Things We Do in the Dark(7)

“Open, about halfway. When I got closer, I saw him in the tub.”

“And what, exactly, did you see?”

Paris takes a breath and closes her eyes. She can see Jimmy lying in the bathtub. He’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt, his head leaning to one side at an awkward angle. His eyes are open. One arm dangles over the rim of the tub, which is half full of red water. Except it’s not just water. It’s blood. So much blood.

“He was in the tub.” To her own ears, Paris’s voice sounds distant. “It looked like he was dead, but I couldn’t be sure. I rushed over and pressed on his wrist, and then his neck. There was no pulse. His skin felt cool to the touch.”

And there was screaming. So much screaming. Coming from her.

Elsie closes her eyes briefly. “Could you tell how he died?”

“No. There was too much blood in the tub to see.”

“And then what did you do?”

“I tried to lift him up.”

Elsie looks up from her notepad. “Why?”

“I know it doesn’t make sense, but … I didn’t want to leave him in there.” Paris looks away. “But he was so heavy, and I couldn’t get a good grip. When I tried to pull him out, he slipped, and the bathwater splashed everywhere, all over the floor, all over me.”

“What did you do then?”

“I felt my foot touch something, and when I looked down, I caught a glimpse of something shiny. I bent down to pick it up … and then I must have slipped, because I don’t remember anything after that.”

“The report says you hit your head.”

“I guess so.” Paris touches the butterfly bandage on her forehead. “All I know is that when I woke up, my face was on the floor, and the sun was up. There was blood everywhere. Someone was screaming, and I heard my name. I sat up, and saw that there were police officers standing just outside the bathroom. When I tried to stand, the officers immediately drew their guns.”

“The report says you were holding a straight razor.”

“I didn’t realize it until they told me.” Paris looks at Elsie. “One of the officers said, ‘Mrs. Peralta, please put the weapon down,’ and I looked down and saw the razor in my hand. I tried to explain that it wasn’t a weapon, that it was just one of Jimmy’s straight razors, but the words wouldn’t come.”

“The report says you were waving it around.” Elsie raises an eyebrow. “The word they used was brandishing.”

“For God’s sake, that wasn’t my intention,” Paris says helplessly. “I understand that’s probably what it looked like. My head was pounding, and I was having a hard time hearing them because Zoe wouldn’t stop screaming. When they said, ‘Drop the razor,’ I did. But they were still staring at me, like I was something out of a horror movie. That’s when I saw myself in the mirror. I looked like Carrie at the prom.”

“What happened next?”

“One of the officers told me to turn around slowly. He handcuffed me, read me my rights. When they led me out of the bedroom, Zoe was at the bottom of the stairs, still screaming at me, asking how I could have done it, how I could have murdered Jimmy. And then the detective said, ‘Mrs. Peralta, did you murder your husband?’”

“And you said…?”

“I said, ‘I don’t remember.’”

Elsie sighs, the lines in her forehead deepening. “Not the greatest choice of words.”

“It’s just what slipped out.” Paris can hear the desperation in her own voice. “Elsie, I think Jimmy killed himself. I know that probably sounds crazy, but—”

“It actually doesn’t.” Elsie puts her pen down and meets Paris’s gaze. “I just never thought he’d try it again.”

Paris’s mouth drops open. “Again?”

“He never told you?”

No, he did not. “He only ever told me about the overdoses.”

“It was a long time ago, about a year after The Prince of Poughkeepsie ended. Not long after his mother died.” Elsie’s eyes are moist. “He left a suicide note and everything. I’m actually not surprised he didn’t tell you. He was deeply ashamed of it. He was hospitalized for a week. We managed to keep it out of the press. That was … a rough time.”

“I didn’t see a note.”

“I’ll make sure the forensic team knows to look for one.” Elsie’s face is impossible to read as she jots it down on her pad. “But I’m going to level with you, Paris. It looks bad. Without witnesses or a suicide note, they can probably make a case for murder. His femoral artery was severed. They’re going to say that’s an unusual place for him to cut himself, because it is.”

Paris slumps.

“But we do have one good thing on our side,” Elsie says, but before she can tell Paris what that is, the officer is back.

Both women look up as the cell door opens again. “Detective Kellogg will meet you in room three,” he says.

Elsie packs up her briefcase. “Answer all her questions unless I direct you not to. In which case, you stop talking. Immediately.”

“Got it.”

As they follow the officer down the hallway, Paris’s hands begin to shake. It’s finally beginning to sink in. Jimmy is really dead. He won’t be home when she gets there. He won’t ask her if she’s in the mood to cook anything for dinner, or whether he should grill salmon or steak. He won’t kiss the top of her head and say, “I’m good with whatever you want, babe.”