Good Rich People(24)

My pulse throbs inside my neck. I hurry to the gate, pull out my key to unlock it, but it’s already open. I step inside, try to push it closed behind me, but it squeals on its hinges and ricochets away, snapping back open.

I step down into the courtyard. The gate is busted. The wood is cracked and the hinges are broken. It won’t swing shut. It just snaps back against the wall.

I peer into the yard. My front door is closed. So is Demi’s. But someone could be inside the yard with me. I imagine them hiding in the trees, buried under the porch. Should I call the police? What if this is a setup? What if someone is watching me?

I look at the van poised along the crumbling LA curb, with its wheels tilted haphazardly toward me. The license plate is from Maine, all the way from Maine. What is it doing here? It’s too conspicuous to be accidental. It’s all part of the plan. What plan?

I walk toward it. A blue quilt hangs over the front window, like the drop cloths painters use, hiding what’s inside. A shadow plays along it, only I can’t tell if it’s coming from inside or if it’s my own reflection. My back bristles.

A dog barks and I turn to find Margo five feet away from me. “Do you see anything in there?”

I step back. “Just my shadow.”

“What happened to the gate?”

I look behind me to where the gate is snapped open. “I don’t know,” I say, moving toward it.

“What an interesting development,” she says like it’s happened on television.

She flicks Bean’s lead back and forth. The fountain gurgles. I look at Margo’s face for signs of orchestration. It’s been pulled in so many directions, it’s impossible to derive an intent. Bean growls at the van. Margo jerks the lead. “No!”

My voice drops. “Is this part of the game?”

“You know we don’t interfere. It’s all down to you. Or her.”

“So you think it was her?”

Margo shrugs. “It would take some nerve to break into your own house.”

Demi has a key, but the other night I found her trapped inside the gate. Maybe she lost it, but wouldn’t she just ask for another? Wouldn’t that be preferable to blowing the gate off its hinges? I frown. “Who is this woman you chose?”

Margo’s lips pucker. I wonder again if this is part of her plan, to pit me against an absolute psycho, to make sure I lose, to get rid of me once and for all. Wouldn’t that be clever, to make it look like it was my fault? Maybe Demi isn’t the subject of the game. Maybe I am. Maybe Margo planted Demi here, like a bomb set to detonate my marriage. I know she blames me for what happened with the last tenant. How far would she go to punish me?

The answer is always: further than I’d have thought.

“Well.” She smirks and reveals her dimples. Her eyes sparkle like Graham’s do when I catch him off guard. “Perhaps you should consider this a kick up the ass. Stop stalling. We’re starting to get bored.”

“I have a plan,” I lie. I will make one.

“How quaint. Do keep us informed of any new developments.” She steps off the curb, drags Bean sideways until she rights herself, then trots along beside her with a big doggy grin.



* * *





    I CROSS THROUGH the broken gate and approach the stairs leading down to the guesthouse. The stairwell curves and drops precipitously.

I wrinkle my nose. “Hello?”

I place a foot on the top step, grip the railing, take a deep breath. I haven’t been down here in ages, not since Elvira left. We used to have dinner together on the porch, share a bottle of wine. Never Mo?t, she used to promise, grinning wickedly. A heavy feeling clogs my throat as I descend.

Just below the house, the hillside drops. It’s so steep that they have secured it with trees, created a forest fortress, to stop the earth from eroding. It doesn’t affect us up above because we can see over the treetops. But the guesthouse is surrounded by a thicket of trees that holds the dark in. So the air has a fat, moldy taste. So it always smells of mulch. So mildew and fungus coat the pipes, line the wooden support beams beneath the porch, gather invisible in the hot bathroom. Every six months, we ask the tenant to pour root killer down the toilet.

I reach the patio. I stand beneath the awning of Demi’s front door. The shades are drawn. I can’t tell for sure, but it seems like the lights are out. She was loud this morning, banging around like she knows she’s in a trap.

I pull back the screen and knock lightly on the front door. Quiet hovers in the air. I step back. The trees hang shadows over the back porch, across all the windows where the curtains are drawn. Every curtain drawn, every shutter pulled down at two in the afternoon. She’s hiding something, but what?





LYLA



Graham is thrilled about the gate. He came home after seven and spent ten minutes trying to fix it himself, in his superfine suit, with a hammer from the toolshed. “Did you do this?”

“Of course not. Why would I destroy our front gate?”

“To throw her off-balance. To scare her.” A scrim of sweat brightens his skin. He peels off his jacket, tosses it onto the patio furniture. “That’s always a good idea. People in a panic will do foolish things.”

“I didn’t do it.”

He frowns, as if disappointed, then brightens. “Did she?”