Good Rich People(58)

“I didn’t think you believed in hell,” I say.

Margo rolls her eyes at me. “She knew things about Bean that no one could know.”

I have always found that rich people are ridiculously inclined to believe in fate. I guess because they like to believe that the providence of their wealth is divine, to justify hoarding it. Still, this is a wild pivot for Margo. She looks completely mad. She’s going to ruin Graham’s party.

I am tempted to expose the reason my housekeeper knows so much, but of course that would implicate me and Graham. I would be punished. I’m pretty sure Graham wouldn’t.

I turn to my housekeeper. “And how do we get her out of hell?” Might as well be proactive.

“It’s a punishment.” Her voice is deeper than I remembered, more portentous. She is really taking to this role. I recognize the star and the moon and the cactus around her neck. She has added a guitar, a branch and a cowboy boot. “Someone in this house has done something terrible, and Bean is being punished for it.”

“No!” Margo moans. She’s a mess.

“This is Margo’s house,” I point out. I like the idea of Margo being punished.

“Not here.” My housekeeper shakes her head with witchery. She presses her chipped nails against her temple. “I’m seeing a fountain.”

What exactly is she playing at? I hired her after Elvira died. Maybe she spoke to the previous maid? Or maybe there was evidence we left behind; maybe she found it when she was cleaning and is using it to fuck with us.

“A girl died in the fountain,” Margo says before I can shut her up. I am pretty sure she has paired her grief with a very strong cocktail of drugs.

“That’s it!” My housekeeper waves her hand decisively through the air. “This whole house is cursed.”

I set my jaw. “How can we lift the curse?”

She meets my eyes. “You can’t. It’s too late for that.”

“Elvira,” I say. “Her name was Elvira. She was my friend.”

“We all loved her dearly,” Margo interjects, undermining my sincerity. “It was terrible, what happened . . . but it wasn’t Bean’s fault!”

“Everyone will be punished,” my housekeeper says. How ridiculous! As if a curse could ever take them down. Hell has nothing on these people.

Even Margo, sopping mess that she now appears, could pull herself together in an instant. Even her grief is a power move. She can afford to act insane. She can relish it, indulge it, throw money at it for as long as she wants.

My housekeeper doesn’t understand these people. I should expose her, but she can expose me. If Margo finds out I lied about Bean on top of everything else, she will end me.

So I smile a genuine smile and tell her, “Margo’s so lucky to have you!” Margo just grunts, because she doesn’t like me to smile for any reason. “If you’ll both excuse me, I have to check in on the party preparations.” I start toward the house.

“I sent them home,” Margo croaks.

I stop in my tracks. “But . . .” I swing to face her. “You’re going to ruin everything! I want it to be chaos! We can’t be worried about statues and artwork and crap!”

“I don’t care about any of it.” Margo flicks her jewel-weighted wrist. “I want it all destroyed. I’m leaving this place.”

“You can take your things with you,” I point out.

“No. You heard Viola.” Margo squeezes her hand encouragingly. I scan the blood and chicken bones scattered across the marble. I realize what Margo loves about her: chaos. But chaos under her control. If someone can take Bean from her, then Margo will go one better: She’ll take everything from herself. “This house is cursed. I don’t want any of it.” Margo sniffs. “Maybe a sacrifice will bring my darling Bean back.”

“I don’t think destroying priceless artwork is going to bring a dog back from the dead.”

“Maybe not.” Margo pats Viola’s hand. “But it won’t hurt. We’ll call it a wake.”

I huff. “It’s supposed to be Graham’s birthday party. You’re going to ruin it with all this death.” I wave my hands at the blood on the ground.

“Don’t worry about your silly party—as if I’ll be attending! I’m in mourning.” She gestures to her nightgown. “I’m going to stay in my rooms. Bomb the place, for all I care! You have no idea what it’s like! You’ve never lost a dog!”

“Bean was a good dog,” I allow.

“The best!” she hisses. This may not be a bad thing after all. Let Margo stay in her room. We can have the run of the house. Graham will like the party better with all the artwork hanging, all the statues up. It will only make it more fun if the damage is real, the destruction irreversible.

“If that’s what you want.”

She pulls my housekeeper closer. “I want my darling Bean back. That’s the only thing I want.” She drops her head on my housekeeper’s shoulder. “Life is so unfair.”





LYLA



I am asleep when the sound of someone attacking the door infiltrates my dreams. They’re kicking it, scratching it, clawing at it. My first dream-soaked thought is that it’s Elvira, risen from the dead, trying to get back in. Then it’s Demi. Then it’s Margo. Then I’m awake, and it’s Graham.