Page 25 of Rich Little Liars

Front door: locked. Back door: locked. Kitchen window: locked and checked twice. Everything is secure. I move through the ground floor systematically, testing each door, then again because the second check didn’t feel certain enough. My hands are still shaking from the ring, from the note and the realisation that someone has been inside those ruins. Someone who knows and wants me to know they know.

YOU SHOULD HAVE BURNED TOO

The words loop in my head like a mantra or curse. I’ve hidden the ring and the note in the back of my wardrobe, shoved behind some sweaters, as if not seeing them might make them less real. But I can still feel the ring’s presence. Still feel the sick twist in my stomach when I think about someone keeping it until the right moment.

Upstairs, I check the bedroom windows. The spare room. The bathroom. Every single one secured tightly, but I test them anyway because what if I’m wrong? Someone could slip inside while I’m sleeping, while I’m distracted, or pretending everything is fine.

When I’ve finished my circuit, it’s nearly four o’clock and I’ve checked every entrance more times than I can count. The house feels smaller now. Tighter. Like it’s closing in around me. But at least it’s secure. At least nothing can get in without me knowing.

I stand in the kitchen and force myself to breathe properly. My phone sits on the counter where I left it this morning. Three messages from Richard that I haven’t answered. The first asking if I’m still okay for tonight. The second saying he’s picked up ingredients for dinner. The third, sent an hour ago, just asking if everything’s all right.

I should cancel. Should tell him I’m not feeling well, need to reschedule, something has come up. Because how can I sit across from him tonight and pretend everything is fine? How can I let him cook for me, smile at me and kiss me when I’m carrying this secret that’s getting heavier by the day?

I type a message with trembling fingers.

So sorry, not feeling well. Can we reschedule?

His response comes quickly, full of concern I don’t deserve.

Of course. Hope you feel better. Let me know if you need anything.

I set down the phone and stare at it. The right thing would be to push him away completely. To protect him from whatever is coming. Because something is coming. I can feel it in the way the air has changed, in the way East Hampton’s residents have started looking at me differently over the past couple days.

That’s the thing I’ve noticed most.

The shift in how people respond when they see me.

Yesterday, I passed Caroline in the park. Instead of her usual pointed greeting, she just nodded. No smile. No attempt at conversation. Just acknowledgement that barely qualified as polite. Her dog pulled towards me, wanting to sniff and investigate, but she tugged it back with more force than necessary. It was borderline violent.

Emma hasn’t texted since the brunch disaster. Natasha crossed the street yesterday when she saw me coming, suddenly very interested in something on her phone. Even the women who jog past every morning – the ones I’d started recognising by their routines – have been giving my house a wider berth. Where they used to run right past my front gate, chatting and laughing, now they move to the far side of the park. Still visible. Still watching. Just from a safer distance.

East Hampton is closing ranks. Deciding I don’t belong. Or maybe they’re just reflecting back the suspicion that Caroline’s been seeding. A few well-placed questions. The occasional suggestion that the new resident’s story doesn’t quite add up. That’s all it would take in a place like this. Town life thrives on gossip, and I’ve unintentionally given them plenty.

The tragic widow who fled to East Hampton seeking peace. Who keeps to herself and bolted from a brunch gathering like she had something to hide.

They’re not wrong.

I move to the living room window and peer out from behind the curtain. The park is quiet in the fading afternoon light. A man walks a chocolate Labrador along the far path. A car pulls into a driveway three houses down. Normal town life carrying on while I cower behind my curtain afraid of… someone.

I drop the curtain and check the window lock again. Still secure. Still holding.

But for how long?

The day bleeds into evening without me noticing the transition. By nine o’clock, I’ve worn a path in the carpet between the living room and the kitchen. My legs ache from standing. My head throbs from lack of food and too much adrenaline. But I can’t stop. Can’t rest. Because resting means letting my guard down.

I try to sleep around midnight but lie awake listening to the house. Every creak is footsteps. Every gust of wind against the windows is someone trying to get in. The heating unit makes a sound like metal scraping and I bolt upright, heart hammering, convinced someone is picking the lock downstairs.

I get up and check.

Everything is still on lockdown.

But I don’t feel safe.

I make tea and sit watching the clock tick towards morning. My phone buzzes once – Richard, checking in – but I don’t look at the message. Can’t face his kindness when I’m falling apart like this.

When dawn finally comes, grey and unwelcoming, I’m still sitting there. Haven’t slept. Haven’t moved except to check the locks twice more during the night. My eyes feel gritty and my mouth tastes sour but at least I’ve made it through another night. At least nothing happened.

Except something did happen. I lost another piece of myself to fear. Another fragment of the person I’m supposed to be rebuilding crumbled away.