Page 16 of Rich Little Liars

Or wants me to think she does.

The room suddenly feels too small. Too hot. All these women sitting in their perfect clothes in this perfect house, drinking bubbles and pretending this is fine while they dissect me like a specimen under glass.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, standing abruptly. The champagne flute tips, spilling across the table. ‘I need to… I should go.’

‘Kelly, wait—’ Emma reaches for my arm, but I pull away.

‘Thank you for the invitation. It was lovely to meet everyone.’

I’m moving quickly towards the door. Behind me, I can hear the murmur of voices rising, questions being asked. Someone says my name. Someone else laughs – nervous or amused, I can’t tell. Let them talk. Let them wonder. I just need to get out of this house, away from their watching eyes and probing questions.

The front door seems impossibly far away. I’m aware of how I must look – wild-eyed, panicked, guilty – but I can’t stop myself. Can’t slow down. Can’t pretend any more.

I practically run across the park, my breath coming in sharp gasps. When I reach my own front door, my hands are rattling so hard I can barely get the key in the lock. Inside, I collapse against the door exactly like I did the night I found the note.

Except now it’s worse. Because I’ve just confirmed every suspicion they might have had. I’ve drawn attention to myself in exactly the way I was trying to avoid. I’ve shown them I have something to hide. And somewhere out there, whoever sent that note is watching.

Waiting to see what I’ll do next.

6

NOW

The doorbell rings at half past eight, and I nearly don’t answer it.

I’ve been sitting in the dark for hours, curtains drawn, lights off, trying to make myself invisible. After today’s disaster, I came home and haven’t moved from the couch except to use the bathroom. My phone has buzzed twice – messages I haven’t read – and I’ve watched the daylight fade through the gaps in the curtains until the room turned grey, then black.

The doorbell rings again. Longer this time. Insistent.

I force myself up and walk to the door, checking through the peephole first. A habit I developed after the note. Richard stands on my doorstep, holding a bottle of wine and looking concerned.

I spring open the door immediately.

‘Hi,’ he says. ‘I heard about this morning. Thought I’d check in.’

‘Who told you?’

‘Emma texted me. She’s worried about you.’ He holds up the wine. ‘I brought liquid company. Can I come in?’

I should say no. Should tell him I’m fine, just tired, need an early night. But spending another hour alone in the dark would make something inside me crack.

‘Yes. Please.’

He follows me into the kitchen and I turn on the lights, blinking against the sudden brightness. Richard sets the wine on the counter and finds glasses without asking, moving through my kitchen like he’s done it before. Like he belongs here. The familiarity of it should bother me, but instead it’s comforting.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he asks, pouring wine into both glasses.

‘Not really.’

‘Fair enough.’ He slides one glass towards me. ‘We can just sit then. Or I can leave, if you’d rather be alone.’

‘No. Stay. Please.’

We move to the living room and I curl into one corner of the couch while Richard takes the other end, a respectful distance between us. The wine sits untouched on the coffee table in front of me. I want it – want the softening it would bring, the blurring of edges – but I can’t risk saying something I shouldn’t, revealing something I can’t take back. I just feel guilty for not telling him before he poured me a glass.

Anyway, I’ve spent enough time drunk in the months after the fire to know what happens when I let my guard down. The way memories surface that should stay buried. The way my tongue loosens and truth starts spilling out before I can stop it. I told a bartender once – three glasses of wine in, crying in a bar two towns over where no one knew me – that I’d killed my husband. Thankfully, she knew I was being metaphorical. Dramatic. The ravings of a grieving widow who’d convinced herself she was somehow responsible for an accident that wasn’t her fault. She’d patted my hand and poured me water and called me a taxi.

That was the last time I drank with company.