Things We Do in the Dark(9)

“Except it’s not the murder weapon, because it’s not murder,” Elsie says. “And it hasn’t been confirmed yet that the straight razor is what actually caused Jimmy’s death. You’re only assuming it was because it was in the bathroom. The medical examiner’s early estimation is that death occurred between nine p.m. and midnight. My client was nowhere near the house at that time. Again, why don’t you just ask border patrol to send you photos of the time she crossed so we can all go home?”

“Apparently, US Border Patrol experienced some kind of technical glitch last night, so they can’t confirm anything just yet.” The detective speaks to Elsie, but she’s observing Paris. “And until they figure it out, we don’t know where your client was at the time her husband was killed.”

“Check her phone records,” Elsie says.

Shit.

“We tried.” Kellogg leans back and addresses Paris directly. “But it appears the whole weekend you were gone, your phone never left your house.”

“I forgot it at home.” Paris works to keep her voice even. When telling a lie, it’s always best not to rush or overexplain. “I was almost at the border by the time I realized I didn’t have it.”

“So you went the whole weekend without a phone?”

“Yes.” Another lie. Paris doesn’t blink.

The detective smiles. “Well, that makes you the unluckiest person in the world.”

“You’re really going to hold her on this?” Elsie’s either a great actor or she truly is flabbergasted. Paris is betting on the former.

“I’ve held murder suspects on a lot less,” Kellogg says. “Because it’s murder, counselor. Your client is almost thirty years younger than her husband, who happened to be a very famous and very wealthy man.”

“And? Jimmy’s will leaves nearly everything to charity. I would know.” Elsie crosses her arms over her chest. “I was the one who drafted it. My client had no motive to kill her husband.”

“That we know of. We’ve only just begun our investigation, and rest assured, we will leave no stone unturned.” Detective Kellogg gives Paris another small smile. “You’re a little mysterious, you know that? It makes me want to … dig.”

A bonfire of fear ignites in Paris’s stomach, and it takes every ounce of willpower to not let it show.

“Let’s also not forget the interesting thing she admitted after the officers arrested her,” Kellogg adds.

“You mean the few meaningless words she said after she hit her head?” Elsie scoffed. “That’s not admission, that’s confusion. Let her go home so she can properly mourn her husband.”

“Yeah, about that.” The detective cocks her head, her ponytail swaying behind her. “Are you even sad, Mrs. Peralta? Because you really don’t seem like it.”

Elsie puts a hand on her arm. “Don’t answer—”

“How I grieve is none of your business,” Paris snaps, ignoring her lawyer. “I’m sorry that I don’t fit how a grieving widow is supposed to act a few hours after she’s been accused of murdering her husband. Next time, I’ll read the memo in advance that details the appropriate behaviors and be sure to rehearse first.”

The tiny smile from Kellogg remains, and she taps on her notepad. “Walk me through exactly how you found him.”

Paris repeats the same story she told her lawyer, and finds it’s much easier the second time around.

“Tell me, Mrs. Peralta,” the detective says when Paris finishes. “If your husband took his own life, as you both are so certain he did, why do you think he cut his leg? Why not his wrists? That’s what most people would do.”

“I can answer that,” Elsie says confidently, and Paris turns to her in surprise. “When Jimmy attempted suicide before, he did cut his arm. Obviously he didn’t die. But the scar, which ran halfway down his forearm, forever bothered him.”

“That’s how he got that scar?” Paris says to Elsie. “He told me he fell through a plate-glass window while he was high.”

“He did. But that’s not how he got that scar.”

Paris sits back in her chair. What else doesn’t she know about Jimmy’s past? It seems her husband had just as many secrets as she does.

“To me, it makes sense that he’d choose a spot on his body he could easily hide.” Elsie turns her attention back to Detective Kellogg. “It would have been his way of protecting his future self, in the event that he survived.”

“If I didn’t know otherwise, I might have thought you were his wife, you know him so well,” Kellogg says to Elsie. She turns back to Paris. “Anyway, we have lots of time to put the pieces together. You never know what might turn up in the next day or two.”

Paris’s stomach burns.

“We’re done here,” Elsie says.

“I figured,” the detective says.

Elsie gets up to bang on the door. Detective Kellogg stays seated, continuing to stare at Paris thoughtfully, as if trying to figure her out. Well, Detective Frosted Flakes can try as hard as she wants, but so far, nobody ever has.

“How much longer do I have to stay here?” Paris asks Elsie as they follow an officer back to the holding cell.