Donald is dressed in his signature pinstriped Armani suit, the one that makes my stomach churn because it reminds me of the many times we've appeared in court for my mother's violations. He pats my shoulder in a fatherly fashion, and we take our seats in the third row. Immediately I feel the stares burn into my back.
I wonder if I can feel Hunter's even hotter than the others, but I can't think of him right now. Seeing Cross's parents take their seats on the other side of the aisle, I feel nauseated. I don't trust them. If they can cut off their own son, who knows what they might try to do to me. At the very least I expect I’ll become even more of a social pariah than I already am. That thought only strengthens my resolve, though.
As I wait through the proceedings dealing with other people and their problems, I run Nanette's words through my head. What she told me, when I visited Sunday, about Cross and how 'exceptionally' well he'd been responding to the N-therapy.
I rehearse my lines, expending some effort toward not glancing over my shoulder to look for Hunter.
Finally, the Carlsons' lawyer stands and explains the family's position in a crisp monotone.
Diana Mendez, the judge, nods patiently, just the way she did for my parents' divorce proceedings.
She looks curious when Donald rises. "Permission to speak?" he asks smoothly.
Diana’s lips bunch. "Permission granted."
Donald holds a folder in one hand. He clasps his free hand over the one holding it. "My client, Elizabeth DeVille, is a lifelong friend of Cross Carlson, and is interested in his care.” I hold my breath while quiet sweeps the courtroom, and it is in that moment that I spot Hunter, seated on the fourth row, across the aisle. I inhale deeply, trying not to focus on the outline of his form. "Miss DeVille would like to pay for Mr. Carlson to be returned to his previous facility. In fact—" my stomach squeezes— "she'd like to cover all his medical care for the remainder of this calendar year."
I hear a collective gasp go through the room as cameras start to flash. For a split second, my eyes are pulled toward the wooden chairs on the other side of the foot-worn aisle, where Cross's parents are sitting. I want to see their faces, but they both stare straight ahead. Instead the eyes I meet are Hunter's.
They are wide and ultra-green, and they're trained on my face like they're seeing right through my clothes. Despite my topsy-turvy stomach, I can feel myself warming from the inside out, the flush starting on my br**sts and climbing up my throat.
Diana’s brows meet over her nose, and my attention is, thankfully, diverted. She looks unhappy. Maybe confused. She gives a slight shake of her head. "You would need to work that out with the medical center. There's paperwork involved. For it to factor into the change of Cross Carlson's medical custody today—"
"It’s all here," Donald says smoothly, walking forward to hand the judge the folder full of documents I faxed him an hour ago. "You'll find the appropriate signatures enclosed."
Diana takes the folder, pulling out the paperwork and examining it, her long black hair falling over her gown. I watch the way her face loses its puzzled expression, and I can tell she's surprised. Maybe even shocked. She purses her lips again, and when she looks up, I think maybe there's respect in the x-ray look she pins me with.
Half a second later, the Carlsons' lawyer is on her feet. "This isn't legal," she says sharply. "There's no provision for non-family—"
"Yes, you're correct," Diana interrupts, looking short on patience. "There's no provision, either way. And trust me, Ms. Chufunneker, if the bills are being paid, the state has no interest in picking up the tab."
The lawyer looks back down at the governor, and I can tell they're exchanging wordless information. Her gray head raises, and she's looking at the judge again. "Does this grant Miss DeVille the right to make medical decisions on behalf of the younger Mr. Carlson?" Chufunneker sounds mildly outraged.
"Would your clients like that granted?" Diana asks coolly.
"Of course not," Ms. Chufunneker says, having the nerve to look offended on behalf of the horrible Carlsons.
"Well that's good, because they will remain in charge of Cross's medical decisions as long as he's unconscious."
"Including where he's...housed?"
"That included." Judge Mendez tucks her silky hair behind her ear. "If they wish to downgrade to a state facility at taxpayer cost, they certainly may." Her gaze locks on the governor.
The governor colors, and reporters' cameras flash.
Minutes later, the hearing is adjourned. The Carlsons have agreed to move Cross back to Napa Valley Involved Rehab. With all the press here, they have no choice. Which is why I didn't call them at their home after I signed the paperwork early this morning.
I hope if news of how I paid for his care leaks out, the press will use it to crucify the Carlsons.
Chapter Eleven
~ELIZABETH~
To get me out of the courthouse doors, Donald has to wrap his arm around my shoulders and pull me close to his round belly. When we get to the stairs on the front of the building, two security guards in blue suits flank us, asking us to consider making our way straight to our cars. “No lingering.” As if.
They turn around when the Carlsons come out the door behind us, and the swarm of press shoots after them.
I part ways with Donald at a V in the sidewalk where he veers left, toward the street, and I turn right, toward the shady, overflowing courthouse parking lot.
I can hear the clink of heels on cement and low chatter of the press just steps behind me, but I'm moving at my normal pace, trying to keep good posture and avoid looking like a scandal-maker—which I definitely am.
The tap-tap of heels taps a little faster, and all of a sudden there's a blonde woman beside me. She sticks her microphone in my face, and I tuck my head, turning away. "Were you and Cross Carlson romantically involved?"
I cut into the parking lot, semi-freaked out. The footsteps grow louder, and I wonder just how many people are following me. I’m too afraid to check, and then a man's voice booms right beside my left ear. “Is this a decision you made after visiting Cross Carlson at his new facility?”
I duck my head and shoot off between a row of cars. If I move fast enough, surely they'll give up. I scan the lot for my Camry and keep on walking—fast.
"Did you have anything to do with his accident?" The grating male voice comes at me from the side, and I hold up my hand, almost bumping into the hood of a red Corvette.
“Please go away.”