“Ocean Breath Yoga.”
“Henry.” Relief floods through Paris at the sound of her business partner’s voice. “Thank God.”
“Holy shit, P, are you okay?” Henry’s voice is filled with concern. “I just heard about Jimmy. Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it—”
“Henry, they’ve arrested me.” She can’t believe she’s saying the words. “I’m in a holding cell at the King County jail.”
“I saw the arrest. It’s such bullshit—”
“You saw? It’s on the news?”
“On the news? Honey, it’s on TikTok.” She hears some background noise and then hears a door shut, which means Henry has taken the cordless phone into the office. “One of the tourists at the park filmed your arrest and uploaded it. It’s currently the number one trending video.”
Of course this isn’t surprising, but hearing Henry say it makes it all the more real. Paris swallows down the panic and reminds herself that there will be plenty of time to fall apart later.
“Henry, listen,” she says. “I need you to call Elsie Dixon for me.”
“Jimmy’s friend? The lawyer who sings showtunes at all your parties?”
“That’s the one. I don’t have my phone, so I don’t have her number.”
“I’ll google her law office.”
“She won’t be in, it’s Sunday. But if you look in the desk, there might be a business card with her cell. Ask her to come down to the jail right away, okay?”
“I don’t see a card.” She can hear Henry rifling through the drawers. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure something out. I thought she was in litigation?”
“She started her career as a public defender,” Paris says. “And she’s the only lawyer I know.”
“God, P…，” Henry says, sounding genuinely stunned. “I can’t believe you’re in jail. Is it like in the movies?”
She looks around. “More or less. But bleaker.”
“Can I bring you anything? A pillow? A book? A shank?”
He’s trying to make her laugh, but the best she can manage is a snort. “I love you. Just track Elsie down, okay? And maybe you could let the instructors know what’s going on.”
“P, they’re saying…” A pause. “They’re saying you killed Jimmy. I know that’s not possible, because I know you. You’re not a murderer.”
“I appreciate that,” Paris says, and after saying goodbye, they hang up.
Henry has always been a supportive friend, and he’s loyal to the core. But he doesn’t know her, not really.
Nobody does.
CHAPTER THREE
Thanks to the wonders of sensory adaptation, Paris has gone nose blind and can no longer smell the various odors that assaulted her when she first entered the holding cell. Unfortunately, she can’t say the same about the noises.
She sits on the bench with her hands in her lap, doing her best to ignore her cellmate’s snores mixing with the random chatter wafting in from the other cells. Everything is going to be fine. Elsie will be here soon, and she’ll know exactly what to do, because Elsie Dixon is a lawyer, and that’s what lawyers do.
Except she’s not just a lawyer. Elsie is also Jimmy’s best friend. The two of them met in high school fifty years ago, which makes their friendship eleven years older than Paris. There will be no question where the woman’s loyalties lie, and if she believes there’s the slightest chance that Paris murdered her dearest friend, Elsie will not show up today, or ever.
She hopes Elsie shows up.
In the meantime, there’s nothing to do but wait. And without a phone or a book to distract herself, all there is to do is think. And the longer she thinks, the more the pain of Jimmy’s death tries to fight its way in. Paris doesn’t want to feel it. Not here and not now, because she doesn’t know how to feel the depth of her grief while also saving herself from the mess she’s now in. She closes her eyes. Even if she didn’t kill her husband, it sure as hell looks like she did.
The part that nobody could ever seem to accept is that Paris actually loved Jimmy very much. But it wasn’t necessarily romantic love, and that’s the part that bothers people. Apparently you’re only supposed to marry someone you’re head over heels for, someone you can’t get enough of, someone you can’t imagine your life without. By that definition, what she and Jimmy had wouldn’t be considered love at all. Their feet were always on solid ground. They probably spent more time apart than they did together. And of course they could live without each other. Please. Jimmy had lived a whole sixty-five years before he met Paris, achieving a level of success most comedians would never reach. Paris was thirty-six when she met Jimmy, and was fine being on her own. She was an old soul; he was young at heart. Their relationship worked.