She continues to focus on her breathing, but her mind refuses to settle. None of this feels right. While she had no illusions that she and Jimmy would grow old together, she thought they had more time. In the two years they’d been married, they’d established an easy routine. Paris worked at the yoga studio six days a week, and Jimmy always had things going on. But Sundays were their day together. They should be having a lazy brunch right now at the nearby diner, where the owner always saved them a table by the window. Pancakes and bacon for Jimmy, waffles with strawberries for Paris. Afterward, they might head into Fremont for the farmers’ market or take a drive to Snohomish to do some antiques hunting. More often than not, though, they’d head home, where Jimmy would putter in the garden, trimming this and weeding that, while she cracked open a paperback and sat by the pool.
But this is not a normal Sunday. This is a fucking nightmare. Paris should have known it would end like this, because there’s no such thing as happily ever after when you run away from one life to start a whole new one.
Karma has come for her.
A feather from her ridiculous slippers tickles the top of her foot. When she received them for her birthday last month—not her real birthday, but the one that’s listed on her ID—they were funny and cute. Her instructors at the studio had all chipped in to buy her the pair of seriously expensive Italian designer slides made out of pink ostrich feathers. They were supposed to stay at the studio so she’d have something to walk around in between classes, but she couldn’t resist bringing them home to show Jimmy. She knew he would laugh, and he did.
The slippers aren’t funny now. All they’ll do is play into the narrative the media keeps trying to create, which is that Paris is a rich, self-entitled asshole. She managed to fly under the radar for nineteen years after she escaped Toronto, only to have it all undone when Jimmy’s trusty assistant Zoe included their wedding photo with the press release about the streaming deal. Zoe couldn’t understand why Paris was so upset, but until that day, most people hadn’t even known that Jimmy Peralta had gotten married again. Paris had been living in blissful anonymity with her retired husband, and then it all went to hell.
As Zoe would say, the optics are terrible. Paris is Jimmy’s fifth wife, and she’s almost thirty years younger than he is. While the age difference was never a problem for Jimmy—why would it be?—it makes Paris look like a gold-digging bitch who was just waiting for her husband to die.
And now he’s dead.
CHAPTER TWO
The desk clerk at the King County jail asks for her phone, but Paris doesn’t have it with her. As far as she remembers, it’s still on the nightstand in her bedroom, in the house that’s now a crime scene.
“All personal items need to be bagged and placed in the bin,” the clerk informs her. Like the detective that brought her here, he hasn’t stopped staring since she was brought in. “That includes your jewelry.”
All Paris has is her wedding ring. Jimmy had offered to buy her an engagement ring, too, but she declined, insisting she would never wear it while teaching yoga anyway. In the end, he talked her into an eternity band crafted with fifteen fancy pink oval-shaped diamonds. The retail cost was an astounding $250,000, but the jeweler had offered Jimmy a discount if they were willing to have the ring photographed and publicized. Paris declined that, too.
“I don’t want the publicity,” she told Jimmy. “I’m really okay with a simple gold band.”
“Not a fucking chance.” Jimmy had a short conversation with the jeweler and slapped down his black Amex. Because he was Jimmy Peralta, he got the discount anyway.
“Paris Peralta.” The desk clerk says her name with a smirk as he types on his keyboard, drawing out the syllables. Paaarrrisssss Peraaaaalta. “My wife’s gonna shit herself when I tell her who I booked today. She was a big fan of The Prince of Poughkeepsie. Never liked the show myself. I always thought Jimmy Peralta was an ass.”
“Have some respect, Officer.” The detective is standing beside her, elbow to elbow, as if she thinks there’s a chance Paris might bolt. She tosses her head, and the tip of her ponytail flicks Paris’s bare arm. “The man is dead.”
Paris pulls off her wedding ring and passes it through the window. Beside her, she hears the detective mutter under her breath, “Jesus, it’s pink.” The desk clerk examines the ring closely before sealing it in a small plastic bag. He then drops it into the plastic bin, where it lands with an audible smack.