Page 11 of Rich Little Liars

He didn’t say anything. Just stood there looking at me like I was a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. All the while, I kept remembering them standing in our kitchen, both staring as if expecting me to explain something. I’d felt it then – that first real prickle of chilling unease.

Because Roxanne had looked at him the way she’d looked at our kitchen that first day.

Like she wanted something.

4

NOW

I wake to the sound of voices outside my window. Low murmurs, punctuated by laughter that’s too loud for seven in the morning. I lie still for a moment, listening, before dragging myself out of bed and pulling back the curtain just enough to see.

Two women stand in the park, both in running gear. They’re not the same women from before. One of them – blonde, ponytail swinging – gestures towards my house while saying something to her companion. They’re not even trying to be discreet about it. The other woman glances over, and even from this distance I can see the curiosity on her face. The way her expression shifts into something knowing.

I let the curtain fall and step back from the window. My pulse is doing that thing again, that rapid flutter I can’t control. They’re just talking. Just neighbours chatting on their morning run. There’s nothing sinister about it.

Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.

I stand there in my bedroom – this room that still doesn’t feel like mine, with its perfect pale walls and plush carpet – and try to remember the breathing exercises the therapist taught me. My heart keeps racing, my thoughts spiralling into territories I’ve spent weeks trying to avoid.

Downstairs, I start making coffee and stand at the kitchen counter, trying to decide what to do with another empty day. Unpack more boxes. Go for a walk. Pretend I’m someone who belongs here. The machine beeps and I fill my cup. The normalcy of it – the simple domestic task – should be soothing. Instead, it feels like an act. Like I’m rehearsing the role of Kelly Reynolds, Ordinary Widow, and forgetting my lines.

I catch sight of Caroline walking past my house with her small dog, moving slowly enough that it’s clear she’s looking. Her gaze sweeps over the windows, the door, the front lawn I haven’t touched since moving in. The dog stops to sniff at my gatepost and she lets it, using the pause as an excuse to stare more openly. She doesn’t wave. Doesn’t smile. Just looks, assessing. Taking inventory of the new arrival and finding something that doesn’t quite add up.

I duck away from the window before she can see me.

This is ridiculous. I’m being paranoid. Town life means visible life – everyone sees everyone, knows everyone’s business. That’s just how it works in places like this. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean they know about my past.

But the thought has planted itself now, and I can’t dig it out. What if someone’s worked it out? What if they’ve learned of my tragedy in that fire, of Daniel, of everything that happened? The realtor promised discretion. The solicitor said my privacy would be protected. But information has a way of leaking, especially when it’s the sort of information people find interesting. Tragic. Scandalous, even, if they knew the truth about what I’m really running from.

And East Hampton is exactly the sort of place where people dig. Where curiosity masquerades as concern, and concern becomes investigation.

I drink my java too fast, scalding my tongue, and go back upstairs to get dressed. I need to go out. Need to prove to myself – and to whoever might be watching – that I’m just a normal woman living a normal life. That there’s nothing to see here, nothing to wonder about.

The morning passes in a blur. I walk round the park, nodding at the few people I pass. An elderly man with a walking stick. A mother pushing a stroller, her toddler trailing behind on a scooter. They all smile. They all look friendly. But I can’t shake the feeling they’re assessing me, measuring me against some invisible standard I don’t know how to meet.

I’m passing the bench near the fountain when a voice stops me.

‘Kelly, isn’t it?’

I turn. It’s one of the women I’ve seen jogging – the blonde with the ponytail. She’s sitting alone now, a takeout coffee cup in her hand, her running gear swapped for an emerald sweater and tailored pants.

‘Yes. Sorry, I don’t think we’ve⁠—’

‘Miriam,’ she says, not standing. ‘I’m at number fourteen. Across from Caroline.’

‘Right. Nice to meet you.’

She sips her coffee, watching me over the rim. ‘Settling in okay? Must be strange, moving somewhere new all on your own.’

Something about the way she says this feels like she’s making a point. All I can do is shrug it off and continue as if everything is normal. It’s all I can ever do.

‘It’s an adjustment,’ I tell her. ‘But everyone’s been welcoming.’

‘Have they?’ She smiles, and I’m not buying it. ‘That’s good to hear. East Hampton can be very particular about newcomers. Especially ones who keep to themselves.’

There’s no way to respond to that, so I stay quiet. The silence lasts a beat too long.

‘Anyway.’ She stands, brushing invisible lint from her pants. ‘I’m sure I’ll see you around. Caroline’s planning another gathering soon. You should come. Let people get to know you properly.’