I take the chair beside him and lose my balance briefly when the seat sways. “To be honest, it would be nice to have a break from my problems.” I don’t mean to be judgmental, but I can’t imagine his problems are very big. He probably wants a divorce but is afraid of losing a few million. Rich-people problems.
He takes a long drag of his beer, wipes his spotless lips, then says, “I’ve always tried to help people. But some don’t want to be helped. . . .” I know he is talking about Lyla, but it feels like he’s talking about me. He told me they put me here to help me. Shouldn’t I let them?
But it’s not you they want to help, I remind myself. It’s Demi. Michael says I can’t trust Graham. He’s probably right. I know that, and a month ago I never even would have entertained the idea, but I’ve been living in this guesthouse for weeks now. I’ve gotten away with everything. And I’m starting to feel like I deserve it.
I take a fortifying gulp of beer; then I say, “You know, when you said you would help me, what exactly did you mean?”
His dimples show. “That I would help you. With anything. Anything you need: money, work, clemency.” He smirks but my heart jerks. He’s joking, isn’t he? God, he can afford to joke about anything.
He leans forward suddenly, reaches out, brushes my hair back, like men only ever do in movies. He settles back but looks unsettled. “You’re different, you know? I can tell. I’ve never met anyone like you.” I believe that. “I would love to give you whatever you need. It would be a pleasure to me.”
“What if I don’t need anything?”
“I don’t mean to be rude but you reek of need.” I don’t know how I’m supposed to take that as a compliment. “I find it so compelling.” He tips back the last of his beer. “I’ve never needed anything.” Then I understand: To him, it is a compliment. It’s something he can’t have. He stands, brushes off his immaculate suit. “I’ve held you captive long enough. Sorry. I’ll throw this away,” he says, lifting the empty bottle. Standing at the end of the porch after dark, he is etched into silhouette. He looks like the white knight they instruct you to dream about, the one who is too good to be true. But what if he is true? What if he was always there but just out of reach? God in money. God in a three-piece suit.
He’s good because he can afford it. Not like me, who has to pay for everything in blood. If I were rich, if I were like him, I would be so good. I’d be a human being, not a bag of needs.
“It’s okay.” I stand, too. “We’re supposed to be friends—family, right?” I quote Lyla and he flinches, like he knows my words are hers.
“Of course. We’re here to help.” He looks so sad, and he glances at the stars again. Poor little rich boy in love with all the things he can’t save. “You will let me help you, won’t you? If ever you need something.”
“Of course.”
“Anything.” Great.
There’s a murderer living with me.
There’s a body I set fire to.
There’s a bag of hands, feet and teeth.
And I’ve always wanted a Chanel bag.
DEMI
I wait twenty minutes after Graham leaves to go out, count almost every second. My nerves are clamps. My temples are tight. I need to find that bag of body parts. I need to put it in the BMW. I need to drive out to the desert, in another state maybe, and set it on fire. That is what I need to do.
When twenty minutes pass, I journey up the stairs. The lights are on inside the glass house. I even see Graham sitting on a chair in the far corner where the windows meet, scrolling through his phone. I don’t see Lyla. I wonder if she ever came back, but I have bigger problems now.
I creep through the courtyard, through the vanquished gate. I am passing the white van when I hear scratching. I stop in my tracks. It stops with me. Maybe I imagined it. Or maybe someone is inside that van. I keep my eyes on it as I walk toward the trash can alcove.
I open the first bin. A dog barks so close, I drop the lid. The sound echoes through the quiet street.
A car door opens. “What are you doing?”
I spin around and see Astrid, Lyla’s housekeeper, standing on the street. The dog is still barking. I can hear it pacing through the bushes, rattling branches.
What do I tell her? She threw the bag away. She’s probably already suspicious.
“I was just throwing away some bottles.” I have no bottles. She might have seen me come out here empty-handed. She might know I’m lying. I search her for signs of suspicion, but she just looks like her eerie self: worried, astrological. I have to be smart. I have to turn my suspicions on her. “You’re out here late.”