Good Rich People(71)

Demi’s already wearing the black dress I bought her, even though we were supposed to change after dinner. There’s a little tracking device sewn between her breasts that connects to an app on my phone. I don’t want to kill her. But I don’t have a choice. It’s her or me. There’s no other way out.

I turn to Posey. “You’re not playing. Only the men are.”

“You’re playing.” She stabs a truffle. “And Demi is.”

“Shut up.” I elbow her. “You’re going to spoil the surprise.”

“I’m just saying.” She gulps her Mo?t. “Equal rights.”

Mitsi and Peaches and Grenadine and Margarita are all sitting together, gossiping like this is any other party. Their husbands, who are mirror images of them, are talking loudly in their section, swearing and making inappropriate jokes, competing to see who can say the most outrageous thing.

“That Marie Antionette is fit. Would you fuck her?”

“Head off or on?”

“Wherever you want it.”

Watching them, I feel the fluttering of anticipation. I can’t wait for them all to get shot.

“Fine,” I snap at Posey. “You can play if you want to, but you’d better not shoot me.”

“A game’s a game.” She shrugs and tops off her glass.



* * *





AFTER DESSERT, AND drinks, and cigars, the other ladies go home. I lead all of our players into the foyer to explain the game. The gaslight fixtures flicker pleasantly. I wanted the lights to be dim. I want it to feel surreal. It will only make my job easier.

“Everyone, listen up!” I wait for the boys to stop talking. Then I give up. I raise my voice so it is magnified in the stone foyer. “This is important: The boundaries extend across the entire grounds, all nine levels of the garden. The only portion of the house that’s out-of-bounds is the west wing, where Margo is staying. You’ll see it marked off with a red rope. There are staff members stationed everywhere to make sure no one cheats.” I don’t mention that these staff members are armed with Simunition, too, and under orders to shoot anyone who cheats. Except me. I have paid and instructed them to look the other way so I can hide in the west wing until I see my opening.

“What are we playing?” Graham asks drolly. “Tag?”

Behind me is a long table covered with a velvet cloth. I remove the cloth. Twenty-seven handguns glow on the table.

“Those are real guns,” Mitsi’s husband, Mark, observes.

“Real guns,” I explain. “Fake ammunition. We’re using Simuniton. It’s what police officers use to train.”

“Isn’t that illegal?” Nigel says.

“Don’t be silly! That’s the fun part!” Tony laughs.

“Shouldn’t we be wearing pads? I’m pretty sure cops wear pads.”

“Has anyone tested this out?” Henri sounds genuinely scared.

Graham’s dimples are showing. He’s not smiling and he’s not smirking. It’s the same face he made when I showed him Elvira’s body.

I swallow hard and continue. My voice wavers with the light. “They’re each loaded with six rounds. If you need to reload, you can find more on a table in the gallery, but you’ll have to be careful. There’s no time-out, no safe zone.”

“What about other weapons?” Mark asks, eyeing up a sword on the wall. “Couldn’t someone just grab a knife from the kitchen?”

“The point is to shoot them,” I say. “You’ll know when they’re dead. It’s a special kind of Simunition. I hope you all don’t mind getting a little dirty.” Posey whoops. “Once you die, you can head out to the terrace for drinks and to wait out the game.”

“What do you get if you win?” Mark asks.

I catch Demi’s eyes. They glimmer in the half-light. “To keep playing.”

Graham whispers in her ear, flirting. She flirts back. He gets the last word, then leaves her side and crosses to me so abruptly, I feel myself wither. He slings an arm around my neck, rank with testosterone, kisses my cheek. My stomach drops. I feel sick, and not the good kind. “This is a brilliant idea, darling!” He leans in closer; his voice drops so it hums against my ear. “Is this my present?”

I extract myself. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

He chuckles, like he is in on this and every joke. Then he strides to the table, selects the best gun, turns off the safety. He points it at Henri. “Shall we test it out? Make sure it’s safe?”

Henri tugs his collar. “Might as well just start the game.”

Graham smirks, brings the gun in, blows on the muzzle. “Happy birthday to me.”





LYLA



Everyone selects a gun from the table. I explain the start. A member of the staff stands at the top of the stairs, holding a gun. One shot to run. One minute. Another shot and the game starts.

First shot at midnight. We wait, nervous. Little groups of men form to discuss strategy.

“It’s better to form alliances!”

“No, it’s better to go it alone. You can’t trust anyone.”

“It doesn’t seem fair,” Henri says, fiddling with his gun. “They know the house best.”