Good Rich People(73)

“What, really?” Nigel says. “Well, thanks a fucking bunch for breaking your goddamn leg. We’re going to miss all the fun!”

Their voices echo down the hall as they head toward the terrace.

I check my app. Demi has left the garden. I jump when I see where she is: right behind me. I swivel my head, searching for her. I order myself to be calm. She’s not here, but she’s close. I use my fingers to zoom in. Inhale sharply. She’s worse than close; she’s in Margo’s room.

Bang!

The chandelier rattles over my head.





LYLA



Demi is cheating. She is clearly out-of-bounds. She’s in the west wing. No one is stopping her. Henri was right: The staff is playing, too. There is no one to stop her. What is she doing in Margo’s room? She must be checking in, getting her instructions. They must be plotting to take me down. What if tonight is the night? It’s Graham’s birthday, after all. What if I am their present? I have to get to her before she gets to me.

Down below, another group races through the foyer. The shots are less frequent now. I can’t see into the gallery but I’m guessing the ammo has all been taken. When the foyer is empty, I peek down, stretching to see all the gold splatters on Margo’s walls. It’s kind of beautiful, a work of the avant-garde. She could sell it like this: Very Bad Rich People. She could turn the whole house into a shrine.

It’s finally quiet. I could go after Demi now. It would be the perfect time, but she’s with Margo. I can hear the flutter of voices from the terrace bragging about how good they were, how crazy, how dangerous, like it’s all real.

“I shot three people. Then I got shot in the back!”

“The chef shot me—it wasn’t fair!”

Suddenly, I see Graham cross into the foyer. I would recognize the cut of his suit anywhere, even in the dark. He’s alone. He has gold rounds looped over his shoulders. The real bullet pulses in my pocket. I could load my gun. I could shoot him. It would take ages in all this chaos for anyone to realize he was dead.

Is it really her or me, or could it be me or him?

My hands move, shivering as if from affection. I don’t think about what I’m doing. I just do it, step by step.

I slip the bullet from my pocket. I pop open the chamber. I remove the gold Simunition. I replace it. My fingers shake so badly as I close the chamber that the gold bullet drops. It makes a tiny sound—plip!—as it hits the floor.

Graham hears it. His chin darts up. His eyes are on me. He sees me. I feel it all the way down to my toes. He’s going to kill me.

I don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t swallow. I wait for my death. Then he looks away. I’m safe.

He’s dead.

I have a loaded gun in my hand. One shot. I could kill him.

It hits me like a revelation: That is the only way to end the game. Graham is the game. It ends with him. I lift my weapon. Ready, aim . . .

Then I remember: Margo. But she is right behind me. I shoot him; then I shoot her. But I have only one bullet. Who do I kill?

My gun wavers. I could shoot him and then I can strangle her. I can smother her. I can batter her with one of her statues; she likes poetic justice. This is my chance, my only chance, to end the game for good.

I can do it.

I shut my eyes, order myself to stay calm. I picture Graham crossing the red room below me. I imagine myself shooting him. He explodes like a pi?ata, only money comes out.

I open my eyes. He’s gone. I start to stand, search for him. I take a step. My toe catches on the gold bullet. I slip on the marble. My hands darts out to catch myself on the curtain.

Bang!

Pain echoes with the sound through my breast. I forget for a moment it’s not a real bullet. I forget I’m not really dead.

“You killed me!”

“Cheater,” a woman’s voice says. “You were cheating!” Posey appears at the bottom of the stairwell. I train my gun at her, forgetting it’s really loaded. “Come on!” She laughs. “Don’t be a sore loser. You were cheating. You’re out of the game.” Graham appears from behind a pillar. Posey gasps. She points at me. “Lyla was cheating! She’s out!”

His voice is stone-cold. “So are you.”

Bang!

It’s small consolation that I get to watch Posey die.



* * *





I HAVE NO choice but to go to the terrace with Posey. We have every drink imaginable and exquisite canapés, but no one to serve them.

“You shouldn’t have given the staff bullets,” Nigel advises. “They’ve all gone feral.”

“Don’t be soft. It makes the game more fun!” Thomas argues.

I pause for a moment to look at the sky. All the stars are out as if they were hiding all along.

“Who cares?” I say, taking a spot at one of the tables. Posey joins me with a bottle of Mo?t and two glasses. I hate everyone here, so I might as well sit with her until I can find a way to sneak back into the game. “Who’s still in?” I ask Greg. He has drawn a chart on a napkin. “Mark, Ferro, the Italians, and that girl. What’s her name?”

“Demi.” I set my gun on the table, then slip my phone out and check my app as Posey pours me a glass. Demi has left Margo’s room. She’s in the gallery now. She must be looking for more bullets. I wonder if Graham will shoot her. Who am I kidding? Of course he will.