Good Rich People(30)

He frowns. “I just explained it to you. Anyway, it’s not for shooting. It’s just to have. Because they have it. Here.” He takes the remote from the coffee table and turns on the TV, flipping to the news. “Watch. Look. They all have guns.”

A woman is standing in front of the 101 freeway, talking about a fire at a tent city with a single fatality. I frown, pick the remote back up and switch it off.

“I hate the news. It’s so negative.”

Graham scoffs. “Oh, God, don’t be one of those people!” But he wants me to be one of those people. He would hate it if I got political. If I became a feminist or a vegan or a social justice warrior, he would nag me into being nothing again.

He picks up his briefcase. “I bet Demi has a gun,” he says suddenly. When he talks about Demi, his eyes go slightly blank, like he is accessing a remote part of his brain. “A woman living alone like that, she probably has a whole bunch of them.” I follow him to the door. “You should be careful. It sounds like she’s not afraid to take a swing.”

“Neither am I.”

He kisses my forehead again. I wish he would kiss my mouth. “I hope you don’t give up so easily today.”

“I didn’t give up easily. She knows something.” I check that the housekeeper is out of earshot, lower my voice just in case. “It’s like she couldn’t get away from me fast enough. And she wouldn’t reveal anything about herself. She claimed she didn’t even know who Margo was,” I remind him.

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“Maybe you should ask your mother.”

“Margo wants you to succeed.” He adjusts his tie in the mirror. “If she didn’t, you’d know about it.”

“When will you be home?”

“Late,” he says like he only decided right then. He’s bored already. I’m boring him.

“But—”

“I have a lot of work to catch up on.” I don’t understand how he is at work all day and still manages to be in a perpetual state of being behind. “See you later.”

I watch him cross the courtyard, walk through our missing gate.

I jump when I hear a door bang downstairs, followed by the pounding of the shower. Usually Demi is at work by now. I wonder if she has the day off. I won’t give up so easily today. I won’t give up at all. I don’t know what all of this means—the broken gate, the man in the courtyard, the van on the street—but I can’t help but think it has something to do with the game, with my turn, with her.

I need to finish this today. Just get it over with.

“Do you want me to clean around the gun?” I turn and see my housekeeper standing next to the table in the foyer, where the gun sits on a silver tray like the last party favor. Her expression is haughty, disbelieving. She’s obviously never worked for a rich family before.

“I suppose you’d better,” I snap. I check my reflection in the foyer mirror, then take one last glance at the gun as I walk out the door.

I want the game to be over. I don’t have time to get to know her. If Demi won’t reveal her weakness, I’ll have to use one of mine.





LYLA



In addition to every gun known to man, we also have every tool. The toolshed, which is tucked along the side of the house, next to the courtyard, is filled with everything you could possibly need. Six shovels with pointed tips and perforated edges, seven saws, one chain. Most of these things have never been used. One or two are sprinkled with mud that looks like blood.

I have a wide selection of tools, of moves, to finish the game. I choose a set of steel wire cutters, the kind that can break the links of a chain-link fence.

As I cross back into the courtyard, I find the housekeeper standing next to the fountain. She is frozen like a statue, gazing into the water. She catches sight of the cutters as I slip them into my pocket.

“What are you doing?” she asks. Her impertinence is starting to grate. I like my help to be silent as well as invisible.

“What are you doing?” I ask back. “I don’t pay you to stare at your reflection.”

She just stands there and watches me as I cross the courtyard, walk up the steps and onto the street. It’s creepy. I would fire her if Graham wasn’t obsessed with her cooking.



* * *





I TAKE MY usual route to the reservoir. When I get there, I find a small break in the fence. I remove the wire cutters from my pocket. I cut the metal links—they snap apart easily—into the shape of a door I can peel back. I make the break bigger, big enough to step through easily.

My weakness. It’s always irritated me, the way I can circle the lake, look at it, but never reach it. Trespassing is highly illegal, of course. Dangerous. There’s a circular concrete drain that looks like the place they used to drop the bodies of aged-out starlets. There are slippery cliffs and wild animals. Security patrols the perimeter twenty-four hours a day. In a city where people are tucked into every street corner, hidden in every crevice, where people camp on the islands that crop up on the LA River at low tide, this place is protected. Even the rich can’t access it.

It’s also beautiful: remote, disquieting. One of the few places in LA that no one can touch. The trees are green and wild. There are herds of roving deer. The water is baptismal blue. Even the air feels cleaner, fat with refreshment.