Page 42 of Rich Little Liars

He gives a final nod and walks to his car. I watch from the doorway as he gets in, makes some notes on his laptop, then drives away. The street returns to silence. To darkness broken only by my blazing windows.

Inside, I lock the door and test it twice, but it doesn’t make me feel safer.

Because he recognised me. Or recognised my name. Or at least sensed there was something familiar about the story of Kelly Reynolds and her dead husband and that fire that made the news.

How much does he know? How much will he remember once he goes back to the precinct and starts searching databases? How long before he connects the tragic widow at number seven with whatever information exists about that night?

I stay frozen in the hallway, Officer Harvey’s card in my hand, and try to work out if calling the police was the stupidest thing I’ve done or the only sensible option I had left.

Both, probably.

The night passes without sleep. I move through the house in circuits. Every sound makes me jump. Every shadow feels significant. The fear that had eased with a police officer in my house has returned doubled, tripled, because now I’ve put myself on their radar.

Now they’re watching too.

By dawn, I’m exhausted but wired. I make tea and stand watching the sky lighten from black to grey to the pale wash of early morning. The back yard looks innocent in daylight. Empty. Just grass and borders and a fence that shows no evidence of anyone having stood near it.

Maybe Officer Harvey was right. Maybe I did imagine it. Maybe exhaustion and isolation and constant fear have finally tipped me into seeing things that aren’t there.

The doorbell rings at seven in the morning.

Too early for casual visitors. I’m not anticipating deliveries. I approach the door with my heart already racing, expecting… something. Police again. The intruder. Caroline with more questions.

Through the peeper, I see Richard.

Relief makes me weak. I open the door.

‘I heard,’ he says without preamble. ‘Police car at your house last night. Are you all right?’

‘How did you⁠—’

‘Emma texted me. She saw the car. Word spreads fast here.’ He’s looking good in his work suit. ‘What happened?’

‘I thought I saw someone outside. I called the police. They came and checked but found nothing.’

‘Found nothing?’

‘No evidence of anyone being there.’

He steps inside without being invited, closing the door behind him. ‘But you’re sure you saw someone?’

‘I thought I did. But maybe I was wrong. The officer seemed to think I’d just seen shadows or something.’

‘Kelly. Look at me.’

I do. His brown eyes are full of concern.

‘You’re not sleeping. You’re barely eating. You’re seeing things that may or may not be there. This isn’t sustainable.’

‘I know.’

‘Then let me help. Please. Whatever’s going on, don’t deal with it alone.’

The offer is so kind it almost breaks me. But accepting help means explaining. Means risking the one good thing I have left.

‘I can’t,’ I whisper.

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he reaches out and pulls me into a hug. I stiffen initially, then allow myself to sink into it. To let his warmth surround me. To pretend for just a second that I’m someone who deserves this kindness.