Things We Do in the Dark(3)

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 of The 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 audible smack.

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 letters DOC.

She’s fingerprinted and photographed. Her hair is a matted mess, but it’s not like she can borrow a hairbrush. She looks straight at the camera and lifts her chin. Jimmy once said that it’s near impossible to not look like a criminal in a mugshot. He would know. He was arrested twice for driving under the influence and once for assault after shoving a heckler in Las Vegas after a show. In all three mugshots, he looked guilty as hell.

The processing done, she’s led to an elevator for a quick ride down one floor. The young officer escorting her shoots furtive glances in her direction from time to time, but he doesn’t say a word until they get to the holding cell. In a voice that squeaks (followed by a quick throat clear), he directs her to go inside. As soon as she steps in, the bars close and lock with a clang.

And just like that, Paris is in jail.

It’s both better and worse than she always imagined, and she has imagined it many times. It’s bigger than she expected, and there’s only one other person in here, a woman who’s currently passed out on the opposite side of the cell. One bare leg hangs off the edge of the bench, and the soles of her bare feet are filthy. Her tight neon-yellow dress is covered in stains from an indeterminate substance, but at least she wasn’t forced to change her clothes. Whatever she’s being held for, it’s not murder.