Page 24 of Rich Little Liars

I sit frozen on the bedroom floor, listening. As if I might hear something that would tell me what’s waiting downstairs. As if the silence itself might offer reassurance.

It doesn’t.

Eventually, I force myself up. Force my legs to carry me to the landing, then down the stairs, moving slowly like I’m approaching something that might detonate if I’m not gentle enough. My hand grips the banister harder than necessary. My breathing is shallow, controlled only through conscious effort.

The envelope lies on the doormat. White. Plain.

My name across the front in those same block capitals.

KELLY REYNOLDS

For a minute, I just stare at it from the bottom step. If I don’t pick it up, it isn’t real. If I leave it there, I can go back upstairs and continue my day. I can pretend I never heard the mail slot, never saw the envelope or felt this sick dread pooling in my stomach like oil on water.

But not knowing would be worse. I’ve learned that already. Not knowing means spending every moment imagining what it might say, what new horror might be waiting for me. Better to know. Better to face it head-on.

Except I can’t face it. I want to call Richard. Want to run to his house and let him hold me and protect me from whatever this is. Want to be the person I was an hour ago, humming in the garden, believing in fresh starts and second chances.

I bend down and pick it up.

Heavier than the first one. Something inside other than paper. The weight of it wrong in my hand – too substantial, too present. My fingers fumble with the seal, suddenly clumsy, as if my body is trying to slow down what my mind knows is inevitable.

I tear it open.

For a second, I just stare into the envelope without pulling out the contents. As if looking without touching might somehow make it less real. But I can see something dark inside. Something small that catches the light wrong.

I tip the envelope and let the object slide into my palm.

It’s blackened. Warped. The metal twisted and scarred from heat, edges rough where it melted and cooled into new shapes. But the form is unmistakable. The size and curve of it. The way it sits in my palm like it belongs there.

A ring.

My wedding ring.

The one I lost in the fire, consumed by flames or buried in ash or lost in the rubble that was cleared away when they demolished what remained of the house.

Someone had it.

Someone went into those ruins – or found it somehow, somewhere – and kept it. Held on to it. Waited.

The room tilts. I grab the doorframe to steady myself, my vision narrowing to a tunnel with that ruined ring at the centre. The metal is still faintly stained with soot, darkened beyond cleaning. I can barely make out the engravings inside – K & D – but I know they’re there. Know this ring as intimately as I knew my own hand once.

My hands are shaking too hard to hold the envelope properly, but I manage to reach inside. To pull out the note I know is waiting.

Same paper. Same block capitals. Same stark, damning certainty.

But this time, the words hit differently.

This time, they’re not just accusation.

They’re verdict.

YOU SHOULD HAVE BURNED TOO

9

NOW

The first thing I do is check every lock in the house.