Good Rich People(69)

This actually shocks him. He coughs. His eyes expand. But he doesn’t run. He doesn’t even move away from me. In fact, he moves closer. To help me, to trap me, to bask in my need. “I thought you were Demi Golding.”

“I’m not.”

He purses his lips, looks up at me through hooded eyes. “Who are you?”

“I don’t want to tell you.”

He grabs my hand so tight, I can feel my own pulse. “Come here.” He tugs, then yanks me onto the bed.

I grasp, half-blind with fear, for the whisky bottle. Cheers to my demise.

He crawls closer to me. I can feel him breathing, feel his drugged heart beating, as he watches me with something like . . . appreciation?

“Tell me everything,” he begs me. “I want to know everything.” It takes me a second and several strong swigs to understand what he is saying. “Please! I want to know every dirty detail. From the beginning.”

So I tell him. My whole life, every tragic detail. He listens with rapt attention, like a little boy being told his first fairy tale. I tell him about Demi and Michael. Here he seems not to believe me.

“It’s all right if you did kill her,” he swears, squeezing my hands so the whisky sloshes in the bottle. “It’s all right!” And I feel a rush of gratitude followed by a dart of uncertainty: What kind of man thinks that’s all right? Money forgives everything, but this might be too much. “It’s beautiful,” he insists, kissing my temple. “Everything you did. Everything you had to do. It makes you so goddamn beautiful.” When I’m finished, he extracts the bottle from my fingers, places it on the bedside table. He sets me underneath him, arranges me like a doll, brushes my hair, kisses my forehead. “You’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.” His voice is blue and reverent. “Can I make love to you?” He kisses my neck. “Please?”

It feels so good just to be touched. And he is so handsome. And so, so rich. And I need money even more than I need forgiveness.



* * *





THE NEXT MORNING, I wake up alone in the presidential suite, redeemed. I don’t go back to the guesthouse. I don’t want to ever. I don’t even leave when I’m supposed to check out, although it grinds through me: Checkout time is eleven o’clock. Other people can check out. I won’t. I am the fucking president.

I order room service. Strawberries cut into heart shapes. A bottle of Mo?t. God, I can still feel him inside me. I have no past. I am all future.





LYLA



I wake up and have a glass of Mo?t. It’s not a party if you’re not drunk. Graham wasn’t in the living room when I came in, which doesn’t surprise me. He is probably at a private doctor getting his hangover drained from him on an IV. He’ll show up for the party immaculate. He’s going to be so impressed.

I sit with my Mo?t at the edge of the house, looking out through the glass at all of Los Angeles, spread like a dead flower below. My back is to the fountain but I see it in my mind’s eye. I am trying to puzzle through all the things I learned but it’s like the pieces don’t go together.

The front door lock clicks and my housekeeper lets herself in. She starts to clean. The light through the windows makes everything glow white.

“This is embarrassing,” I volunteer. “But I can’t remember your name.”

She stops cleaning. “Astrid.” The star on her neck glints in the light, and I remember where I’ve seen it, where I last saw it. Winking around Elvira’s dead neck.

“I really did adore Elvira.”

“I know,” she says. “She told me.”

I sip my Mo?t. “Were you friends?”

She swallows. “Sisters.” Her sister. Of course. I spoke to her on the phone. I try to remember her, but all I remember is her question: “You want to know why.”

She nods once. Then her hand darts out to steady herself on the front table. The gun clatters in the silver tray. We both see it.

I sigh. “I can’t tell you. There’s no reason.” My husband was bored. Bored and maybe more. Maybe he didn’t like that Elvira was my friend. Maybe it bothered him that I loved her and she loved me back. Maybe he is incapable of love, like Margo said. Maybe it’s not boredom but a wide, wild void. “Were you living in the van?” I say. “Did you break the gate? Did you . . . Bean?”

She doesn’t answer. I can see the resemblance now. She and Elvira don’t look alike, but I can see how they would be sisters.

“If you’re trying to decide if you can trust me,” I say, “I can tell you, you can’t trust anyone. Not here.” Still she says nothing. I have no choice but to change my tactic. “That dog was Margo’s life. . . .”

“It wasn’t me.” She grips the table. The gun hums in its silver plate. “It was the man downstairs, Michael.”

“Michael?”

“The man you saw in the courtyard. He’s living with the woman downstairs. He gets high and goes into the gardens. He’s the one who broke the gate. He’s been robbing houses up and down this street. He killed the dog. He was in Margo’s garden and the dog found him, was barking at him. He said it was the dog or him. He broke its neck. He put the body in your courtyard to scare you.”