Things We Do in the Dark(6)

“She asked you that because she’s jealous.” Jimmy moved a lock of hair off her face. “Full transparency—she and I dated back in high school. I was the class clown, she was the school valedictorian, and I broke her heart when I moved to LA after graduation. She’s never nice to any of my girlfriends at first. But she’ll come around. She always does.”

Over time, Paris and Elsie learned to tolerate each other, especially once they discovered they were on the same page about two important things: both were concerned about Jimmy’s comeback at the age of sixty-eight (though for very different reasons), and both completely blamed Zoe for the fact that it was happening. If Paris can get Elsie to believe that she didn’t kill Jimmy, she might have a shot at getting everyone else to believe it, too.

“I didn’t murder Jimmy,” she finally blurts, unable to stand the silence any longer.

“If I thought you did,” Elsie says calmly, “I wouldn’t be here.”

Paris exhales, slumping back against the wall with relief. But her hair catches on something sticky, so she straightens up again.

Elsie clicks her pen, tests the ink. She checks her reading glasses and uses the hem of her blouse to wipe away a smudge. Her hands won’t stop moving, as if she’s channeling everything she’s feeling into them, as if she’s afraid to be still because it will force her to fully process that something terrible has happened.

Because something terrible has.

“Elsie, I’m so sorry—”

“We don’t have much time, so let’s talk about all that later, okay?” Unlike her hands, Elsie’s voice is steady. “Right now, I need you to answer all my questions as accurately as you can. We’re meeting with Detective Kellogg in ten minutes. Has she tried to question you without me here?”

“I asked to call a lawyer as soon as I got here,” Paris says. “Elsie, Jimmy had—”

Elsie puts a hand up. “Save it for later. Just let me do my job. I need you to answer all my questions.”

Paris shuts up.

“Have you talked to anyone since you were arrested?”

“No.”

“What about since you were brought in?”

“No.”

“What about Little Miss Sunshine, the woman who just left?”

“I haven’t said anything to anyone.”

“Good.” Elsie’s voice turns brisk again. “Okay. You’ve been arrested on suspicion of murder, but that’s not a formal charge. The case is too high-profile, so they can’t afford to make mistakes. From what I’ve read in the arrest report, everything they have is circumstantial. You were married to Jimmy, you live in that house; it’s normal and expected that you would be in the bathroom and … touch things. Now, I want you to think hard. When did you discover Jimmy was dead?”

“Last night,” Paris says. “I had just gotten back from Vancouver—”

“What time?”

“Uh, two … maybe two thirty in the morning. Very late.”

“Did you drive or fly?”

“I drove.”

“So you crossed the border around midnight?”

“That sounds about right.”

Elsie scratches notes into her pad. “And then what?”

“When I got home, I noticed the alarm wasn’t set. But that’s not unusual, as Jimmy can’t be bothered half the time. You know how he is.”

Elsie nods without looking up.

“I went straight upstairs to get ready for bed. Jimmy always wants to know when I’m home, no matter what time it is, so I went down the hall to his bedroom.”

“His bedroom?”

“Yes, his bedroom.”

Elsie raises an eyebrow. “You sleep in different rooms?”

“We do.”

“When did that start?”

“It’s what we’ve always done,” Paris says. “Neither of us sleeps well with another person in the bed. He gets hot, so he’s constantly shifting around, and the slightest movement wakes me up.”

Jimmy would be mortified if anyone knew their sleeping arrangements, but it wasn’t a big deal. What she’d just told Elsie is true—they both preferred sleeping alone. It didn’t mean anything, but people will assign meaning to everything.

“So you went into his bedroom,” Elsie says. “Was the door open or closed?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Think.”

Paris has never seen Elsie in lawyer mode, and frankly, she’s a little scary. It’s hard to reconcile this version of her with the one Paris usually sees. At Paris and Jimmy’s anniversary party a month ago, the woman was draped across a grand piano with a glass of wine in one hand and a microphone in the other, singing “If Ever I Would Leave You” from Camelot.

“The door was slightly open,” Paris says. “I don’t think I turned the knob. I just pushed.”

“Continue.”

“I saw the bathroom light was on—”

“Wait, back up. Had the bed been slept in?”

“I—” Paris stops. “I didn’t look at the bed. I saw the bathroom light and headed straight there.”

“Was the bathroom door open or closed?”