Page 13 of Rich Little Liars

‘Then I’m glad you moved here. You shouldn’t be alone.’

The water finishes boiling and I pour it, grateful for something to do with my hands. When I turn back, Richard is still watching me, but there’s no pity in his gaze. Just understanding. Like he knows what it means to be lonely, to be carrying something heavy you can’t put down.

We drink our tea and talk about easier things. He tells me about his day – one patient who insisted their ailment was rare and exotic when it was actually just indigestion. I tell him about the grocery store, about Caroline and her dog, about how strange it feels to live somewhere so quiet after years in a busier town. I don’t mention the women in the park or the way I feel watched, much less the paranoia that’s becoming harder to distinguish from reality.

‘Caroline means well,’ he says. ‘But she can be… intense. If she’s bothering you, don’t hesitate to let me know. I can have a word with her.’

‘No, it’s fine. She’s just being neighbourly.’

‘Is she though?’ He grins. ‘Or is she gathering intelligence for the homeowners’ association?’

I laugh despite myself. It feels good, that laugh. Like releasing pressure from a valve. Like remembering what it feels like to be normal. To no longer be in emotional agony.

When Richard finally leaves, promising to check in soon, I linger in the empty kitchen and realise I feel fractionally better. Lighter. Like maybe, just maybe, I could have something resembling a life here. Like East Hampton could be more than just a hiding place.

The feeling lasts exactly until I go to lock the front door for the night.

Then I see it.

A white envelope on the doormat, stark against the dark wood. I didn’t hear it arrive. Didn’t hear footsteps or the mail slot opening or anything at all. But there it is, my name written across the front in block capitals. Not handwritten – printed, impersonal.

KELLY REYNOLDS

My hands shake as I pick it up. It’s not thick – just a single sheet of paper inside, from the feel of it. No return address. No stamp. Hand-delivered, which means someone came to my door, maybe while I was taking a bath, and pushed this through my mail slot.

I should wait. Should sit down, calm myself, open it carefully and rationally.

Instead, I tear it open right there in the hallway.

The note inside is brief. One sentence, printed in the same block capitals.

I read it once. Twice. Three times, like reading it again might change what it says.

It doesn’t.

My legs go weak. I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor, the note still clutched in my hand, and the world narrows to those five words on the page.

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID

5

NOW

The note sits on my kitchen counter where I left it three days ago, the paper already starting to curl at the edges. I haven’t touched it since that first night, when I read it over and over until the words stopped making sense. Now I just walk past it, again and again, pretending it isn’t there while being unable to think about anything else.

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID

I’ve barely slept. Every sound in the night sends my heart racing – the rustle of wind against windows, the distant bark of a dog. I lie awake imagining footsteps on gravel, someone standing outside in the dark, watching. Waiting. When I do manage to drift off, I wake within minutes, heart pounding, convinced I’ve heard something. The front gate opening. A key in the lock. Breathing outside my bedroom door.

During the day, I stand at windows and scan the park for anyone who looks too interested, too aware. Everyone becomes a suspect. The joggers who pass at regular intervals in expensive gym outfits that clearly haven’t seen a drop of sweat – are they the same people every time, or are there more of them now? The man who parks his Bentley outside just to walk his retriever every morning at eight – why does he always pause near my house, letting the dog sniff at the same patch of grass? Caroline, of course. Always pearl-clutching Caroline, with her assessing gaze and her too-keen interest in the new arrival.

I’ve started keeping the curtains half-closed, enough to see out but not enough for anyone to see clearly in. It makes the house feel smaller, darker, but at least it offers the illusion of privacy. At least I can pretend I’m not completely exposed.

The problem is, I don’t know who sent it. Don’t know how much they know or what they want. The note didn’t include demands or threats – just that simple, devastating statement. Which somehow makes it worse. A threat I could understand. A demand I could respond to. Money, silence, something tangible. But this? This is just waiting. Watching. Letting me destroy myself with uncertainty.

I’ve considered leaving. Packing everything back into boxes and disappearing before whoever sent the note can follow through on whatever they’re planning. I’ve even looked at properties in other towns, other counties, places where nobody would think to look for me. But running would only confirm their suspicions, wouldn’t it? And where would I go? I’ve already used up my fresh start. Already burned through the insurance money buying this house, this new life, or whatever kind of life it will eventually become.

So I stay.