Chapter 8: The Last Thing Julian Said
The hearing was six weeks after I left the hospital.
I wasn't required to attend.
Reyes told me I could submit my statement in writing and stay home.
My father said the same thing, in the same careful tone people use when they want you to make your own choice but have a preference.
I went anyway.
I could walk by then — slowly, with a cane, my left leg still stiff in a brace.
My father drove.
Chloe stayed with Carol, who had become, in the way of certain practical women, something close to a friend.
The courtroom was smaller than I expected.
Julian was already seated when we came in, next to his attorney.
He looked thinner.
The expensive watch was gone.
He was wearing a dark suit I recognized from a work dinner three years ago — the last suit he'd bought before the money started disappearing.
He saw me come in.
He looked at my cane.
At my father behind me.
At the way I moved to the plaintiff's side of the room without hesitating.
He looked away first.
The charges were read.
Financial fraud.
Misappropriation of marital funds.
Exploitation of a power of attorney.
Willful neglect during a medical emergency — that last one had been added two weeks prior, after Julian's partial cooperation revealed the full timeline of the night of my accident.
He had received the hospital's call at 6:42 p.m.
He had not responded.
He had, according to his own phone records, ordered food delivery at 7:15.
His attorney entered a guilty plea on the financial charges.
The neglect charge was still being contested.
The judge set a sentencing date.
Julian's attorney leaned close and said something.
Julian nodded without expression.
Then, as they were preparing to leave, Julian turned.
He looked across the room at me.
"I thought you'd never fight back," he said.
His voice was flat.
Not cruel.
Just honest, maybe for the first time.
"Eleven years.
I thought I knew exactly what you would and wouldn't do."
I looked at him.
"I know," I said.
"I was wrong."
"Yes."
His attorney touched his arm.
Julian let himself be guided toward the door.
At the threshold he stopped once more.
He didn't turn around.
"Tell Chloe—" he started.
"I'll tell her you love her," I said.
"Because I think you do.
In whatever way you're capable of."
He stood there for a moment.
Then he walked out.
The door closed behind him.
My father put his hand on my shoulder — light, brief.
"Ready?" he said.
I looked at the closed door.
At the empty chair where Julian had been sitting.
At the room that was already moving on, the clerk gathering papers, the bailiff checking his phone, the ordinary machinery of consequence completing its work.
May you like
"Yes," I said.
We walked out into the light.
