Page 19 of Things We Do in the Dark
“Can I bring you anything? A pillow? A book? A shank?”
He’s trying to make her laugh, but the best she can manage is a snort. “I love you. Just track Elsie down, okay? And maybe you could let the instructors know what’s going on.”
“P, they’re saying…” A pause. “They’re saying you killed Jimmy. I know that’s not possible, because I knowyou. You’re not a murderer.”
“I appreciate that,” Paris says, and after saying goodbye, they hang up.
Henry has always been a supportive friend, and he’s loyal to the core. But he doesn’t know her, not really.
Nobody does.
CHAPTER THREE
Thanks to the wonders of sensory adaptation, Paris has gone nose blind and can no longer smell the various odors that assaulted her when she first entered the holding cell. Unfortunately, she can’t say the same about the noises.
She sits on the bench with her hands in her lap, doing her best to ignore her cellmate’s snores mixing with the random chatter wafting in from the other cells. Everything is going to be fine. Elsie will be here soon, and she’ll know exactly what to do, because Elsie Dixon is a lawyer, and that’s what lawyers do.
Except she’s not just a lawyer. Elsie is also Jimmy’s best friend. The two of them met in high school fifty years ago, which makes their friendship eleven years older than Paris. There will be no question where the woman’s loyalties lie, and if she believes there’s the slightest chance that Paris murdered her dearest friend, Elsie will not show up today, or ever.
She hopes Elsie shows up.
In the meantime, there’s nothing to do but wait. And without a phone or a book to distract herself, all there is to do is think. And the longer she thinks, the more the pain of Jimmy’s death tries to fight its way in. Paris doesn’t want to feel it. Not here and not now, because she doesn’t know how to feel the depth of her grief while also saving herself from the mess she’s now in. She closes her eyes. Even if she didn’t kill her husband, it sure as hell looks like she did.
The part that nobody could ever seem to accept is that Paris actually loved Jimmy very much. But it wasn’t necessarilyromanticlove, and that’s the part that bothers people. Apparently you’re only supposed to marry someone you’re head over heels for, someone you can’t get enough of, someone you can’t imagine your life without. By that definition, what she and Jimmy had wouldn’t be considered love at all. Their feet were always on solid ground. They probably spent more time apart than they did together. Andof coursethey could live without each other.Please. Jimmy had lived a whole sixty-five years before he met Paris, achieving a level of success most comedians would never reach. Paris was thirty-six when she met Jimmy, and was fine being on her own. She was an old soul; he was young at heart. Their relationship worked.
And yet, all anyone could see—the press, Jimmy’s friends, and especially Elsie—was the twenty-nine-year age difference.
“We’re good together, don’t you think?” Jimmy had said to her during lunch one random Wednesday. They’d been seeing each other for about nine months. “Have you ever thought about getting married?”
“To who?”
“To me, you dope.”
She almost choked on the pastrami-on-rye they were sharing. Jimmy wasn’t capable of eating a sandwich that didn’t include deli meat.
“Are you proposing?” she asked.
“I guess I am.”
It wasn’t romantic. Jimmy wasn’t built that way and neither was she. They were two adults making a decision to do life together, and that was enough for both of them. They got married in Kauai three months later, at sunset, in an intimate ceremony on the beach. Jimmy’s good friend, a big-time Hollywood director whose own wife was younger than Paris, flew the small group there on his Gulfstream. Elsie was there—she came solo, as she’d never found anyone special after her second marriage ended a decade earlier—and so were Henry and his longtime partner, Brent. Bob and Elaine Cavanaugh from next door were invited, too. And, of course, Zoe.
The thought of Jimmy’s frizzy-haired assistant makes Paris want to stab something.
“Peralta. Your lawyer is here.”
She opens her eyes to see the same young officer from earlier unlocking the doors to the cell. Somehow, three hours have passed. Considering that Jimmy’s oldest friend only lives twenty minutes away from the courthouse, Elsie sure took her time getting here.
But at least she’s here. And the officer saidyour lawyer, which hopefully means Elsie is here to help.
“Garza,” the officer says in a louder voice. Hearing her name, Paris’s cellmate wakes up again. “You made bail. Let’s go.”
Yawning, the woman stands and waggles her fingers at Paris. Her nails are painted the same tennis ball yellow as her dress. She still seems drunk, and she nearly collides with Elsie, who steps aside just in time. Elsie’s nose wrinkles at the other woman’s smell.
“Bye, princess,” she says over her shoulder before disappearing down the hallway.
Finally, the lawyer is permitted to enter. Elsie Dixon is only five two, but she has the personality of someone six feet tall. Her silver hair is cut in a chin-length bob, her signature style, and she’s dressed as if she’s on her way to a ladies’ brunch—if the brunch was on a tropical cruise. Her pink pumps match her drapey pink blouse and floral skirt, and her chunky turquoise statement necklace complements her blue eyes. This is a normal outfit for her.
Elsie’s eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. She doesn’t say hello or ask Paris how she’s doing. She flicks a speck of dirt off the bench before taking a seat.
