Pretend She's Here(85)

“Dad …” Casey said.

My parents walked over, and they both gave Casey a big hug.

“We’re so sorry to hear about the fire,” my mother said.

“Thanks,” Mr. Donoghue said. “We’ll get through it.”

“No doubt about that,” my father said, smiling. “You’re Dylan Thomas Revisited.”

“Come on, everyone,” my mother said. “It’s time for court.”

We walked up the big steps and into a big hall. Austere portraits of judges lined the walls. Heavy oak doors led to the actual courtrooms and antechambers. One door was marked VICTIM’S ADVOCATE. Another said CONFERENCES. Casey and I held hands. While my parents and Casey’s dad spoke to a woman in a cherry-red suit, we leaned our heads together. His hair smelled like wood smoke.

“Whoever would think the happiest I’ve ever felt was standing in a courthouse in Portland?” he asked.

“Me too,” I said. “This is definitely without a shadow of a doubt the one hundred percent best thing in the world.”

“But when we have to leave later will be the worst thing,” he said.

“I know.”

“My dad and I are staying at a motel right outside town,” he said. “We knew we were coming here, and our house is gone, so we figured, why not head to Portland? What I’m thinking is, why don’t we just move to Black Hall? Find a place near there so you and I never have to be apart again.”

“Definitely!” I said. And for that moment, I let myself believe it could actually be possible. Holding Casey’s hand, electricity ran from his fingers into mine, lighting up all my bones and cells, making me feel almost too excited, as if I couldn’t quite breathe.

“Emily Lonergan?”

At the sound of a familiar voice, I turned. The woman had shoulder-length brown hair, and she wore a dark blue dress and black heels. She had kind, bright brown eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses.

“Marcela Perez,” I said.

Our family’s favorite newscaster, from back in Connecticut. It seemed so odd to see someone I’d been watching on TV most of my life standing beside me. Since my return to Black Hall, she’d been outside our house and just off school property with the other news crews, but she’d never gotten so close. I saw the same gentle, slightly sad expression she’d had on camera while reporting so many Connecticut stories. It made me shiver, to feel it directed at me.

“I’m here to cover Chloe Porter’s hearing,” she said. “I have to admit I was hoping you might come to testify. I would love the chance to talk to you.”

“Please leave me alone,” I said.

“I’ll respect that,” she said, handing me her card. “But if you change your mind, just call or text. My mobile number is there …”

Just then a group of other media people, clustered at the end of the hallway, came hurrying toward us.

“Are they going to put the hearing on TV?” I asked.

“No,” Marcela said. “Cameras and audio aren’t permitted in the courtroom. So, you’re safe there.” She gave me a wry smile. “If you hear clicking, it’s all of us live tweeting. That’s allowed.”

“Thanks for telling me,” I said.

Casey put his arm around me, and we walked quickly toward his dad, avoiding the reporters. My parents were still talking intently to the woman in the red suit. Casey’s dad led us past the crowd into what at first looked like an empty courtroom.

But it wasn’t quite empty.

There, at a table in the front, sat Chloe. She looked so small in the vast room. I had thought she would be wearing an orange jumpsuit, like prisoners on TV shows, but she was dressed in regular clothes—green cords, a yellow sweater. A young brown-haired woman in a gray business suit sat beside her.

Chloe must have heard the heavy door open. She turned toward the sound, and when she saw me, I heard her gasp. I walked toward her, pulled, as if the courtroom had an undertow. She stood. The woman at the table put her hand on her wrist, tried to get her to sit down, but Chloe wouldn’t.

We stood facing each other, a thick waist-high mahogany rail between us. Her skin looked very pale. She had a bruise on one cheek that she’d attempted to cover with makeup. Her eyes filled with tears. I guess mine did, too, because I felt them rolling down my face.

“You’re here,” she said.

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Because,” I said. I could have spent an hour explaining, but the way she was looking at me, I knew I didn’t have to. They say people who’ve been through a disaster together are bonded forever.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “For everything.”

“I know that,” I said. “So don’t say it again. Ever.”

That made her smile. Nothing like a bossy older almost-sister to set things straight. Her eyes flicked up, looking over my shoulder. My parents and the woman in the red suit had entered the courtroom, clustered together, and now other people were filing in, too, including the reporters.

“Your parents are with my lawyer,” Chloe said.

“Jane Manwaring?” I asked. “Do you like her?”

“She’s okay. I’ve talked to a lot of lawyers since that last day. Jane’s my main one, Millicent is her associate.” Chloe gestured toward the young woman standing beside her.