Page 23 of Rich Little Liars

Richard feels different.

He feels like a beginning rather than an ending.

Like possibility instead of obligation.

I get out of bed with actual energy, shower without the usual dread of facing the day, dress in clothes that aren’t just armour against scrutiny. Jeans that fit properly. A sweater in deep blue that Richard once said brought out my eyes. I even put on mascara, something I haven’t bothered with since moving here.

When I spot myself in the mirror, I look almost normal. The shadows under my eyes have faded. My cheeks have colour that isn’t just clever concealer. I look like someone who might actually belong among the affluence of East Hampton, rather than someone hiding here. Someone who might deserve happiness, or at least the approximation of it.

Downstairs, I make breakfast – tea and toast – and eat it in the kitchen while reading news on my phone. The domestic normalcy of it feels almost revolutionary. This is what other people do. This is what living looks like when you’re not constantly braced for disaster.

Through the window, I can see the park bathed in autumn sunshine. The light has a stunning October peculiarity – golden and slanting, making everything look softer, kinder. A few people are out: the usual morning joggers in their expensive athletic wear yet again, a woman walking a spaniel that bounds ahead of her with puppy enthusiasm, someone elderly moving slowly with a wheeled shopping bag. Normal town life. Safe, boring, predictable.

I could be part of this. I could build a life here. The thought doesn’t terrify me the way it did a week ago. Instead, it feels almost possible. Almost real.

My phone buzzes with a text from Richard.

Good morning. Hope you slept well. Dinner tonight?

I respond immediately, not overthinking it, not second-guessing.

Slept great. Yes to dinner. Your place or mine?

Mine. I’ll cook. 7pm?

Perfect.

This is good. This is healing.

This is moving forward instead of staying paralysed in the past.

I spend the morning doing mundane tasks that feel monumental simply because I’m doing them without the usual undercurrent of panic. I hang pictures in the hallway – prints I bought online that arrived yesterday, generic landscapes that make the space feel less empty. Rolling hills. A seascape at sunset. Nothing too personal that might prompt questions, just pleasant images that say ‘normal person with normal taste lives here’.

I rearrange books on the shelves in the living room, organising them by colour rather than subject because it looks better and because I can. Because this is my house and I’m allowed to make it feel like home. I even venture into the garden, pulling a few weeds from the borders that the previous owners clearly tended but I’ve been neglecting. The pool sits a few feet away, bright and taunting, watching me work. The soil is damp from yesterday’s rain, and it comes away easily in my hands. There’s something satisfying about it – the physical act of removal, of clearing away what doesn’t belong.

The air is crisp but not cold, carrying the scent of someone’s bonfire from a few streets away. For once, the smell doesn’t trigger me. Doesn’t send my heart racing or my thoughts spiralling. It’s just autumn. Just the normal smell of the season. I register this small victory and file it away as evidence that I’m getting better.

Into the late morning, Emma waves from across the park, and I wave back without the usual spike of anxiety. She doesn’t come over to interrogate me. Doesn’t even cross the grass. Just waves and continues her walk with her companion – Natasha, I think, though they’re too far away to be certain. Normal neighbourly interaction. Nothing sinister. Nothing that requires hypervigilance or defensive preparation.

See? I tell myself. You’re integrating. You’re becoming part of this place. The brunch incident was a blip, Caroline’s questions were just standard town nosiness, and the note was probably some bored teenager’s idea of a sick joke that they’ve already forgotten about. Nothing to do with me specifically. Nothing that will escalate.

By lunchtime, I’m actually humming. I can’t remember the last time I hummed or felt light enough for music to bubble up naturally.

I make a sandwich with cheese and lettuce, then take it upstairs to eat while sorting through the remaining boxes in my bedroom. There’s not much left now. A few books I haven’t found space for yet. Some winter clothes I won’t need for a month or so. Miscellaneous items that don’t have an obvious home – the detritus that accumulates in any move, things you pack because you might need them but probably won’t.

I’m debating whether to donate a stack of novels I know I’ll never reread when I hear it.

The mail slot.

That metallic clatter of it opening, something sliding through.

The snap of it closing again.

My body moves by itself. The sandwich drops from my hand onto the carpet. My pulse rockets from calm to panicked in a single beat. That same flood of adrenaline that’s become so familiar I almost recognise it as a friend. Almost.

It’s nothing. Just mail. Bills or flyers or something from the homeowners’ association.

But my body doesn’t believe my brain. My body knows. Has learned, through months of stress, to recognise threat before conscious thought can catch up. And it’s screaming at me now that this is wrong, this is danger. It’s everything I’ve been pretending isn’t coming for me.