Good Rich People(81)

DEMI



I am living in the glass house. I’m not happy. I’m not sad. I’m rich.

Graham works all the time, and when he’s not working, he goes on his golf trips. I am almost always alone. It is perfect. I sit on a chair next to the door so I can see the whole house, the way the floor stretches on and on, stops just short of forever.

The castle above us is being renovated. Margo is on vacation, a pilgrimage through Spain in Bean’s honor. She still doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t even know she’s met me. I skipped her farewell party. I convinced Graham it was better that way. The fewer people who know the truth, the more secure my position. Graham is a problem, I will admit. He’s obsessed with me now, but I have a feeling he’ll get bored.

One Friday night, he comes home early, finds me in my spot, drinking Mo?t and watching the sky fall.

He kisses my temple. “Hey, I had an idea.” He perches on the arm of my sofa. He is dressed in one of his ridiculous three-piece suits, like he might be asked to stand in on a period piece at any minute. “I wanted you to come on one of my golfing trips.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t like golf.”

“Neither do I.” He smiles without teeth.

We pack nothing but a set of clubs, one fresh set of clothes. “You’re going to love it,” he promises. And then he drives me in his Rolls-Royce Phantom to a bad neighborhood. It’s not the neighborhood I grew up in, but it could be. The streetlights are out and have probably been out for a long time. The glass windows are broken. Someone somewhere is screaming. Someone somewhere is crying. They are both far away and right beside us.

The Phantom rolls to a stop in front of a cracked red curb. Graham puts it in park. He shuts off the engine.

My heart itches. “What are we doing?” I can see a broken window above us covered with a bedsheet. We used to cover our windows with bedsheets.

Graham puts his finger to his lips. “Just wait.” His teeth are so white, it’s sinister.

“For what?”

“Someone always comes out. To see the car.” He indicates the Phantom’s slick gray surface. It looks like a spaceship. Like a silver dress—the silver dress that woman wore in a different life, the night I realized I was poor.

“Then what?”

He grunts, frustrated by my lack of enthusiasm. “They see what we have, and they try to get it.”

“Then what?” My voice is steel.

“Oh, look!”

A little girl stumbles out of a front door onto a concrete stoop. She is dressed in too-small pajamas. Her eyes are wild, not with fun but with exhaustion. She doesn’t look like me but I see myself—the way she stoops, ducks her head, embarrassed.

Graham presses his back against the seat, reaches toward the clubs.

“Stop!” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Are you fucking insane?”

He frowns. “It’s just a game. God, don’t be boring!”

The girl has stopped at the last step, is watching us. Her eyes are wide, taking everything in. The silver car, the man in the blue suit, the woman in white.

Her lips part. “Can I see your car?” she asks like she’s not already seeing it.

“We’re just leaving!” I say to her as Graham says, “Of course you can, darling.”

“What are you going to do?” I whisper in his ear.

He elbows me, calls to her, “You can touch it if you want.”

I run through all the weapons at my disposal. I want to kill him. I want to take one of his clubs and split his skull open as she takes a step toward the car.

I lunge across his lap, turn on the engine and throw the car into drive. Hike up my leg, slam my foot over the center console and step on the gas. Graham gasps in surprise and grabs the steering wheel, keeps us from crashing as we stream off into the night.

“Don’t ever do that again!” I say as the girl and the neighborhood disappear from view. “Don’t ever do that again!”

He just makes a face. “I didn’t do anything.” He takes a gold cigarette case from his pocket. “What did you think I was going to do? Murder some kid? God.” He lights a cigarette. “It’s just a game. We’re not playing for your fucking soul.”

“Don’t do that,” I say again. I sound unhinged. He slouches moodily and keeps driving. And he will. I know he will. I am beginning to realize that I can’t even fathom all the things that he’s done, all the terrible things, all his life. All the terrible things he’s gotten away with, will keep getting away with. Unless somebody stops him.

All I ever wanted was for things to be easy. I wanted to stop suffering. I never considered that it was a trade. That it was me or them.

I thought I wasn’t rich because I didn’t deserve it. I never considered that it didn’t deserve me. Michael was right. Money is immoral. I don’t want to be rich. It’s not enough. I want more. I want what I deserve.

Some people deserve to die. And I deserve to kill them.





DEMI



I visit Lyla in jail to thank her for what she did. I want to tell her about Graham, about the golf trips. But when I see her, scrubbed of makeup but glowing with life, I realize I don’t need her permission. She saved my life. It’s my turn to save hers.