Good Rich People(34)

It’s not just that.

It’s the sandwiches in her fridge in their little plastic houses, the shoes in her closet curled on spike heels, the dappled light on the blood-colored rug in the designer living room.

I could go back out on the streets. I could run. I could probably get away, move to another state, another city. But there is food in the fridge. And no one knows Demi is dead. The woman upstairs thinks I am Demi.

I could stay for one day, just one day in this life—who would stop me? Who would blame me? I’m not taking anything that belongs to anyone else. She left her life behind. Who could blame me for picking it up?

All I want is one day. One.

I move her body out of the bathroom so I can pee. I drag her across the floor and leave her by the front door. I brush her hair out of her face, adjust her coat, because I am not such a monster as to leave her disheveled.

I flash back on my father in the supermarket, the scam he used to run, hiding steaks and salmon under newspaper in his basket. Every time I complained. Not once did I stop him. Was I responsible for not stopping him? Was I responsible for not stopping her?

I’m sorry. I mouth the words to her body. I try to ignore the joy. Her life is mine for one day.

I pee on a real toilet: a spotless flushing toilet. I feel like a human being instantly, despite everything. Despite the body in the living room. I am somebody now.

My eyes drift to the shower, to the shampoo and conditioner in liter-sized gold bottles, the sparkly bodywash, the rain forest showerhead.

I approach carefully, hold my breath. I turn on the shower.

I stay under the water for ages. I use everything, even her razor, ignore the drifting accusations: evidence, DNA.

I stand naked in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom. I have never been so clean in my life. I never knew you could be so clean. I never knew shampoos and soaps could smell or feel like this. After I towel off, I clean my face with micellar water, brighten it with lactic acid, soften it with aloe, spritz it with atomized Evian.

I hate to admit it, but I always thought rich people glowed because they were better, and that is how they ended up rich. They were cleaner, brighter. I never realized you could buy things to make you glow.

You just partway killed someone and you look fucking amazing.

The low-level cold I have been running for the past month has left my sinuses. Money has cured me in twenty minutes flat. All I needed was a shower. All I had to do was step over a body.

My filthy clothes are piled on the floor. I can’t bear to put them back on. She has a washing machine. I could wash them. I will just have to put on her clothes in the meantime.

Or I could take her clothes.

I start with the idea that I will take the worst things she owns, the things she would miss the least, but then I remember she won’t be there to miss them. No one will know. Wouldn’t she want me to have them? I think of her last night, sneeringly offering to help me, her bullshit drunk promises: You can work for my company. Ha-ha.

I select the nicest things I can find: the warmest jacket, the thickest pants, the sturdiest boots. Her feet are a little smaller than mine, which have spread, flattened from years on my feet, but I can force a fit. I set the boots by the door for when I leave.

My stomach growls. I find her fridge. You wouldn’t think you would be able to eat with a dead body less than fifty feet away from you.

You wouldn’t think you would be able to do a lot of things until you do.





DEMI



There is a crumpled handful of cash in a tray by the door. I need to buy supplies. I use her fingerprint to unlock her iPad and search for a local market. Luckily there is one just down the road. I wait for upstairs to go quiet before taking the cash and her house keys and heading out.

The glass house looks vacant as I pass but I startle when I catch the outline of a woman sitting on a chair completely still. It’s the woman from last night, the Gothic totem. I shiver all the way to my toes and hurry to unlock the gate.

Once I am safely down the street, I breathe more freely. It’s so dark in that apartment, so claustrophobic, that I forgot the sun was out. It beams down on me now, lucid, hot, a fever dream.

I snake along the twisted roads toward the market. I pass a glamorous woman walking her dog. Her hair is jet-black. Her clothes are snow-white. Her dog is bright red. She’s like an artist’s rendering of a human being: God did okay, but let’s try a fresh take!

My eyes glaze automatically. I duck to rush by. She looks right at me, smiles, says, “Hello.”

I am so shocked; I can’t even think of a response.

I keep walking. It happens again and again. People look me in the eye. People smile at me. It’s actually unsettling.

I want to smile back, but my face stays frozen. I can’t force myself to say hello back. I can only frown and feel this hot discomfort.

When I reach the market, I walk up and down the aisles, observing all the packaging, relishing the feeling of being in a store with money in my pocket. I have forty dollars. I could buy anything.

In the end, I buy what I need.

“Wow!” The checker says. “Zip ties! Trash bags! Bleach!” I am going to jail. “Where’s the body?” He smiles at me. He is making a joke.

“Ha!” I cough. I quickly toss People magazine on the counter, just in case.

I shouldn’t have bothered. He is happily packing the items away for me. Of course, he doesn’t think I killed someone. He can’t even conceive of it. Can’t conceive of a situation that could lead to that conclusion.