“It’s you or me,” I repeat to her, but I think she knows. Her face is closed. Her eyes are dark. It’s her.
Graham sighs—the poor, beleaguered husband to this mad, mad woman. “It’s all right, darling. Just go upstairs and have a glass of Mo?t. No one is going to get hurt. I’ll call someone to escort you.” He unsheathes his phone, frowns when his call isn’t answered immediately. “No one’s picking up. Fucking staff is all playing the game! I shot about twenty of them. Better call the police.”
I give Demi one last look but she won’t meet my eye. The game is over. It was her or me. She won.
I run.
It’s the only choice I have. Down the stairs and out the gate. I reach the street, but it’s dark and it’s cold and it’s empty and I’m tired. I’m so tired of playing games. Sometimes I just want to know how it’s all going to end.
I walk down into the courtyard. The fountain is gurgling in the corner, like a body choking on its own blood. It’s lit from underneath so the water glows an unnatural blue, turns my gold skin green. I watch the surface as it breaks over and over again. Then it starts to rain. Margo probably ordered it to muddy the evidence.
Later, a male voice calls down from above. Through the rain I see two big black umbrellas hovering over two men. They are saying something like “Stand down.”
They start down the steps. One slips and catches himself on the railing.
They hold their umbrellas out over me. I smile when I recognize them. They are the daddy-baby cop combo who came when Bean died.
“You won’t believe what happened,” I say like we are all friends here.
“We’d like you to come with us,” the daddy says.
“Where are we going?” The rain is soaking my dress, washing away the gold dust.
“Down to the station.”
“Why?”
“You’re under arrest.” It makes sense. I didn’t shoot Michael, but wasn’t I, really, responsible? I played the game. I lost. He reels off my rights.
“Where’s my husband?” I ask but I know where he is. He’s upstairs drinking champagne.
The daddy cop doesn’t answer.
“Cuffs?” the baby says. The daddy shakes his head.
I stand up, follow them out of the courtyard. All the times I saw other people fall, I never thought it would be me. The mind is amazing for that, the way it can shape things so everyone is always someone else and never, ever me.
We reach the street. The cop car is waiting. It’s lights spin in lazy circles. Laughter echoes down from way up high at Margo’s place. Even the cops look up. It sounds like they’re having a good time. They always do.
DEMI
Lyla races down the stairs away from us. Graham is still fucking around on his phone. The gunshots have stopped. I’m pretty sure the game is over. I’m pretty sure I won. Michael hasn’t moved.
I tell myself it was an accident. I tell myself it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know the gun was loaded. I never would have shot him. Lyla set me up—except she didn’t. I stole her gun. She tried to stop me. But I didn’t know. I didn’t know the gun was loaded. I was just trying to win. I was just trying to save myself.
Michael’s face is frozen in pain, the kind of pain he never showed in real life. He was always grifting, always trying; even when he was wrong, he was always trying to survive.
Now that he’s dead, I remember only the good things about him: the tent he offered me, his advice, his Pixar movies and his penis collages. Who would protect them now?
Michael is dead. And what made it worse was that no one would care; no one would miss him. He was a bad person. He did bad things. But living the life he did, he should have been all bad and he wasn’t. The good things he did meant more, because he fought to keep them. He had to fight to do good.
“I should check his pulse again.” I start to bend down.
Graham puts a hand on my shoulder. “It’s better if you let him bleed out.”
“What?”
He waves his hand dismissively. “They always try to sue. It’s better if he dies.”
I bend down anyway. His body is so cold I gasp. It’s like all of his life he was just waiting to die. “This is Michael.” I can’t find a pulse. I can’t even find a hint of one. “The man I told you about.” I shake the cold from my fingers.
“Ah, the murderer! Even better.”
I brush Michael’s hair out of his face. I wish he looked better. I wish he didn’t look so rough, because I know that’s all they’ll see.
“You really shouldn’t touch him,” Graham observes.
“I killed him. Not Lyla.”
He tips his chin. “The gun is in your hand.”
“Then why are you—”
“You won the game. You shot me over a man’s dead body—that’s commitment!” He offers an exuberant smile. It looks cheap on his expensive face. “I always pay off my debts. I assume this is what you want, but I can always give you something else. Maybe a yacht? A small island?”
“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