“What are we playing?” Graham asks drolly. “Tag?”
Behind me is a long table covered with a velvet cloth. I remove the cloth. Twenty-seven handguns glow on the table.
“Those are real guns,” Mitsi’s husband, Mark, observes.
“Real guns,” I explain. “Fake ammunition. We’re using Simuniton. It’s what police officers use to train.”
“Isn’t that illegal?” Nigel says.
“Don’t be silly! That’s the fun part!” Tony laughs.
“Shouldn’t we be wearing pads? I’m pretty sure cops wear pads.”
“Has anyone tested this out?” Henri sounds genuinely scared.
Graham’s dimples are showing. He’s not smiling and he’s not smirking. It’s the same face he made when I showed him Elvira’s body.
I swallow hard and continue. My voice wavers with the light. “They’re each loaded with six rounds. If you need to reload, you can find more on a table in the gallery, but you’ll have to be careful. There’s no time-out, no safe zone.”
“What about other weapons?” Mark asks, eyeing up a sword on the wall. “Couldn’t someone just grab a knife from the kitchen?”
“The point is to shoot them,” I say. “You’ll know when they’re dead. It’s a special kind of Simunition. I hope you all don’t mind getting a little dirty.” Posey whoops. “Once you die, you can head out to the terrace for drinks and to wait out the game.”
“What do you get if you win?” Mark asks.
I catch Demi’s eyes. They glimmer in the half-light. “To keep playing.”
Graham whispers in her ear, flirting. She flirts back. He gets the last word, then leaves her side and crosses to me so abruptly, I feel myself wither. He slings an arm around my neck, rank with testosterone, kisses my cheek. My stomach drops. I feel sick, and not the good kind. “This is a brilliant idea, darling!” He leans in closer; his voice drops so it hums against my ear. “Is this my present?”
I extract myself. “You’ll know it when you see it.”
He chuckles, like he is in on this and every joke. Then he strides to the table, selects the best gun, turns off the safety. He points it at Henri. “Shall we test it out? Make sure it’s safe?”
Henri tugs his collar. “Might as well just start the game.”
Graham smirks, brings the gun in, blows on the muzzle. “Happy birthday to me.”
LYLA
Everyone selects a gun from the table. I explain the start. A member of the staff stands at the top of the stairs, holding a gun. One shot to run. One minute. Another shot and the game starts.
First shot at midnight. We wait, nervous. Little groups of men form to discuss strategy.
“It’s better to form alliances!”
“No, it’s better to go it alone. You can’t trust anyone.”
“It doesn’t seem fair,” Henri says, fiddling with his gun. “They know the house best.”
“It’s just a game.”
Posey is fooling around with her gun, flipping it in the air and catching it. “This is going to be so much fun!”
At 11:59, the group falls silent. The staff member steadies their hand. Five, four, three—
Bang!
They fire early, and not into the air, like I expected. They fire at the chandelier. Gold dust and glass explode across the floor. I’m furious, but I don’t have time to scold them.
I have a feeling this game could get out of control fast. I have to remind myself that’s what I want.
Everyone is frozen, temporarily shocked. Graham is wondrous. I did good, but I don’t feel good. Yet.
“Run, you fuckers!” Mark says. One group races toward the garden; another goes deeper into the house. Graham goes directly toward the gallery. Of course he does. It is not enough to have the advantage. He has to rig the deck. Demi goes outside. I am following her for a second.
Now, I think. You could do it now. She’s right there! But it’s too soon. I would be seen. I want Graham to know it was me, but I have to make sure no one else knows.
I split off, taking the back route to the west wing, where I have paid a staff member to let me in through a side door. She is there when I arrive, holding her gun. I pass through the door as the second shot goes off, too early.
Bang!
“The game hasn’t started, fuck face!” someone shouts.
Bang!
This is going to be chaos.
I reach my out-of-bounds safety spot. It’s a little alcove, like a box at an opera house with a bench. It’s surrounded by curtains I can peek through. It’s where the staff hides so they can be unseen. As such, I can see everything from here: the red foyer below, the arched entrance into the gallery, the stairs to the west wing, even a corner of the terrace outside.