Things We Do in the Dark(62)

She’s home.

Nothing appears any different, although the house smells like bleach and citrus. Paris sits in her usual spot at the kitchen table. She can almost pretend things are normal. When she looks out the window into the backyard, she half expects to see Jimmy there, fiddling with his tomato plants, fishing leaves out of the pool with his net, barbecuing chicken on the grill.

But Jimmy isn’t here. Jimmy will never be here again.

His ancient Sony boombox is still in its usual place on the counter, and she picks through the neat stack of cassette tapes beside it. Her husband owned three portable stereos of the same vintage—one here, one in his office, and one in his bathroom upstairs. Not long after they got married, one of them had stopped working, so Paris bought Jimmy a brand-new stereo with a CD player instead of a cassette deck, Bluetooth, and an auxiliary plug for MP3s.

She discovered it on one of the garage shelves a few weeks later, still in the box. His old portable stereo was working again, because he’d made Zoe find a place that would repair it.

“Don’t be offended,” Jimmy said to Paris. “I’ve had these stereos since the eighties, and I’m attached to them.” He kissed her on the forehead. “Besides, technology sucks, kid. Always best to go old school.”

She wasn’t offended at all. Jimmy liked what he liked, and she didn’t marry him to change him.

She chooses a cassette at random and inserts it. The buttons are so loose it takes no effort to press play. She turns the volume up loud. As the opening bars to “Free Bird” by Lynyrd Skynyrd waft out of the speakers, it’s like Jimmy is here again, dancing with her in the kitchen. If I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me …

A sob of grief wells up in her throat, so thick she can’t swallow it back down. For once, she doesn’t try. The sobs come so fast and hard, they physically hurt her stomach, racking her entire body until it feels like she can’t breathe.

The last time she cried like this, she was a child. She had reached for her mother for comfort, but Ruby had remained where she was, smoking a cigarette, observing her daughter with disgust, as if she were a cockroach Ruby had just stepped on. You’re going to cry now? Really? Are you trying to make me mad?

Paris feels a hand on her shoulder, and jumps. She looks up to see Jimmy’s assistant—former assistant—standing over her.

“It’s okay,” Zoe says. “It’s okay, Paris. Let it out. I’m here. It’s okay.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


Zoe offers her a box of tissues, and Paris yanks out a bunch so she can dry her eyes and blow her nose. The woman has some fucking nerve showing up here. One, she called Paris a murderer. Two, she was fired.

“Why are you even here?” Paris finally asks when she can speak properly. “Did you forget that you don’t work here anymore? How’d you even get in?”

“I rang the doorbell but nobody answered, and my code still works. I just came to pick up some things I left.” Zoe hesitates. “Can we talk?”

“No.”

Zoe takes a seat perpendicular to her at the kitchen table. “I am so, so sorry—”

“No.”

“Paris, please.” Zoe’s face is filled with anguish. “I know I should have talked to you first, but try to look at it from my perspective. I saw Jimmy in the tub and you on the floor, and then I saw the razor, and there was blood everywhere … it looked so bad, and I was scared, so I called 911. If I’d given myself a chance to at least think about it, I would have known that you couldn’t have hurt him. I know you loved him. I know you didn’t marry him for the money.”

“Oh look, you’re still here,” Paris says.

“I worked for Jimmy for fifteen years.” Zoe rubs her head, her brown hair bouncing around. “I actually knew his last two wives, and right from the get-go, it was obvious why they were with him, and it had nothing to do with love. The last one, I don’t even think she liked him. When I met you, I assumed you’d be the same. But you weren’t. You aren’t. You’re younger than he is, yes, but you’re independent. You have a job. You have your own business. And I could see the way you two looked at each other. You loved each other, but you also really, really liked each other.”

A tear escapes down Paris’s cheek, and she swipes at it. “So then why have we never gotten along?”

“Because you don’t like me,” Zoe says simply. “You’ve never liked me.”

Paris stares at her. “That’s not true.”

“You thought I was using him, just like I thought you were. I could tell you couldn’t understand why I followed Jimmy here from LA, why I stuck around to work for someone who’d retired. But Jimmy … he treated me like family. I moved to LA at eighteen to be a singer-songwriter. I was so naive. Within three months, I was broke.”


Zoe looks down and smiles. “But then Jimmy hired me. At first it was just a way to pay the bills, but the work was okay. He let me have time off for gigs. He helped me pay for my studio time when I recorded my first demo. You didn’t know Jimmy back then, but he was basically an asshole ninety percent of the time. But the other ten percent, he was generous, and supportive.”

Paris has heard lots of stories about Jimmy’s ugly side. She’d never seen it herself until recently.