Page 34 of Rich Little Liars

And the speech I’d prepared died in my throat.

‘Rough day?’ I asked instead.

‘You could say that.’ He dropped his bag by the door. ‘Is there wine?’

‘I’ll get it.’

We sat together with glasses of red neither of us really drank, and the words I needed to say felt impossible. How did I explain what Roxanne was without sounding jealous? Paranoid? Like the sort of wife who saw threats in every woman her husband spoke to?

She’d made herself impossible to accuse. That was her real skill. She’d made it so that any complaint sounded unreasonable. Any boundary sounded cruel.

So I said nothing.

We drank our wine in silence. And somewhere out there, Roxanne was waiting.

Waiting to come back.

12

NOW

The first whisper reaches me in Citarella.

I’m standing in the organic vegetables section, holding a zucchini I don’t remember picking up, when I catch the tail end of it. Two women near the tomatoes, both in the uniform of East Hampton wives: cashmere, good jeans, expensive-but-ugly purses.

‘…new one at number seven…’

‘…heard she’s quite odd…’

‘…doesn’t even close her curtains at night. Place lit up like Times Square…’

They move away before I can hear more, wheels of their carts squeaking on the polished floor. I stand there and tell myself I’m being paranoid. They could have been talking about anyone. Any woman who’s a bit odd.

Except I am odd. I do leave my lights on.

And I live at number seven.

I put the zucchini back and abandon my half-filled basket by the refrigerated section. The cashier – a teenager with beautiful skin and dead eyes – doesn’t even look up as I hurry past. Outside, the parking lot is grey and drizzling, the kind of autumn rain that settles into your bones. I sit in my car with the engine running, hands gripped on the steering wheel, and count backwards from fifty.

You’re fine. You’re imagining things. No one was talking about you.

But they were. I know they were. I could hear it in the pitch of their voices, that gossipy register women slip into when they’re discussing someone else’s failings.

I drive home too fast, taking the corners round the park harder than necessary. My house looms up, every window blazing with light even though it’s barely noon. From the outside, it must look deranged. Like someone’s trying to signal for help. Or ward off demons.

Inside, the house feels too large. I move through the rooms, checking – I’m not sure why. Signs of intrusion. Evidence that I’m being watched. Smoke that isn’t there.

Everything is exactly as it should be. Clean. Expensive. Safe.

I make tea and sit down, staring at my phone. No messages. No calls. The silence feels pointed somehow. Like even the digital world has decided I’m not worth contacting.

The afternoon stretches on. I unpack a box of books just for something to do, arranging them on shelves that came with the house. Every so often, I drift to the window and watch the park. People pass. Dog walkers. A woman pushing a stroller. Two men in gym gear. None of them look directly at my house, but I feel watched all the same. That prickling awareness of being observed, judged, discussed.

At three thirty, I see Caroline across the street. She’s with another woman – older, grey-haired, luxury coat. They’re standing very still, looking at something on Caroline’s phone. Then the grey-haired woman glances up at my house.

Just a flicker. Nothing more.

But I step back anyway, heart beating so fast it might as well just vibrate. They’re just neighbours. Just talking. This is what people do. Except the way they were standing – heads bent together, the stillness of people sharing something significant – suggests otherwise.