“On three,” I say.
“What. The. Fuck?” Graham’s voice from behind me. I drop the body. The head lolls back. I turn to find Graham poised at the top of the stairs. He is laced with belts of gold bullets but his suit is hardly crinkled. His skin glows with gold dust and perspiration.
Bang!
Graham flies backward, landing on his ass. Gold dust has exploded across his chest. “Christ!” He looks up in shock.
Demi’s gun is still smoking. The dead body is still on the ground. “Sorry,” she tells him. “I have to win.”
Graham’s dimples show as he dusts off his suit, turning his palms gold. He pushes himself back up. He circles the body. He squats down and checks Michael’s pulse. He gets blood on his hand. It mixes with the gold paint. He pulls his hand away, tries to shake it off, but it sticks. “Well, he’s definitely dead. Who is he?”
“He was robbing the house,” I explain. “You can see the jewelry.”
“Who shot him?” he asks. Demi is still holding the gun. I am unarmed. He looks from her to me, doing a quick calculation. He knows she shot him. He knows I created the game. He knows I set her up. He smirks at me. “Is this my present?”
Demi’s eyes are wide, blackish in the dark and filled with something: fear, like we have collided on a fast train. I remember the night I met her, out in the courtyard, trapped inside the gate, trying to get out. The way I followed her, my target. The tangled mess all leading to this: I won. I won the game. I ruined her life. She murdered a man, a man she was living with. I am the witness. Her life is over. I ended it.
It all ends here. If I tell him, Yes, this is your present, then my turn is over. We go back to how things were before. We go back to pretending. We go back to the appearance of perfection, which is the most important part. Maybe they move another tenant in; maybe they play another game, but I don’t have to play. My only job is to let them. My only requirement is to look the other way.
I won. I’m free. It’s over.
Except it isn’t.
Except it never ends.
Except it’s not worth it.
I turn to Demi. I see Elvira, see all the women and men who ever tried to live in that guesthouse, who ever tried to make it in this world before. “It’s a game,” I tell them. “You asked me why the gun was loaded. It’s a game they’re playing: It’s you or me.” She doesn’t seem to understand until that last line: It’s you or me. That is a line everyone seems to understand.
Graham presses his lips together. The gold paint on his suit bleeds down artfully so it looks intentional always. “Darling, you seem rattled. Why don’t you go upstairs and join the party? Demi and I will take care of this.” That’s when I know I’m finished.
“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.