I grit my teeth because I don't want to protect him.
And I also don’t want to uncover who did this to him. I realize now that I would be okay without knowing.
Whatever Cody did — whoever he hurt, whatever he was doing that put him in this bed — he should have to answer for it. Not me. Not his father managing the narrative from a hospital corridor. Him.
I want him to be responsible for what he did.
The elevator opens, and Judge Ravenshaw steps out.
He's in a suit at eight in the morning, and he moves through the lobby with a confidence he didn’t have when Cody was in a coma. His eyes find me first, then move to Maeve beside me, and something in his expression recalibrates almost imperceptibly.
"Adela." He extends his hand.
I stand and shake it. His grip is firm, dry, and practiced. "Judge Ravenshaw."
"Thank you for coming." His eyes move to Maeve again, waiting.
“Judge Ravenshaw,” she says, shaking his hand too.
He gestures toward the elevator. "Should we?"
We walk together, and in the elevator, I look at the numbers changing above the door and decide this is the moment.
"Judge Ravenshaw," I say, my voice even. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Why haven’t you told me where Cody was transferred?"
The elevator hums.
He doesn't answer immediately, which is its own kind of answer. When I glance at him, his expression is composed.
"The transfer was a medical decision," he says finally. "The team felt—"
"I'm his girlfriend," I say. "I went to the hospital every single day, and then he got transferred, and I was shunned out of…everything. You didn’t bother to tell me, and I don’t understand why. Why call me now?"
He looks at me.
I look back.
Beside me, I feel Maeve go very still.
"You're right," he says finally. Two words, flat and final, that are neither an apology nor an explanation. Just an acknowledgment that costs him nothing.
The elevator opens on the fifth floor.
He steps out first, and we follow.
In the hallway, he slows slightly, dropping his voice. "He doesn't have full recall yet. The doctors say that's consistent with the injury — some gaps, some confusion. He's going to need time."
"What does he remember?" I ask.
"Fragments. The party. Some of the night." A pause. "Not everything."
I nod.
"He needs stability right now," he continues, stopping outside room 512. "No stress. No complications." His eyes move between Maeve and me. "He believes everything is the way it was. I need it to stay that way while he recovers."
