Good Rich People(60)

Mine gets hard. “You said it was my fault. You said she killed herself and it was my fault.”

“Well, duh.” He is not his most elegant when he is drunk. “It was Margo’s idea. It’s really a classic psychological sleight of hand. You make a person believe they’re guilty and they never suspect you are.” Of course. It’s Rich People 101.

“But . . . why did you do it?”

“I told you: I was bored.” He sits up, suddenly very grave “This is exactly what I mean, darling. This is exactly the thing. You just don’t understand what it’s like for me. We’re just”—sigh—“so very different. It happens all the time—unfortunate!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Margo didn’t think we could trust you.” He shrugs. “She said we had to get rid of you. I told her to give you a chance to prove yourself,” he adds like he deserves a gold star. “But Margo was right. You’re not like us. You don’t get bored like we do. You don’t like playing with people’s lives.”

“Wait until tomorrow.” I repeat myself because this time he’s listening. “Wait until you see your present. Then tell me I’m boring. Then tell me you’re bored.”

He nods, calming, trusting me. I turn toward the bedroom and his voice follows me. “Lyla? We aren’t playing for your soul. It’s just for fun.”



* * *





SO MUCH OF what I feel lives beneath the surface of me. It only occasionally swells and rises, when under extreme duress. When my husband confesses to murder, for example. Or when I have to wait in line. I can feel it now, this toxic rising, reminding me it’s always there inside me.

I don’t allow myself to even think about Elvira until I am alone in bed, and even then it comes in waves. I feel it washing over me, wrecking me, and then it’s gone, and I’m me again. Whoever that is.





DEMI



Dad always taught me that most criminals are caught because they give themselves away. They want to be caught. We all secretly want to be punished for our sins. We think that we are bad people when really we are just people. We hate our baser instincts, but this is anathema to our survival. We punish ourselves. The way to steal is to not believe you are stealing. The way to take is to believe you deserve it. The way to survive is to believe you’ll never die. And it works to a point.

This might be that point. I am carrying a bag of water-bloated hands and feet and clicking teeth down the street in the Hollywood Hills. I try to look innocent, blessed. I try to look rich.

My heart is racing. The heavy bag is cutting marks into my palms. I have no idea what I am going to do with these hands and feet and teeth once I get them home. I don’t think about that. If I separate it into pieces, it’s totally manageable. I can achieve anything. I can achieve the unthinkable.

This is step one.

I wind back through the twisted streets, trying to remember the path Lyla and I took. I don’t know what happened to Lyla, and she is my biggest threat. There’s a stench coming from the bag—not dead body exactly, but something wetter: seaweed, octopus, rot.

I hear the roar of an engine, magnified in the narrow space. I move from one side to the other. I pass a woman walking her red dog. The dog leaps up, barks viciously at the bag. The woman smiles and tells her, “Good girl. Precious angel.”

I walk faster, steps running together until I am practically flying. I reach our street, turn the corner. Duck past the white van and through the opening. I gush a sigh of relief when I reach the courtyard. Then I see a man crouched over the bushes. His blue suit is stretched tight across his back. I can tell by the quality of the fabric that it’s Graham.

I stop in my tracks. Do I turn around? Do I hurry past?

His back rises. I swing the bag toward the stairwell. It flies through the air, then tumbles wetly down the steps.

“Just picking up trash!” I explain, flinching with every sickening drop. My heart is racing so fast that my chest aches. I need help. I need my heart removed.

His voice is soft, creeping up on me. “There’s a rabbit.”

I have lost my mind. “Sorry. What?”

“Hiding in the bushes.” He frowns lightly, like a model in a perfume ad, thinking about all the troubling consequences of smelling so good. He folds his arms. “I think it was someone’s pet.”

“Oh.” The bag has settled halfway down the stairs. I can smell it from here. I’m sure he can, too, but maybe he’s too polite to say anything. “Do you want help?” I move away from the stairs to keep him from moving closer.

“I wouldn’t mind the company. You just have to be patient. It will come out eventually.” He crouches down again. He doesn’t have a carrot or anything to tempt it. It will probably see his expensive shoes and leap into his arms.

I walk across the courtyard, sit on the edge of the fountain.

“Have you seen Lyla?”

My heart darts. “I think she went on a walk.”

“Oh. I thought I might catch her on my lunch.”

“She’ll probably be back soon. I would guess.”

“Oh. Be careful with her,” he says in an undertone; then he darts forward suddenly. There is a weak animal grunt, and when he stands, there is a rabbit in his hands. He holds it tight against his blue suit.