Page 14 of Rich Little Liars

And I wait.

And I try to work out who knows and how they found out my deepest, darkest secret, and what they’re going to do with the information.

The possibilities circle through my mind like vultures. Someone from before – a neighbour, a friend of Daniel’s family, someone who recognised my face or my name and connected the dots. Or someone here, someone in East Hampton who made it their business to dig into the new arrival’s past. Caroline seems the obvious choice, with her clipboard and her homeowners’ association duties and her air of knowing everyone’s business. But it could be anyone.

That’s what’s driving me insane – the not knowing.

By the fourth day, I’m barely functioning. I’ve drunk so much coffee my hands shake constantly, but I’m still exhausted, running on adrenaline and paranoia. When I catch sight of myself in the bathroom mirror, I look grey. Hollowed out. There are shadows under my eyes that makeup can’t hide, and my cheekbones stand out too sharply. I look exactly like someone with something to hide.

Then the invitation arrives – mid-morning, hand-delivered by Emma. I watch through the window as she walks up my driveway, an envelope in her hand, and my stomach clenches. Another note. Another accusation. But when I answer the door, she’s smiling.

‘Morning. I hope I’m not disturbing you.’ She holds out the envelope. ‘Natasha and I are hosting a brunch tomorrow. Very casual, just a few of the neighbours. We thought it would be nice for you to meet more people properly.’

The envelope is cream, fancy-looking, my name written in elegant script across the front. Nothing like the harsh block capitals from the other day.

‘That’s kind,’ I manage. ‘But I might feel out of place.’

‘Nonsense. It’s exactly your place – we’re inviting you, aren’t we?’ Her smile doesn’t waver. ‘Please come. It’ll be fun. Or at least as fun as these things can be.’

I should say no. Should make an excuse. But refusing would look strange, wouldn’t it? Suspicious. The sort of thing someone with secrets would do.

‘What time?’ I hear myself ask.

‘Eleven. Natasha’s house. Details are in the envelope.’

After she leaves, I stay in the hallway holding the invitation and trying to figure out if this is a trap. If Emma and Natasha know something. If this gathering is actually an ambush, a chance to corner me with questions I can’t answer.

But that’s insane. They’re just being friendly. Just trying to welcome the new neighbour. This is what people do in towns like this. I’m the one making it sinister.

Except everything feels sinister now.

Everything feels like a test I’m failing.

I spend the rest of the day trying to convince myself it will be fine. That I can handle a simple brunch. That this might actually help – a chance to prove I’m harmless, boring, exactly what I appear to be. Maybe if I seem normal enough, friendly enough, whoever sent the note will realise they’ve made a mistake. For a moment, I even consider getting a normal out-of-the-house job just to fit in with these people. The problem is, I don’t have the qualifications (or the stomach) to match whatever their up-market, prudish jobs are. Besides, it seems like most of them were born with silver spoons in their mouths. They don’t need to work. Neither do I. Yet, anyway.

But the thought rings hollow even as I think it.

Because they haven’t made a mistake.

They know the truth.

The note said so.

By the time the next morning arrives, I’ve rehearsed my story until it feels almost true. Paranoid that I’ve already been researched, I have to give them something: young widow. House fire. New beginning. Simple. Sympathetic. Nothing that invites follow-up questions. I’ve practised my facial expressions in the mirror – sad but coping, grateful for the fresh start, ready to move forward with my life. I look like a woman who’s been through something terrible but is coming out the other side.

I look like a liar.

I dress with intention – jeans and a soft grey sweater, nothing too formal or too casual. Makeup to hide the shadows under my eyes. Hair washed and dried properly for once. I look in the mirror and see someone who could pass for normal. Someone who belongs at a neighbourhood gathering, in the company of the rich.

The walk to Natasha’s house takes less than two minutes, but I manage to second-guess myself three times. I could still turn back. Could claim I felt ill, forgot something urgent, anything. But that would only make things worse. So I keep walking, past the other houses with their perfect gardens and gleaming windows, until I reach number eighteen.

The blue shutters are obvious, cheerful against pale stone walls. Through the front window, I can see people already gathered inside. More than I expected. At least ten women, maybe more, all holding coffee cups and chatting in clusters. My chest tightens. This isn’t intimate. This isn’t a small group.

This is an audience.

I take a breath and ring the bell.

Natasha answers, bright and welcoming. ‘Kelly! Come in, come in.’