He’s right: The people upstairs have all the beauty. I’m tired of sinking in tragedy, of feeling dirty with it. I’m tired of being trapped in this house with only Michael. I want more.
I would rather be in a rich person’s hell than a poor person’s heaven.
And I am so fucking close.
DEMI
I take another long shower. There is a cotton feeling in my ears. When I get out, Michael is gone again. I grab one of his beers from the fridge. I drink it on the sofa, then another and another. I think about Graham.
You’re special. It’s a line. I know it’s a line. But it’s nice to have someone care enough to give you a line. When I am tipsy, I think about his animal sanctuary. It’s nicer than all the places I’ve lived before this. I should ask if there’s room for me. I laugh out loud.
Then I hear it: footsteps on the stairs. But these are heavier; they take their time. They are in no hurry. They are inevitable. They are cop footsteps.
I forgot about the bag of hands, feet and teeth.
I was supposed to go and get it. I had a chance, and what did I do? I took another shower. I had another beer. I forgot who I was and what I did to get here. I’ve been sloppy—with everything—and now I am going to get what I deserve.
A fist raps—Bang! Bang!—on the door.
I don’t move. I am so used to not answering doors—to cops, to neighbors, to landlords—that it’s second nature. They can’t come in if you don’t open the door. Don’t open the door.
“Hello?” a teatime voice calls out. “It’s Graham from upstairs.”
The fear flushes through me again, drops to the floor. I’m safe. I’m protected. I have been lucky so many times lately that it’s starting to feel like I deserve it.
“Just a second!” I go to the bathroom to check myself in the full-length mirror. My face is still fear pale. I spritz it with an atomizer. I spray perfume and light a candle, hoping it will mask the scent of heroin when I open the door.
Graham stands behind the screen with his hands in his pockets. The sun glows along his neck and he smiles slightly, like we have met again by chance. “Sorry to bother you. It’s just that— God, I don’t want to scare you!” His cheeks turn pink, and he ducks his head.
“It’s okay.” As if he could scare me.
He flinches, rubs his neck, nervous. “Can I come in for a moment?”
“I—” I think of Michael’s junk piled in the corner, the stench of heroin that permeates the house. “The porch. Can we talk on the porch? Do you want a beer?”
He smiles, like it’s something no one has ever asked him. “I would love a beer.”
“I’ll meet you outside.” I shut the door behind me. He must think I am hiding something, but he probably thinks it’s a messy living room, a dent in the wall, a wine stain on the wood. Not a man’s life and a woman’s death.
I grab two beers from the fridge. I promised myself I wouldn’t drink around Lyla and I should maintain the same policy with Graham, but I’m already tipsy and it’s different with him. He doesn’t look at me like I’m a rat in a trap.
I use a side door to step onto the porch, shut it behind me. “Sorry,” I say. “I just haven’t finished decorating. It’s—”
“It’s all right,” he says. Everything about me is all right with him. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” I hand him the beer. He opens it with his teeth, which catches me off guard. “Sorry. Party trick. You know us rich boys. We like to pretend to be down with the people.” He winks, but I like him better for it. It makes him seem more real.
“I’m not uncomfortable,” I say. I am, but not for the reason he thinks.
He tips his beer delicately into his mouth. He even drinks like a rich person.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
He purses his lips, gathering himself. “It’s Lyla. My wife. She . . . I’m worried about her, you know?”
I don’t. “Is she back yet?” I have been so distracted, I completely forgot I left her at the reservoir. But she left me first. Still, my heart bumps like it’s my fault. I left her, and now I am sharing a beer with her husband.
He crosses away from me on the porch, gazing out over the yard, past the trees, where you can see two or three stars. “She does this sometimes. Disappears. She . . . Never mind. I don’t want to bother you with my problems.” He shakes his shoulders wearily, then sits on one of Demi’s hand-carved rocking chairs.