Good Rich People(78)

LYLA



The body is surrounded by jewelry: thick diamonds, fat ropes of pearls, a sapphire, two emerald earrings. Blood runs beneath them, setting off their sparkle. And I see the silver star around Elvira’s dead neck.

Demi is frozen, still gripping the gun.

All the stars are out, burning holes in the sky. What a crock of shit.

“Who is it?” I ask. She stays frozen. I step forward gingerly, tilt the face with my spectator shoe. I recognize him. He’s the man from the courtyard, the one with the eternal struggle on his face. Michael. The man she’s been living with, keeping secret all this time.

Bang!

A shot blast from far up above makes me jump. Demi meets my eye. Her hair is tangled. A light dusting of gold has settled on her skin, giving it a St. Barts glow. Her eyes are wide. Her chest is pumping. She’s so alive. I didn’t kill her.

“You knew there was a bullet,” she says.

“I tried to stop you.”

“Why is there a bullet in your gun?” She pops open the chamber to check if there is another one. There isn’t. The rest are Simunition. I only had one bullet.

I look at the body. In movies, dead bodies always look peaceful. Or at least they look dead. But all the bodies I’ve seen—Elvira and now this one—still look like they’re in pain, like they’ve been wrenched from life. “We need to get him out of here.”

“I asked you a question,” she says, closing the cartridge. I tee up to his shoulders. He’s tall but thin. We could drag him, but where? “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to help you.” I grip the shoulders of his coat, pull. My fingers slip and burn. The body doesn’t move.

“This is your fault,” she says.

Bang! From above.

“I know,” I admit. I feel this lightening sensation, like I’m the one bleeding to death. Every time a privileged person takes ownership, an angel gets its wings. I laugh. I think I’m slightly hysterical, but still . . . “I know it’s my fault.” She won’t meet my eye. It might be too late for us to form any kind of friendship, but it’s not too late for me to save her, to do what I should have done a million times. But especially one. “How do we get him out of here?”

She hesitates, analyzing her exits like always. She could run, she could hide, or she could trust me. “There’s a gate.” Her voice is deep; it grips the surface. She doesn’t want to do it. She doesn’t have a choice. “That leads down to the street. He broke the lock.”

“Do you know him?” I know she does.

“Of course not.” She goes to his feet, waits for my signal. We’re really going to do this.

“Where can we take him?”

“Anywhere. We just have to get him off the property.”

“You act like you’ve done this before.” I smile, once, then bend down to lift him up.

“Hasn’t everybody?” she says. I grunt and prop his shoulders up. “Don’t get gold dust on him!” Her fingers close around his ankles.

“On three,” I say.

“What. The. Fuck?” Graham’s voice from behind me. I drop the body. The head lolls back. I turn to find Graham poised at the top of the stairs. He is laced with belts of gold bullets but his suit is hardly crinkled. His skin glows with gold dust and perspiration.

Bang!

Graham flies backward, landing on his ass. Gold dust has exploded across his chest. “Christ!” He looks up in shock.

Demi’s gun is still smoking. The dead body is still on the ground. “Sorry,” she tells him. “I have to win.”

Graham’s dimples show as he dusts off his suit, turning his palms gold. He pushes himself back up. He circles the body. He squats down and checks Michael’s pulse. He gets blood on his hand. It mixes with the gold paint. He pulls his hand away, tries to shake it off, but it sticks. “Well, he’s definitely dead. Who is he?”

“He was robbing the house,” I explain. “You can see the jewelry.”

“Who shot him?” he asks. Demi is still holding the gun. I am unarmed. He looks from her to me, doing a quick calculation. He knows she shot him. He knows I created the game. He knows I set her up. He smirks at me. “Is this my present?”

Demi’s eyes are wide, blackish in the dark and filled with something: fear, like we have collided on a fast train. I remember the night I met her, out in the courtyard, trapped inside the gate, trying to get out. The way I followed her, my target. The tangled mess all leading to this: I won. I won the game. I ruined her life. She murdered a man, a man she was living with. I am the witness. Her life is over. I ended it.

It all ends here. If I tell him, Yes, this is your present, then my turn is over. We go back to how things were before. We go back to pretending. We go back to the appearance of perfection, which is the most important part. Maybe they move another tenant in; maybe they play another game, but I don’t have to play. My only job is to let them. My only requirement is to look the other way.

I won. I’m free. It’s over.

Except it isn’t.

Except it never ends.

Except it’s not worth it.

I turn to Demi. I see Elvira, see all the women and men who ever tried to live in that guesthouse, who ever tried to make it in this world before. “It’s a game,” I tell them. “You asked me why the gun was loaded. It’s a game they’re playing: It’s you or me.” She doesn’t seem to understand until that last line: It’s you or me. That is a line everyone seems to understand.