“Yes. I mean, I never had a pet because we couldn’t . . .” I stop myself from saying “afford it.” I remember Demi was middle-class. I remember Demi. I was so distracted by his wealth that I forgot. The air is different, not just here but around him. Money causes amnesia. “We just didn’t have any.”
He nods like he understands anything I say when he can’t. “I used to want every kind of animal—you know, a real Noah’s ark.” He frowns. “But only rescued animals, ones that didn’t have anywhere to go. The ones that needed saving, you know? It’s an indulgence of ours. My mother, too.” The space between his eyebrows is plucked with worry. “But then I realized, you know, people need saving, too.” He looks at me. I mean, really looks like he can see everything inside me, like he is processing my character, analyzing my weaknesses, openmouthed, eating me. “That’s why we have the guesthouse. To help people like you. This world is so hard to access, you know. We want to give people a leg up. Do whatever we can to help our tenants succeed.”
I have to remind myself that he doesn’t mean it. That it’s bullshit, empty words. Like the pamphlets they give out at Helping Hands. It’s an image that promises you the world. Like Demi that night: You can work for my company. Ha-ha. He doesn’t really mean it.
And even if he did, I am not who he thinks I am.
“That’s so nice.” My jaw throbs, as if remembering pain. I want to be Demi so badly. I want him to save me. It’s so easy, standing here at the top of a beautiful garden, beneath a house shaped like a castle, to believe that he is divine, that he is God, reaching out, if only I would let him. Like it’s my choice.
I have to remind myself Demi is dead. She is not a person I want to be.
“We selected you.” He keeps his eyes trained on the view but he reaches out blindly, grabs my hand. “Because you’re special.” He squeezes my fingers with his money hands.
I take in the whole view, dare myself to remember it, remember this, forever: the lush gardens, the flowers that sway in the controlled breeze. It’s like the books I used to read, except it’s real.
I’m here. At a point past feeling.
I never want to leave.
DEMI
He has to go back to work, so he leaves me at the broken gate. He kisses my cheeks, European-style. His smell up close catches me off guard. It’s musky, like a firehouse, like something strong and feral. He smiles and his dimples show.
“I’m glad you’re here.” I watch him walk away from me, how still he seems even in motion. He presses a button. The garage beeps. He disappears inside it. I take a breath.
Then I swivel toward reality. My steps are hurried, tumbling over one another. I reach the top of the staircase, grip the rail. This afternoon has been so surreal that the realization hits me like a kick in the teeth: The bag is gone.
I tell myself, Maybe Michael. I try to force myself to walk down the stairs, but my knees are locked, my throat closing with panic. I want to run. I need to leave now. While I am still free. While I am still standing. I am getting too close to danger, too close to discovery.
Run.
But then I see the garden, already taking a quality of a dream although I was there minutes ago. The flowers on fire. The bunnies hopping. The sky drifting overhead. I see Graham’s lips breathe: To help people like you.
I need help.
“Everything okay?” I wheel around and see Lyla’s housekeeper standing beside the fountain. Mascara dust clogs the lines beneath her eyes. She is wearing four silver necklaces, all tangled up together. She looks like a psychic. My future is bleak.
“I—” My tongue is swollen. I can’t speak. I can’t not. I force words out. “I just left some trash—um!—at the bottom of the stairs.” I am so scared my words are slurring. I need to sit down. I am going to faint for one, two seconds. Then the world slides back into place with the pieces too tight. “Have you—”
“I took it out.”
“Oh, God.”
“Sorry. I thought— You could smell it upstairs.”
The fountain is warbling. The sky is still blue.
“It was an animal. I found outside. Dead. Thank you.”
“Sure.” I focus on her necklaces: a star, a heart, a moon and a cowboy boot.
“I’m—Demi, by the way.” I was thisclose to giving her my real name.
“Astrid.” How do I ask her where she took the trash? She must have put it in the cans on the street. Do I leave it there? Do I go get it? I can’t do it now. I’ll have to wait until tonight.