Page 35 of Rich Little Liars

The rest of the day passes in a haze of half-completed tasks. I start organising the spare room closet but lose focus after ten minutes. I begin a grocery list but can’t remember what I need. I open my laptop to check emails but close it again without reading anything.

My mind keeps circling back to those women in Citarella. To Caroline and her friend looking at that phone. To the way the luxury of East Hampton has already started to feel less like a refuge and more like a trap.

I’m beginning to understand how East Hampton works. The wealth isn’t just about money – it’s about the appearance of always having had it. Old money versus new money. Three generations of wealth makes you respectable. First-generation money makes you suspicious. And someone like me – a widow who arrived with insurance cash and a tragic backstory – I’m not even on the ladder. I’m something they scrape off their Italian leather boots.

By evening, I’ve convinced myself I’m being paranoid. That the women in Citarella were talking about someone else. That Caroline and her friend were discussing the weather or trash collections or anything except me.

Then I see them.

Three women, walking slowly past my house. They’re hardly subtle about it. They pause directly opposite my front door, and one of them – blonde, maybe forty – points. Says something that makes the others laugh. Not cruel laughter exactly, but knowing. The kind that says: Can you believe her?

I watch from behind the curtain as they continue their circuit of the park, still talking, still glancing back at my house. This is actually happening, I realise. This is real. East Hampton has made its assessment of Kelly Reynolds, and the verdict is in.

I’m unstable.

I close the curtain and lean against the wall, trying to slow my racing heart. The panic exercises the therapist taught me feel useless now. Breathing doesn’t help when the problem isn’t in your head – when it’s out there, walking past your house, discussing your life loud enough for the whole town to hear.

That night, I don’t sleep. I lie in bed listening to every sound, convinced that each car passing is someone coming for me. Each distant voice is neighbours gathering to discuss the problem of number seven. The mad widow who won’t close her curtains. Who fled from brunch like she had something to hide. Who barely speaks to anyone and looks haunted and carries herself like someone running from her past.

They’re not wrong about any of it. That’s what makes it worse.

The next morning arrives grey and unwelcoming. I drag myself into the shower, dress in clean clothes, and make toast and chew it until my jaw hurts. Then I watch through the kitchen window as the park fills with its usual morning traffic.

The joggers appear first – that same group of women in over-the-top athletic wear. But this time, when they pass my house, one of them looks directly at my window. Makes eye contact. Doesn’t look away or smile or offer any acknowledgement that I’m a fellow human being. Just stares, assessing, before moving on.

An hour later, I see Emma and Natasha on one of the benches. They’re deep in conversation, and I wonder if they’re discussing me. If Emma regrets her kindness at the brunch gathering. If Natasha has decided that being associated with the strange new resident might damage her own standing in the town hierarchy.

I should go out there. Should walk around the park like I did in those first optimistic days, smiling at people, proving I’m harmless. But the thought of facing their whispers, their sideways glances, makes my throat close up.

So I stay inside.

The morning bleeds into afternoon. I think about getting back to my job – there’s a copywriting project I’ve been putting off – but the words won’t come. I sit at my desk staring at a blank screen, my mind too scattered to form coherent sentences.

Around three, I answer the door to Richard.

‘Hi,’ he says, and his smile is gentle. ‘I was wondering if you’d like to come for a walk. Get out of the house for a bit.’

‘I don’t know if that’s a good idea.’

‘Why not?’

Because people are watching and going out means facing their stares and whispers. Because I’m not sure I can hold myself together in public any more.

‘I’m just tired,’ I say instead.

‘All the more reason to get some fresh air.’ He’s still smiling, but there’s concern in his eyes. ‘Please? Just a short walk. We don’t have to go far. Perhaps to the beach and back?’

Part of me wants to refuse. To close the door and retreat back into my fortress of solitude. But Richard’s presence feels like a lifeline. Like maybe, with him beside me, I could face East Hampton’s judgement.

‘Okay,’ I hear myself say. ‘Just let me get my coat.’

We walk away from the park, taking the lane that slopes gently towards the ocean. Richard doesn’t try to fill the silence with chatter. Just walks beside me, close enough that our arms occasionally brush, far enough that I don’t feel crowded.

The air is crisp and clean, with a trace of salt beneath it. For the first few minutes, I’m rigid with awareness, expecting to see someone I know. But the lane is empty. Just us and the trees and the soft sound of our footsteps on wet tarmac. Beyond the edges I hear the ocean, low and constant. I wish that kind of consistency existed in my own life.

‘People have been talking,’ Richard says eventually. ‘About you.’

‘I know.’