Good Rich People(31)

It’s like Margo’s gardens, exquisite but fenced in. The beauty is the trap.



* * *





WHEN I GET back to the house, the courtyard is empty. My muscles are tight, almost cramped, as I look for the man from yesterday, imagine all the places he could stuff his too-big body. I tell myself I’m scared of him, but really, I am scared of me.

I set my shoulders and start down the stairs. I am the predator. She is the prey. It’s just a game. I need to win. I walk softly, not wanting Demi to hear me coming.

When I reach the patio, there is a weird smell, sickly, like an artisan candle titled Sweat and Blood. I tell myself I am imagining it. I shake it off. I knock loudly on the door.

I feel her freeze, feel her like she is living inside me, renting space there.

I knock harder.

I hear footsteps approach. I have her right where I want her. She is walking right into my trap. The door opens a crack.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Hi.” Suddenly she pushes through it. She shuts it fast behind her, hiding what’s inside. She is standing on the patio in front of me, so close I take a quick step back.

She is dressed in sharp black heels, a bounteous black coat. Her skin glows. She crosses her arms. “Is there something wrong?”

“Not at all.” I step out toward the edge of the patio. The air is so close down here, it packs in my throat. The weird trees twitch overhead. The hillside is coated with vines with heart-shaped leaves. “I just wanted to check in after yesterday. That man—”

“I’m fine. Thanks.” She is dismissing me but I don’t mind it. In fact, I enjoy the discomfort it causes, my not leaving, invading her space. I turn on my toes, face her.

“You’ve been home a lot this week,” I point out. Has she been fired? Was her whole job a ruse? Is anything real? Is everything a game?

“I’m working remotely now,” she explains. “So, you know, I’ll just be in here on my own a lot, working. It’s better if I’m not disturbed.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

I approach the stairwell like I’m going to leave, but I’m not. I have no plans to leave and I wonder if she can sense that, if that is why her eyes are so wide. “I wanted to ask you: I go for a walk every day around the reservoir. I thought you might like to come.” It’s not a question. That’s intentional. “I thought it might be nice for you to have a friend in the neighborhood.” I stretch my lips in a smile. It hurts a little.

She tugs her ponytail. “That’s sweet of you,” she says but her words are prickly. She twists her neck and gazes back at the house. “But I can’t right now.” She reaches for the doorknob.

“I’ll come back later.” A lunge.

“You don’t need to.” A parry.

“I’m sorry.” I’m not. “The thing about living here . . .” Does she ever blink? “Margo is very particular about her tenants. We like them to be friends. Family, even.” I can practically see the hairs on her neck rise but she holds her own, holds her breath. “This is Margo’s house after all. So is mine. We’re all living in her home. It’s important that we all know one another so we feel comfortable.” I am making her uncomfortable. “Do you understand?”

“I think . . . I get it.” Good. “If you just give me a second to change, I’ll meet you upstairs.”

She waits for me to start up the stairs before she opens the door. I imagine a wall of televisions playing security camera footage focused on my every move. A small armory. An earpiece that connects her directly to Margo. She has an attack; we have a riposte!

I’m paranoid, but anything is possible—that’s the thing. When you have the means, anything is possible. I reach the courtyard and perch on the edge of the fountain, muscles poised, mouth twitching, ready for her.





LYLA



Demi finally ascends in a black athleisure suit, loose on her tiny frame, pierced in places by bones. She is thinner than I thought. She tugs at her clothes as if embarrassed, but she must work hard for that body. Maybe she works harder on pretending to be embarrassed.

“Ready,” she says unnecessarily. I follow her through the opening onto the street.

I study the bristles in her body, the hook of her shoulders, the tension in her hips, the odd way she shuffles on the edge of her feet, toes curled in. She is so tense, so afraid. She must know something, or else she senses it. She is scared of a thing that might be me.

We pass the white van and her eyes are held by it so long that I say, “I don’t know where that came from. It just turned up one day.”

Demi stiffens as she nods. Her hands are fisted in her pockets.

I try to walk beside her but she stays slightly ahead, watching me out of the corner of her eye. On guard. We reach the place where the road splits, drops easily down onto the main road or steepens perilously up into the hills.

“Let’s go up. I want to show you something.”

She swallows hard but follows me. I don’t give her a choice.

The streets in the hills are not made for walking. They are not made for driving either. They are designed to keep people out. The roads are steep, curved and narrow. There are no sidewalks. There are blind turns, cracks in the roads and in the walls that hem them. There are cars parked at perilous points with their bumpers shaved, their back ends busted, their mirrors snapped back.