Things We Do in the Dark(14)

Jimmy is dead.

The pain threatens to stab its way in, and she needs to move her body before it can pierce too deeply. She stands up and practices a simple sun salutation flow to stretch her muscles and get the blood flowing, which will help clear her head. Beginning with tadasana, also known as mountain pose, the flow normally takes ten minutes. She completes all the postures except for upward and downward dog, which would require her to place her hands on the floor. Instead, she opts to finish with malasana, garland pose, which is a full squat with her hands in prayer position. It feels good, so she stays here for a while, creating space in her spine and allowing her hips and groin to open up. When she’s ready, she stands up slowly, then takes a seat back on the bench. She closes her eyes, breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth. Inhale, exhale. Namaste.

“I knew it was you,” a voice says from the corner. Paris opens her eyes. Her cellmate has uncurled herself, but her face is still obscured. “I used to be a member of your studio back when you were in Fremont, before you changed locations.”

“Oh.” Paris isn’t sure what to say to this. Ocean Breath has had thousands of members over the years, and she can’t exactly say nice to see you again if she has no idea who the woman is. Also, it’s not like they’re bumping into each other at the coffee shop. “That’s … great.”

“I saw the video of your arrest.” The woman pushes the hood off her face. “Did you do it?”

Paris jolts at the sight of her. She remembers the woman. Charlotte … something. She attended class every Saturday morning for a couple of years at the original location, just as she said. In her current state, Charlotte is almost unrecognizable. One of her eyes is swollen purple, there’s a bandage on her cheek, and her upper lip is split. She didn’t trip and fall. She didn’t get into a fender bender. Someone beat this woman, and badly. Paris knows how she feels, and she knows it must hurt like hell to even talk.

“Are you okay?” Paris asks, concerned. “You should be in the hospital.”

“I’m fine,” Charlotte says. “It looks worse than it feels.”

Paris is familiar with this line, having used it herself many times in the past. “What happened?”

“I killed my husband last night.”

“Don’t say that.” Alarmed, Paris glances up at the camera.

“I don’t care, I already gave my statement.” Charlotte leans back against the wall and gives the camera a little wave. “It was self-defense. Nigel beat the shit out of me for years, but last night, when he went after our daughter, I did what I had to do. I don’t regret it, and I’d do it again.”

Paris crosses the cell and takes a seat beside Charlotte on the bench. “How did you kill him?” she asks in a low voice.

Charlotte looks at Paris with her one good eye. “He was beating on me, but when he hit Olivia, I just … snapped. I pushed him without even thinking. He fell backward down the stairs. Broke his neck.” Her eyes are moist. “I didn’t mean to kill him, I just wanted him to stop. But I’m not sad he’s dead. It was always going to end with one of us in a casket. I just wish my daughter hadn’t seen it, you know? I’m worried it’s going to mess her up when she’s older.”

“How old is she?”

“Six.”

“There’s a good chance she won’t remember,” Paris says. “At this age, their minds are so malleable. Just tell Olivia every day that you love her, that it’s not her fault, and that she’s a good girl. Over time, she’ll understand that you slayed a monster. For her.”

A small smile, followed by a wince. Charlotte’s lip is still raw. “You must have slayed a monster yourself at some point. That, or you have kids.”

“I don’t have kids,” Paris says. “But I remember what it was like to be a kid. And these were the things I would have wanted to hear.”

The woman nods, her tears beginning to flow freely, though she makes no sound. Paris understands this, too. It’s always best to cry silently, so you don’t make things worse. Stop those fucking tears God I hate your face when you cry.

They both turn their heads as an officer appears at the cell.

“Peralta,” he says, unlocking the door. “You’re being transferred to the courthouse. Your lawyer will meet you there.”

“Good luck,” Charlotte says, and touches Paris’s arm.

“You too,” Paris says.

They’ll both need it.



* * *



The elevator ride is quick, and this time they go up instead of down, stopping a few floors above the main level. There’s a walkway that connects the jail to the courthouse, and since Paris’s wrists are cuffed, the officer holds her elbow as they pass through.

When they arrive on the other side, Elsie is waiting. No tropical colors for the older woman today. For her court appearance, the lawyer has chosen a pinstriped navy skirt and matching jacket paired with a crisp white blouse. Standing beside her is an attractive young woman in a dark pantsuit, platinum hair in a sleek bun, holding a Nordstrom bag. This must be the junior associate Elsie mentioned the day before. The young woman appraises Paris through her trendy, oversize glasses.

“This is Hazel,” Elsie says.