Things We Do in the Dark(74)

Sonny leans back in his chair, stretches his arms up, and laces his fingers behind his head. Paris once read that this was a power move, something that people—men, usually—subconsciously did to demonstrate their dominance over the people around them.

“Paris, it doesn’t matter whether you killed him,” Sonny says, and for the first time since he arrived, he doesn’t sound completely abrasive. “For the purposes of your trial, I don’t give a shit whether you did it or not. That’s between you and your God. What matters is what story we can sell to a jury in order to plant reasonable doubt that you didn’t do it. In court, what matters is what the prosecutor can prove, and the burden of proof is on them. Nico Salazar is going to craft the most plausible narrative he can to paint a picture for the jury of why and how you murdered your husband.”

“And Sonny’s job is to refute that story,” Elsie says. “He’ll poke holes, he’ll discredit witnesses, he’ll take every scrap of evidence the prosecution has and demonstrate how it can be interpreted three different ways. But if he also has his own narrative that he can sell to the jury about what happened, even better.”

“So then why don’t you both tell me what you think the story should be.” Paris speaks through gritted teeth. “Better yet, just tell me what the hell you want me to say, and I’ll say it. Because clearly me telling you the truth isn’t enough.”

“Now you’re getting it.” Sonny grins, exposing a row of very white teeth. It’s a shark smile if there ever was one. “Which doesn’t mean we don’t tell the truth. But we need to package it in a way that makes it easiest for the jury to actually believe.”

“I understand,” Paris says. “You want to reinterpret the information so it tells a whole different story of what happened.”

“Bingo,” Sonny says. “I knew you were smarter than you looked.”

Gee, thanks, you mansplaining, roid-raging prick.

Sonny pulls several folders out of his briefcase and slides them toward Paris. “I need you to look carefully at all of these.”

“What are they?”

“Police reports, medical findings, forensic analyses, autopsy photos, and crime scene photos,” Sonny says. “Everything the prosecutor is using to build his case against you.”

“I don’t want to look at photos,” Paris says.

“Too bad.” Sonny cracks his knuckles. “This is your life we’re trying to save, and if you want to help yourself, then you need to see everything Nico Salazar sees. You need to be prepared.” He taps the top folder. “Start with this one.”

Paris looks at Elsie. “Do I have to?”

The other woman nods. “It’s going to be okay. You’ve already seen the real thing. These photos will look a lot more … clinical. I’ve looked through them already.”

In this moment, Paris resents them both. Bracing herself, she opens the folder.

It’s one thing to get a look at Jimmy in the bathtub for a moment or two before hitting her head and passing out. It’s a whole other thing to see a brightly lit photograph of her husband’s dead body lying in a tub full of blood and water, in high definition, from multiple angles, some of them close-up.

Although, as Elsie said, it’s not quite as shocking as she was expecting. She never did see the wound where the straight razor cut him. The laceration on Jimmy’s thigh is small, straight, and neat. It’s crazy to think that his entire life’s essence drained out of that one small spot. And even with the vacant stare, his face looks peaceful in the photo, which is not how she remembers it. It does help her to know that he died peacefully.

Unlike Charles.

Unlike Mae.

She works her way through all the photos. The crime scene unit photographed absolutely everything in the bathroom—the tile, the towels, even the contents of the vanity.

“Stop,” Sonny says, when she comes to a photo of the inside of one of the vanity drawers. “Explain this to me.”

Paris looks down at the photo, not sure what he’s asking. It’s obvious what they are. Jimmy kept his small collection of straight razors in the drawer, and the photo shows three of them lined up neatly in their cases, on top of a microfiber cloth. Across the table, Elsie looks uneasy, as if she knows exactly where Sonny is going with this.

“Why are his straight razors in the bathroom?” Sonny asks. “According to his medical records, Jimmy had a benign tremor in his right hand. And according to you, he was presenting symptoms of early dementia. So why, exactly, were these very sharp—and obviously deadly—straight razors in his drawer?”

“I … I never thought about it.” Paris looks at Elsie, and then back at Sonny. “I mean, we still have knives in the kitchen, an ax in the shed, a saw in the garage, a weed whacker…”

“But none of those things are meant to go over your throat,” Sonny says. “Weren’t you concerned that he might forget that he wasn’t supposed to shave with a straight razor anymore?”

Paris begins to understand the point her lawyer is making, and she slumps in her chair. That’s actually exactly what happened the morning she left for Vancouver, and a huge argument ensued. She’d assumed Jimmy was being reckless and stubborn, and that he’d gone back on his promise to switch to the electric shaver she’d bought him. Jimmy had lashed out, furious, saying he didn’t want to be told what he could and could not do. He’d accused her of treating him like a child.