Good Rich People(80)

“What’s going to happen to Lyla?”

“The man’s obviously homeless. He was trespassing. She’ll probably get a slap on the wrist and a few months in prison, but you, darling”—he rests his hand on my shoulder—“will get taken in, identified and pronounced alive.”

A loose chill rocks my shoulders. He’s right. I put my ID next to Demi’s body so she would be mistaken for me. If they realize I’m still alive, they might look into her death. They might look into me.

“But Lyla is your wife.”

“Yes.” He shrugs. “I’ll admit it is convenient for me, too.” He dials 911, holds the phone up to his ear. “Yes, hi. This is Graham Herschel. I’m at number One Herschel Drive. . . . Yes, my mother changed the street name. . . . Do you have the address? Good. I’m calling because my wife has killed a trespasser. Yes, he’s definitely dead.” He doesn’t even look. “She’s run off but she won’t have gone far. She’s probably just downstairs. It’s my birthday, you see. We were having a party, so of course we had a bit of a target on our backs.” He bends down and arranges the necklaces so they lie symmetrically. “I’d very much appreciate if we could keep this discreet. My wife is in a very delicate mental state. Yes, of course. We won’t touch a thing. We’ll meet you at the top of the drive. I’ll make sure the gate’s open.” He ends the call. I set the gun on a low wall. Graham scoops it up and wipes it with his pocket square. “You’ll feel funny for a while, but it will go away.” He angles the gun, searching for fingerprints in the light. “Every feeling goes away after a while.”

“Have you done this before?”

“Certainly not this exactly.” He smirks and says nothing else. “You shouldn’t be morose about it, darling. You’ve won. Very few people win. Would you rather lose?”

“Lyla will tell them it was me. It’s her word against mine.”

He shakes his head. “Lyla is smart. She knows when she’s been beaten. She’ll go along with the game. Come on.” He reaches out his hand. “Let’s have a drink before the police get here. I wish you would be more appreciative, darling. My mother always taught me to say thank you. Manners are the only thing that separates us from the animals.”

“Thank you.”

“Good girl.”

I take his hand. Michael doesn’t move. I follow Graham up the stairs to the party.





LYLA



Three months into my stay, a name shows up on my visitor list: Helen Peters. I don’t recognize the name, but I approve it anyway. Maybe it’s someone I knew in school. Maybe it’s the new tenant, onto Margo and Graham’s game. I don’t care who it is. I am so bored in prison. I have a roommate, so it’s kind of like college but the girls are meaner. They play games where no one wins. I will be out soon. I’m looking forward to it but I’m also afraid. A life is such a dangerous thing to have. I’m surprised everyone gets one. Most people don’t know what to do with it.

I take my spot at one of the tables. It’s my first time having a visitor. My parents are happy with their wedding present. Post–prison sentence, they probably feel only more justified in choosing money over me. Posey sent me a postcard from St. Barts: I can’t believe you’re in jail! Graham is such an asshole! I pinned it to my wall. Who would have thought that Posey would be my only real friend?

This is a low-security prison. It’s like a country club without champagne. Visiting hours seem like a chance for prisoners to ream out their loved ones. One woman is mad that her husband doesn’t visit enough. Another is pissed at her son for getting a tattoo. Another one is crying because her family couldn’t bring their dog in.

I am watching the door when Demi walks in. My stomach drops. She is dressed all in white. What a bitch; that’s Margo’s color. It makes me like her. No, it makes me love her.

A genuine smile spreads across my face as she takes the seat across from me. “Helen Peters?” She shrugs. “You look good.” Who wears white to prison? Rich people. People so out of touch they don’t realize how bad it looks.

“Thank you,” she says, shifting in her seat. Her eyes narrow as she takes in our surroundings, always analyzing. Always looking for a way out. “I wanted to thank you for . . . for what you did.”

“It’s nothing.” I toss my hand. Nine months in prison? Easy. I do it all the time. “I’ve done a lot of bad things. I deserve to be punished for something, even if it’s something I didn’t do.”

“I appreciate it.”

I don’t say anything. It’s a power move. Pathetic but it’s all I have.

“Do you have anything you want to ask?” she finally says.

“You came to me.” She shifts, uncomfortable in her white linen. “I’m guessing you’re starting to see what I was dealing with. The games these people play. I could have warned you.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Would you have believed me?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be out soon. For good behavior.”

“Graham wants to have you committed.”

“You won’t let that happen, will you?” I stand to leave, rap the table once with my knuckle. It’s the only card I have left to play.