny, sharp-looking brows are almost in her pale hairline.
"I'm surprised you and the governor still keep in touch."
"We don't," she says, and this is what makes my morning. I happen to know she spoke to the governor—a former employer of Michael Lockwood's—yesterday. "That man has forgotten me entirely," she continues. "Son of a bitch, I'd like to have his balls in a glass jar by my bedside." She says all this in a sing-song voice.
"You and the rest of the state," I say.
Priscilla holds out her arm for me, and I dread the next hour the same way I dread getting my blood drawn and flying in helicopters.
I'd rather be anywhere but here. Then I step into the courthouse, and my day gets ten times worse.
*
~ELIZABETH~
I can tell he sees me, but he's acting like he doesn't. He's got Priscilla Heat with him, and they're en route from the courthouse entrance to the courtroom. At first I outright stare, but when his gaze jumps over me and then sticks to Priscilla's face, I drop my eyes to my feet and keep on walking. I feel sick to my stomach as I veer the other way, away from the women's bathroom where I'd hoped to close myself into a stall and wrangle up some nerve, and back toward the front door of the courthouse, where Governor and Mrs. Carlson should be arriving any time now.
I realize for the first time how much hope my stupid little nothing with Hunter has been giving me, because seeing him with that—with that…woman—sucks it all away, making what I'm about to do feel much more difficult.
Nevertheless, I keep a straight face. I take a spot in the chair nearest to the courthouse's side doors and wait with the reporters, who are double-checking microphones and reapplying make-up as they wait for Cross's deadbeat, shithead parents to arrive.
I look down at my aqua pant suit and tell myself if nothing else, I can be glad about the way I look for the first time since high school. I've really taken to the elliptical and the caveman diet, losing almost fifteen pounds, and I'm kind of surprised to find I don't miss my old friend chocolate much at all.
I could let my Hunter sighting throw me off, but I'm determined not to—not yet, anyway. I need to get through this, to make good on a promise I made Cross when we were in ninth grade: that I'd always have his back.
While I wait, I revisit the black and red web site I scoured earlier on my cell phone, feeling nervous butterflies just from looking at the pictures. Even now, with the wheels of my plan already spinning, I'm not sure if I can really do this.
The crowd of reporters stirs, jarring me out of my thoughts, and then the cameras start rolling. A second later Gov. and Mrs. Carlson stroll through the front doors, looking like they've had a thorough spit-shining.
I grit my teeth and follow them with my eyes. As soon as they are through the arched entrance to the courtroom, my lawyer Donald Hartley comes to stand in front of me, arm out. I stand and give him a tight-lipped smile, but don't take his offered arm, choosing instead to walk into the courtroom a half-step behind him.