“When will you be home?”
“Late,” he says like he only decided right then. He’s bored already. I’m boring him.
“But—”
“I have a lot of work to catch up on.” I don’t understand how he is at work all day and still manages to be in a perpetual state of being behind. “See you later.”
I watch him cross the courtyard, walk through our missing gate.
I jump when I hear a door bang downstairs, followed by the pounding of the shower. Usually Demi is at work by now. I wonder if she has the day off. I won’t give up so easily today. I won’t give up at all. I don’t know what all of this means—the broken gate, the man in the courtyard, the van on the street—but I can’t help but think it has something to do with the game, with my turn, with her.
I need to finish this today. Just get it over with.
“Do you want me to clean around the gun?” I turn and see my housekeeper standing next to the table in the foyer, where the gun sits on a silver tray like the last party favor. Her expression is haughty, disbelieving. She’s obviously never worked for a rich family before.
“I suppose you’d better,” I snap. I check my reflection in the foyer mirror, then take one last glance at the gun as I walk out the door.
I want the game to be over. I don’t have time to get to know her. If Demi won’t reveal her weakness, I’ll have to use one of mine.
LYLA
In addition to every gun known to man, we also have every tool. The toolshed, which is tucked along the side of the house, next to the courtyard, is filled with everything you could possibly need. Six shovels with pointed tips and perforated edges, seven saws, one chain. Most of these things have never been used. One or two are sprinkled with mud that looks like blood.
I have a wide selection of tools, of moves, to finish the game. I choose a set of steel wire cutters, the kind that can break the links of a chain-link fence.
As I cross back into the courtyard, I find the housekeeper standing next to the fountain. She is frozen like a statue, gazing into the water. She catches sight of the cutters as I slip them into my pocket.
“What are you doing?” she asks. Her impertinence is starting to grate. I like my help to be silent as well as invisible.
“What are you doing?” I ask back. “I don’t pay you to stare at your reflection.”
She just stands there and watches me as I cross the courtyard, walk up the steps and onto the street. It’s creepy. I would fire her if Graham wasn’t obsessed with her cooking.
* * *
I TAKE MY usual route to the reservoir. When I get there, I find a small break in the fence. I remove the wire cutters from my pocket. I cut the metal links—they snap apart easily—into the shape of a door I can peel back. I make the break bigger, big enough to step through easily.
My weakness. It’s always irritated me, the way I can circle the lake, look at it, but never reach it. Trespassing is highly illegal, of course. Dangerous. There’s a circular concrete drain that looks like the place they used to drop the bodies of aged-out starlets. There are slippery cliffs and wild animals. Security patrols the perimeter twenty-four hours a day. In a city where people are tucked into every street corner, hidden in every crevice, where people camp on the islands that crop up on the LA River at low tide, this place is protected. Even the rich can’t access it.
It’s also beautiful: remote, disquieting. One of the few places in LA that no one can touch. The trees are green and wild. There are herds of roving deer. The water is baptismal blue. Even the air feels cleaner, fat with refreshment.
It’s like Margo’s gardens, exquisite but fenced in. The beauty is the trap.
* * *
WHEN I GET back to the house, the courtyard is empty. My muscles are tight, almost cramped, as I look for the man from yesterday, imagine all the places he could stuff his too-big body. I tell myself I’m scared of him, but really, I am scared of me.
I set my shoulders and start down the stairs. I am the predator. She is the prey. It’s just a game. I need to win. I walk softly, not wanting Demi to hear me coming.
When I reach the patio, there is a weird smell, sickly, like an artisan candle titled Sweat and Blood. I tell myself I am imagining it. I shake it off. I knock loudly on the door.
I feel her freeze, feel her like she is living inside me, renting space there.
I knock harder.
I hear footsteps approach. I have her right where I want her. She is walking right into my trap. The door opens a crack.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Hi.” Suddenly she pushes through it. She shuts it fast behind her, hiding what’s inside. She is standing on the patio in front of me, so close I take a quick step back.
She is dressed in sharp black heels, a bounteous black coat. Her skin glows. She crosses her arms. “Is there something wrong?”
“Not at all.” I step out toward the edge of the patio. The air is so close down here, it packs in my throat. The weird trees twitch overhead. The hillside is coated with vines with heart-shaped leaves. “I just wanted to check in after yesterday. That man—”
“I’m fine. Thanks.” She is dismissing me but I don’t mind it. In fact, I enjoy the discomfort it causes, my not leaving, invading her space. I turn on my toes, face her.
“You’ve been home a lot this week,” I point out. Has she been fired? Was her whole job a ruse? Is anything real? Is everything a game?
“I’m working remotely now,” she explains. “So, you know, I’ll just be in here on my own a lot, working. It’s better if I’m not disturbed.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
I approach the stairwell like I’m going to leave, but I’m not. I have no plans to leave and I wonder if she can sense that, if that is why her eyes are so wide. “I wanted to ask you: I go for a walk every day around the reservoir. I thought you might like to come.” It’s not a question. That’s intentional. “I thought it might be nice for you to have a friend in the neighborhood.” I stretch my lips in a smile. It hurts a little.
She tugs her ponytail. “That’s sweet of you,” she says but her words are prickly. She twists her neck and gazes back at the house. “But I can’t right now.” She reaches for the doorknob.
“I’ll come back later.” A lunge.
“You don’t need to.” A parry.
“I’m sorry.” I’m not. “The thing about living here . . .” Does she ever blink? “Margo is very particular about her tenants. We like them to be friends. Family, even.” I can practically see the hairs on her neck rise but she holds her own, holds her breath. “This is Margo’s house after all. So is mine. We’re all living in her home. It’s important that we all know one another so we feel comfortable.” I am making her uncomfortable. “Do you understand?”
“I think . . . I get it.” Good. “If you just give me a second to change, I’ll meet you upstairs.”
She waits for me to start up the stairs before she opens the door. I imagine a wall of televisions playing security camera footage focused on my every move. A small armory. An earpiece that connects her directly to Margo. She has an attack; we have a riposte!
I’m paranoid, but anything is possible—that’s the thing. When you have the means, anything is possible. I reach the courtyard and perch on the edge of the fountain, muscles poised, mouth twitching, ready for her.
LYLA
Demi finally ascends in a black athleisure suit, loose on her tiny frame, pierced in places by bones. She is thinner than I thought. She tugs at her clothes as if embarrassed, but she must work hard for that body. Maybe she works harder on pretending to be embarrassed.
“Ready,” she says unnecessarily. I follow her through the opening onto the street.