“Send me the paperwork,” Paris said. “I’m a realist, I know this might not last. But tell me when you want to get married, because I’ll need to find coverage for my classes.”
She signed the prenup, but it didn’t take long before she began to suspect that Jimmy actually had more money than he’d let on. His insistence on her quarter-of-a-million-dollar wedding ring was the first clue. But then as a wedding gift, he paid off the balance of the mortgage on her condo, encouraging her to rent it out and bank the income. And then he bought her a Tesla, a pair of diamond stud earrings, and a Birkin bag. He had money. And after signing with Quan, he had a whole lot more.
She never did ask him about it. Everybody was entitled to their secrets, and if she demanded to know his, he might demand to know hers. She’d lived a couple of different lives before the one she shared with Jimmy. And both those lives had ended with someone murdered.
And now here she is again.
You can run all the way from Toronto, away from the dead bodies and into a whole new life with a whole new name, and it still doesn’t matter. Because while you can reinvent yourself, you can’t outrun yourself. As a woman once reminded her a long time ago, the common denominator in all the terrible things that have happened to you is you.
Everywhere you go, there you are.
CHAPTER SIX
When Paris wakes up the next morning, Statler and Waldorf are gone, and so is her Cuban sandwich.
A new person is huddled in the corner where the Muppets used to be, her small body drowning in an oversize hoodie pulled up and over her forehead. It’s hard to tell if her eyes are open or closed. Either way, she doesn’t acknowledge Paris, and that’s fine, because Paris is in no mood to talk. The problem with falling asleep is that when you wake up, you get a fresh dose of reality.
Jimmy is dead.
The pain threatens to stab its way in, and she needs to move her body before it can pierce too deeply. She stands up and practices a simple sun salutation flow to stretch her muscles and get the blood flowing, which will help clear her head. Beginning with tadasana, also known as mountain pose, the flow normally takes ten minutes. She completes all the postures except for upward and downward dog, which would require her to place her hands on the floor. Instead, she opts to finish with malasana, garland pose, which is a full squat with her hands in prayer position. It feels good, so she stays here for a while, creating space in her spine and allowing her hips and groin to open up. When she’s ready, she stands up slowly, then takes a seat back on the bench. She closes her eyes, breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth. Inhale, exhale. Namaste.
“I knew it was you,” a voice says from the corner. Paris opens her eyes. Her cellmate has uncurled herself, but her face is still obscured. “I used to be a member of your studio back when you were in Fremont, before you changed locations.”
“Oh.” Paris isn’t sure what to say to this. Ocean Breath has had thousands of members over the years, and she can’t exactly say nice to see you again if she has no idea who the woman is. Also, it’s not like they’re bumping into each other at the coffee shop. “That’s … great.”
“I saw the video of your arrest.” The woman pushes the hood off her face. “Did you do it?”
Paris jolts at the sight of her. She remembers the woman. Charlotte … something. She attended class every Saturday morning for a couple of years at the original location, just as she said. In her current state, Charlotte is almost unrecognizable. One of her eyes is swollen purple, there’s a bandage on her cheek, and her upper lip is split. She didn’t trip and fall. She didn’t get into a fender bender. Someone beat this woman, and badly. Paris knows how she feels, and she knows it must hurt like hell to even talk.
“Are you okay?” Paris asks, concerned. “You should be in the hospital.”
“I’m fine,” Charlotte says. “It looks worse than it feels.”
Paris is familiar with this line, having used it herself many times in the past. “What happened?”
“I killed my husband last night.”
“Don’t say that.” Alarmed, Paris glances up at the camera.
“I don’t care, I already gave my statement.” Charlotte leans back against the wall and gives the camera a little wave. “It was self-defense. Nigel beat the shit out of me for years, but last night, when he went after our daughter, I did what I had to do. I don’t regret it, and I’d do it again.”