Page 17 of Things We Do in the Dark
Paris can’t float away, though. She needs to stay present if she’s going to make it through this, so she focuses on her breathing. As she tells her yoga students, whatever is happening, you can always come back to your breath. Constricting her throat just a little, she takes a slow, deep inhale, holds it, then exhales. It makes a slight hissing sound, as if she’s trying to fog up the car window, and the detective’s eyes dart toward her in the rearview mirror once again.
After a few ocean breaths—ujjayibreaths—Paris is more clearheaded, morehere, and she tries to process how the hell she ended up in the back of a cop car, on her way to jail. She watches enough TV to know that the police always assume it’s the spouse. Of course, it hadn’t helped one bit that Zoe, Jimmy’s assistant, was the one pointing the finger and screaming herself hoarse.She murdered him she murdered him oh my God she’s a murderer!
They think she killed Jimmy.
And now the rest of the world will, too, because that’s how it looks when you’re led out of your home in handcuffs with blood on your clothes as news of your celebrity husband’s death ripples through the crowd of onlookers snapping photos and recording videos of your arrest. The irony is, the crowd was already conveniently in place outside the house well before Zoe called the cops. Paris and Jimmy live on Queen Anne Hill, right across the street from Kerry Park, which boasts the best views of Seattle. It’s a popular spot for both locals and tourists to take photos of the city skyline and Mount Rainier, and the crowd today was like any other, except the cameras were pointing toward the house instead of the skyline. And just like there hadn’t been time to put on another shirt, there had been no opportunity to put on different shoes. Paris heard someone yell, “Nice slippers!” as soon as she stepped outside, but it didn’t sound like a compliment.
The neighbors on the street were all outside, too. Bob and Elaine from next door were standing at the end of their driveway, their faces filled with shock and horror at the sight of her. Since they didn’t call out or offer to help in any way, they must have already heard what happened. They must already think Paris is guilty.
They’re supposed to be her friends.
She can imagine the headlines already.JIMMY PERALTA, THE PRINCE OF POUGHKEEPSIE, FOUND DEAD AT 68.Though Jimmy’s highly rated sitcom had ended its ten-year run more than two decades earlier, he would forever be known for his starring role as the son of a bakery owner inThe Prince of Poughkeepsie, which won over a dozen Emmys and propelled Jimmy into movie stardom until he retired seven years ago. Paris doesn’t have to be a publicist to predict that the news of her husband’s death will be even bigger than the headline-making multimillion-dollar deal Jimmy signed with Quan when he decided to make his comeback. Even Paris would think this was a juicy story if it wasn’t happening to her.
She continues to focus on her breathing, but her mind refuses to settle. None of this feels right. While she had no illusions that she and Jimmy would grow old together, she thought they had more time. In the two years they’d been married, they’d established an easy routine. Paris worked at the yoga studio six days a week, and Jimmy always had things going on. But Sundays were their day together. They should be having a lazy brunch right now at the nearby diner, where the owner always saved them a table by the window. Pancakes and bacon for Jimmy, waffles with strawberries for Paris. Afterward, they might head into Fremont for the farmers’ market or take a drive to Snohomish to do some antiques hunting. More often than not, though, they’d head home, where Jimmy would putter in the garden, trimming this and weeding that, while she cracked open a paperback and sat by the pool.
But this is not a normal Sunday. This is a fucking nightmare. Paris should have known it would end like this, because there’s no such thing as happily ever after when you run away from one life to start a whole new one.
Karma has come for her.
A feather from her ridiculous slippers tickles the top of her foot. Whenshe received them for her birthday last month—not her real birthday, but the one that’s listed on her ID—they were funny and cute. Her instructors at the studio had all chipped in to buy her the pair of seriously expensive Italian designer slides made out of pink ostrich feathers. They were supposed to stay at the studio so she’d have something to walk around in between classes, but she couldn’t resist bringing them home to show Jimmy. She knew he would laugh, and he did.
The slippers aren’t funny now. All they’ll do is play into the narrative the media keeps trying to create, which is that Paris is a rich, self-entitled asshole. She managed to fly under the radar for nineteen years after she escaped Toronto, only to have it all undone when Jimmy’s trusty assistant Zoe included their wedding photo with the press release about the streaming deal. Zoe couldn’t understand why Paris was so upset, but until that day, most people hadn’t even known that Jimmy Peralta had gotten married again. Paris had been living in blissful anonymity with her retired husband, and then it all went to hell.
As Zoe would say, the optics are terrible. Paris is Jimmy’s fifth wife, and she’s almost thirty years younger than he is. While the age difference was never a problem for Jimmy—why would it be?—it makes Paris look like a gold-digging bitch who was just waiting for her husband to die.
And now he’s dead.
CHAPTER TWO
The desk clerk at the King County jail asks for her phone, but Paris doesn’t have it with her. As far as she remembers, it’s still on the nightstand in her bedroom, in the house that’s now a crime scene.
“All personal items need to be bagged and placed in the bin,” the clerk informs her. Like the detective that brought her here, he hasn’t stopped staring since she was brought in. “That includes your jewelry.”
All Paris has is her wedding ring. Jimmy had offered to buy her an engagement ring, too, but she declined, insisting she would never wear it while teaching yoga anyway. In the end, he talked her into an eternity band crafted with fifteen fancy pink oval-shaped diamonds. The retail cost was an astounding $250,000, but the jeweler had offered Jimmy a discount if they were willing to have the ring photographed and publicized. Paris declined that, too.
“I don’t want the publicity,” she told Jimmy. “I’m really okay with a simple gold band.”
“Not a fucking chance.” Jimmy had a short conversation with the jeweler and slapped down his black Amex. Because he was Jimmy Peralta, he got the discount anyway.
“Paris Peralta.” The desk clerk says her name with a smirk as he types on his keyboard, drawing out the syllables.Paaarrrisssss Peraaaaalta. “My wife’s gonna shit herself when I tell her who I booked today. She was a big fan ofThe Prince of Poughkeepsie. Never liked the show myself. I always thought Jimmy Peralta was an ass.”
“Have some respect, Officer.” The detective is standing beside her, elbow to elbow, as if she thinks there’s a chance Paris might bolt. She tosses her head, and the tip of her ponytail flicks Paris’s bare arm. “The man is dead.”
Paris pulls off her wedding ring and passes it through the window. Beside her, she hears the detective mutter under her breath, “Jesus, it’s pink.” The desk clerk examines the ring closely before sealing it in a small plastic bag. He then drops it into the plastic bin, where it lands with an audiblesmack.
Inwardly, she winces.The value of that ring, Paris thinks,is probably triple what you earned last year.Outwardly, she maintains her composure. She’s not going to give anyone a story to sell to the tabloids. Instead, she makes eye contact with him through the smudged plexiglass window and stares him down. As she predicts, he’s a weasel, and his gaze drops back to his computer.
“Sign this.” He shoves her inventory list through the window. There’s only one item on it.Ring, diamond, pink. Paris scrawls her signature.
Another officer comes out from behind the desk and waits expectantly. The detective turns to Paris. She probably did introduce herself at the time of the arrest, but her name eludes Paris now, assuming she even heard it in the first place.
“We’ll need your clothes,” the detective says. “Slippers, too. They’ll give you something else to put on. And then I’ll come and talk to you, okay?”
“I’d like to call my lawyer,” Paris says.
The detective isn’t surprised, but she does seem disappointed. “You can do that after you’re processed.”
A buzzer sounds, and Paris is led through a set of doors and into a small, brightly lit room. She’s directed to take her clothes off in the corner behind a blue curtain. She undresses quickly, removing everything but her underwear, and puts on the sweatshirt, sweatpants, socks, and rubber slides they’ve given her. It’s a relief to get the bloodstained clothes off and change into footwear that doesn’t resemble a cat toy. Everything is stamped with the lettersDOC.
