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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.”
"Miss DeVille?" I feel a shadow beside me and my eyes flicker to the right; it's another male reporter with thick wheat-colored hair and a face full of freckles. "Where will you get the money? After what happened with your family’s business—"
Something bright winks in my eyes, and I wobble backwards, bumping into a row of reporters and their cameras. Crap. These people are crazy.
“Could you please leave me alone?” I cry, holding my arms out. I side-step, trying to get out of the thick of them, and my hand smacks into Freckles.
"Where will you get the money?" Now he's in my face, and his tone is more insistent.
“That's not your business,” I snap. “Now go away!”
