Good Rich People(55)

He’s not being himself anymore. He’s being someone else. He’s distancing himself from me, hiding something. He’s running a game.

Maybe all the recent tragedies weren’t caused by Demi; maybe they were caused by Graham. Maybe he is punishing me, trying to mess with me, trying to unbalance me. He hasn’t fixed the gate. He hardly reacted to the dog. He suggested we call the police. And the way he comforted Demi; it was obvious that wasn’t their first interaction. They seemed almost intimate.

Either the whole world is out to get me or my husband is.



* * *





I TRY TO focus on the thing I can control: Demi. I have to win the game, put an end to all this chaos, bring our perfect life back. Graham leaves. The housekeeper arrives. I dress in my most gray outfit. Then I call all the girls, arrange a pre-party shopping trip. Then I go downstairs to invite Demi.

There is a funny burned smell that magnifies as I journey down the stairs. It smells kind of druggy but it could also be the trees, the mold, weed. Demi bounces out the door before I even reach the patio, like she heard me coming down, was waiting for me.

“Hi!” Her voice is hard. She kneads her fingers nervously. “Is everything okay? Sorry I freaked out last night. I . . . I really love dogs.”

“Everyone loves dogs,” I say. I don’t want to talk about that. I don’t know if it was her. I don’t know if it was Graham. I don’t know if it was God. All I know is that I need to get her at that party tomorrow night. And to do that, I need to track her, and to track her, I need to buy her a dress. I don’t have much time. It’s Ready, aim . . . “I wanted to invite you to a party, Graham’s birthday party. It’s tomorrow night.”

“I don’t think I can go.” This doesn’t surprise me. Anything I offer, she doesn’t want. Anything I ask, she declines. This time I’m ready.

“Graham’s asked for you especially.” She doesn’t say anything, which tells me more than she could say. “He talks about you all the time. Honestly, I think he has a crush.”

“He’s your husband.” Her voice is flat, but I know she likes him. I know she does because he wants her to.

“Oh, no, it’s nothing like that. We’re practically separated. We just live together.”

“He did say—”

I don’t want to hear it. I take her hand to shut her up. “Marriages are so complicated. Especially when money is involved. I just want Graham to be happy. He’s such a good man.”

She blushes. “I feel uncomfortable.”

“Don’t. I’d rather we all just be friends. I feel like . . .” I take a deep breath, reset my bullshit meter. “We were destined to meet, all of us. Don’t you sometimes think fate is just guiding your life?”

“. . . I think money is,” she mumbles.

“Exactly.” I smile. “Fate is money.”





LYLA



We take my rolls-royce down to meet the girls. Graham bought it for my birthday last year when he was particularly happy about how a game turned out. He got a man hooked on fentanyl. The man left his wife and children to live in the guesthouse. He is currently living on the street. Or dead. The car is gray, my signature color. The one I had before was taupe.

We meet the girls at the secret rooftop bar in Sunset Tower. Only monsters shop sober. These girls shop trashed. They spend more time drinking than shopping. When I arrive with Demi, they all flock around her, exclaiming over her shoes, her coat, her bag. So much that I know they don’t like any of them. This is a tough crowd. They know Demi is from the guesthouse. That she’s a charity case, relatively speaking. They liked Elvira, though. Everyone liked Elvira. But her death has made them only less inclined to liking new tenants.

“So you’re in the guesthouse,” Peaches quickly points out so everyone can breathe easy, knowing she’s worthless.

“Yes,” Demi says. Her lips are even tighter than normal, which is saying a lot.

“That’s so great the Herschels do that,” she says, drifting away, never to be heard from again.

Posey, who likes to prove she’s “down with the people,” immediately attaches herself to Demi. She grills her about her life and her job and her hopes and her dreams like none of them is good enough.

“You should have been a lawyer,” I note after she demands to know how Demi’s parents died like the answer could put her in prison.

“I’m just being friendly.” Posey flashes an animal smile. No wonder she dated Graham.

Demi shoots me a grateful look. She doesn’t drink. She doesn’t talk. She just wants this to be over. I could shoot her now; it would be so easy. She’s just standing there, curled in on herself like a scared little mouse. Then I remember I would definitely go to jail if I shot someone point-blank on a hotel rooftop. Sometimes it’s hard to remember where the game ends and the outside world begins.

“I want to hear more about the party,” Mitsi says. She is dressed in some overdesigned black-and-white dress that probably costs twice as much as one that would actually flatter her. “Does Graham know what you’re planning?”

“No, it’s a surprise—and nobody here tell him.” As if Graham would ever entertain any of them for more than a minute. Everyone gathers around me as I explain the setup: the guns and the gold-dust Simunition, how Margo has agreed to let us have the run of the house. I am mid-explanation when I glance at Demi. Her face is slate white.