Things We Do in the Dark(18)
“But I never even knew how much he—”
“We’ll discuss it later.”
The manager of the Emerald greets them with a frosty smile, offering them both a cold, limp handshake. Paris has met him before, when she and Jimmy spent a week in the hotel’s Rainier Suite while they had their hardwood floors refinished. He’d been warm and accommodating then. Now he seems … put out.
“It will be a few more minutes for the room.” The manager leads them down a hallway to a small office with a plate on the door that reads THOMAS MANNION, GENERAL MANAGER. With his small, round, gold-rimmed glasses and his elbows resting on the table, hands in prayer position, Mannion reminds Paris of the villain in the first Indiana Jones movie, the one whose face melted at the end. His long fingers tap together. “Had we been given more notice, the room would have been ready for your arrival. Might you have some idea of how long you’ll be staying?”
“Mrs. Peralta will be here at least a few days,” Elsie says. “We certainly appreciate your ability to accommodate our last-minute request.”
A fake smile flickers across the manager’s face and then disappears.
Elsie turns to her. “I asked Zoe to make sure you’ll have everything you need. Do not leave the hotel for any reason. Stay in your room at all times. And don’t forget this.” She hands Paris a small plastic bag.
Paris is amazed that Zoe would be willing to help with anything. “But when are you and I going to talk?”
“I’ll call you later.” Elsie gives her a look that shuts her up. The manager is three feet away, and he’s not even pretending not to listen. “In the meantime, have a shower, order room service, take a nap. And remember—”
“I know. Don’t talk to anyone.”
There’s a soft ping. Mannion checks his phone.
“Your room is ready,” he announces. “Mrs. Peralta, if you’ll follow me.”
Paris says goodbye to Elsie and wonders if she should start looking for a new lawyer. The woman is so angry with her that it’s hard to imagine she’ll be back.
The manager escorts her to an elevator reserved for staff. The true depth of Mannion’s dislike for her becomes clear once they reach her room. Which turns out to be the Rainier Suite.
It looks exactly the same as it did the last time she was here. Fourteen hundred square feet, nine-foot ceilings, with a foyer, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a living room, a dining room, and a fully stocked bar. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase perfect views of the snowcapped mountain the suite is named after. A gigantic basket of fruit is on the coffee table, and beside it are several shopping bags and a large cardboard box.
The only thing missing is Jimmy.
“This is way more than I need,” Paris says. “I’d really be fine with a smaller room.”
“Ms. Moffatt requested an upgrade to the same suite you and your husband stayed in the last time, to ensure your optimum comfort.” The manager’s voice is flat. “We were happy to honor that request. All of us here at the Emerald are—were—huge fans of your husband.”
She waits for him to offer some kind of obligatory condolences, but he doesn’t. Instead, he plucks a business card from his breast pocket and sets it on the foyer table.
“Jimmy Peralta was a loyal, valued guest of our hotel,” Mannion says. “If there’s anything you need, you may contact me personally. As Ms. Dixon mentioned, it’s best you stay in the suite at all times, so as not to attract the attention of the other guests. It also makes it easier for my staff to ensure your safety.” He glances down at her ankle, where the little light on her monitoring bracelet is flashing green. “We hope you’re not here too long.”
Polite rudeness is a difficult skill to master, she’ll give him that. As soon as he leaves, she presses the button for the electronic DO NOT DISTURB sign and engages the deadbolt.
The plastic bag Elsie handed her in the manager’s office holds a wall charger and an extra battery from the GPS monitoring company. She plugs it into the living room wall, then plops down on the sofa with a heavy sigh. It feels good to sit on something not made entirely of metal, but the ugly black band around her ankle feels strange. She can only take it off for fifteen minutes a day to shower, and the mere thought of constantly having it on makes her skin itch. If Jimmy were here, he’d say something funny, make some kind of joke to lighten her mood.
She looks over at the door, half expecting him to be there. It feels like he could let himself in at any minute, wearing his palm-tree swim trunks, a towel around his neck, his hair wet from the hotel pool as he tosses his key card onto the table. Babe, hurry up. The breakfast buffet ends in thirty minutes, and they got an omelet station.
The sadness radiates throughout Paris’s whole body, filling her up and hollowing her out at the same time. She might feel some relief if she could just cry, but the tears refuse to come. You don’t stop with that baby shit I swear to God I’m going to punch you in the face.
She breaks off a banana from the basket and pokes through the shopping bags Zoe has left for her while she eats it. She has to admit, Jimmy’s assistant has come through. She bought Paris a new iPhone, still in the box, with her new cell number scrawled on a sticky note. There are also T-shirts, leggings, pajamas, underwear, and all her regular toiletries and skincare products. She even went to the post office and picked up Jimmy’s fan mail, which is what’s in the large cardboard box.