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 sharp and ultra-green, and they’re trained on me like they’re seeing into my soul. Despite my topsy-turvy stomach, I can feel myself warming from the inside out, the flush starting in my chest 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 the shoulder of 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 her eyes.
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 are 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 chin lifts, 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. “It looks like Miss DeVille is giving Mr. Carlson quite a financial gift, which would eliminate the burden on the governor and Mrs. Carlson. But 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 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.
I hope if news of how I paid for his care leaks out, the press will use it to crucify the Carlsons.
AS SOON as I start down the aisle toward the courtroom exit, two men toting cameras step into my path. I duck my head, say, “excuse me,” and dodge one of them. But I can’t sail by them both because a group of high school guys, presumably here for the next hearing, is bumping into me on my other side.
The photographer in the faded jeans and khaki-looking button-up plants himself directly in front of me and starts firing off questions.
“Where do you plan to get the money, Miss DeVille? Did you borrow it from your family’s trust?”
I glance behind me, but everyone else who packed in for the Carlson hearing is lined up, trying to get out.
“Excuse me, please.”
“All I need is a minute of your time. I’m sure you have a minute.”
“Excuse me.”
“It’s a legitimate question. Everyone knows the DeVille coffers are empty. How do you plan to finance this?”
I slant my body sideways and use my shoulder to ram into him. One forceful stride, and I’ve shoved him out of my way. I can hear the exaggerated click-click-click of his camera in my wake, but I don’t give a shit. The aisle directly behind him is empty. I break into an almost-run, and I think I’m free when a woman leaps into my path. She’s got the flawless face and straight, blonde hair of a TV newsperson; sure enough, her cold, thin hands raptor-grab my arm.
“Elizabeth—”
“Let go of me!”
Behind her is another one.
I throw her hand off, dart between the two of them, and race toward the bathroom.
Christ, this is ridiculous.
I slam through the door with all my strength, which means when I ram into the hard, male chest, I’ve got so much momentum there’s no stopping me.
“Shit!”
I step back, lifting my gaze and—
“Hunter.”
And of course it would be Hunter.
“Shit,” I murmur again.
“Miss DeVille.”
I wobble back, bumping into the bathroom door—evidently the men’s room door. As I do, I get a good look at him. He looks stunning in a suit. Of course he does. Maybe because I’m so thrown-off by him, my voice comes out almost loud—almost harsh—when I speak.