Good Rich People(64)

“It’s okay.” As if he could scare me.

He flinches, rubs his neck, nervous. “Can I come in for a moment?”

“I—” I think of Michael’s junk piled in the corner, the stench of heroin that permeates the house. “The porch. Can we talk on the porch? Do you want a beer?”

He smiles, like it’s something no one has ever asked him. “I would love a beer.”

“I’ll meet you outside.” I shut the door behind me. He must think I am hiding something, but he probably thinks it’s a messy living room, a dent in the wall, a wine stain on the wood. Not a man’s life and a woman’s death.

I grab two beers from the fridge. I promised myself I wouldn’t drink around Lyla and I should maintain the same policy with Graham, but I’m already tipsy and it’s different with him. He doesn’t look at me like I’m a rat in a trap.

I use a side door to step onto the porch, shut it behind me. “Sorry,” I say. “I just haven’t finished decorating. It’s—”

“It’s all right,” he says. Everything about me is all right with him. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” I hand him the beer. He opens it with his teeth, which catches me off guard. “Sorry. Party trick. You know us rich boys. We like to pretend to be down with the people.” He winks, but I like him better for it. It makes him seem more real.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” I say. I am, but not for the reason he thinks.

He tips his beer delicately into his mouth. He even drinks like a rich person.

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

He purses his lips, gathering himself. “It’s Lyla. My wife. She . . . I’m worried about her, you know?”

I don’t. “Is she back yet?” I have been so distracted, I completely forgot I left her at the reservoir. But she left me first. Still, my heart bumps like it’s my fault. I left her, and now I am sharing a beer with her husband.

He crosses away from me on the porch, gazing out over the yard, past the trees, where you can see two or three stars. “She does this sometimes. Disappears. She . . . Never mind. I don’t want to bother you with my problems.” He shakes his shoulders wearily, then sits on one of Demi’s hand-carved rocking chairs.

I take the chair beside him and lose my balance briefly when the seat sways. “To be honest, it would be nice to have a break from my problems.” I don’t mean to be judgmental, but I can’t imagine his problems are very big. He probably wants a divorce but is afraid of losing a few million. Rich-people problems.

He takes a long drag of his beer, wipes his spotless lips, then says, “I’ve always tried to help people. But some don’t want to be helped. . . .” I know he is talking about Lyla, but it feels like he’s talking about me. He told me they put me here to help me. Shouldn’t I let them?

But it’s not you they want to help, I remind myself. It’s Demi. Michael says I can’t trust Graham. He’s probably right. I know that, and a month ago I never even would have entertained the idea, but I’ve been living in this guesthouse for weeks now. I’ve gotten away with everything. And I’m starting to feel like I deserve it.

I take a fortifying gulp of beer; then I say, “You know, when you said you would help me, what exactly did you mean?”

His dimples show. “That I would help you. With anything. Anything you need: money, work, clemency.” He smirks but my heart jerks. He’s joking, isn’t he? God, he can afford to joke about anything.

He leans forward suddenly, reaches out, brushes my hair back, like men only ever do in movies. He settles back but looks unsettled. “You’re different, you know? I can tell. I’ve never met anyone like you.” I believe that. “I would love to give you whatever you need. It would be a pleasure to me.”

“What if I don’t need anything?”

“I don’t mean to be rude but you reek of need.” I don’t know how I’m supposed to take that as a compliment. “I find it so compelling.” He tips back the last of his beer. “I’ve never needed anything.” Then I understand: To him, it is a compliment. It’s something he can’t have. He stands, brushes off his immaculate suit. “I’ve held you captive long enough. Sorry. I’ll throw this away,” he says, lifting the empty bottle. Standing at the end of the porch after dark, he is etched into silhouette. He looks like the white knight they instruct you to dream about, the one who is too good to be true. But what if he is true? What if he was always there but just out of reach? God in money. God in a three-piece suit.

He’s good because he can afford it. Not like me, who has to pay for everything in blood. If I were rich, if I were like him, I would be so good. I’d be a human being, not a bag of needs.

“It’s okay.” I stand, too. “We’re supposed to be friends—family, right?” I quote Lyla and he flinches, like he knows my words are hers.

“Of course. We’re here to help.” He looks so sad, and he glances at the stars again. Poor little rich boy in love with all the things he can’t save. “You will let me help you, won’t you? If ever you need something.”

“Of course.”

“Anything.” Great.

There’s a murderer living with me.