Page 55 of Rich Little Liars

And I see them looking back.

Not obviously. Not rudely. Just an odd quality of attention that towns specialise in. A woman walking her dog who glances towards my house and quickly away. An elderly couple on a bench who aren’t even pretending any more – just sitting there, watching my windows like they’re waiting for something to happen.

For me to confess. Or collapse.

Or confirm the theories already circulating through East Hampton.

I step back from the window.

This is how it starts. The isolation. The suspicion that curdles into certainty. I’ve seen it happen to other people – watched from a distance as communities turned on those they’d decided were different, dangerous, wrong. Never thought I’d be on the receiving end.

Never thought I’d deserve it.

My phone sets off in my pocket. I retrieve it with quivering hands.

A text from Emma.

Heard what happened. So sorry. Hope Richard recovers.

Here if you need me.

The message looks supportive on the surface, but there’s something missing from it. The warmth that characterised our earlier exchanges. The sense that she actually wants to help rather than is just going through the motions of neighbourly concern. This reads like an obligation. Like she’s checking a box before stepping back to a safe distance.

I don’t respond.

Another message. Natasha this time.

Thinking of you. Terrible news about the break-in. Stay safe x

Stay safe. As if safety is something I can choose when someone is stalking me, breaking into my home, hurting the people I care about. The message feels hollow. Like a procedure. The kind of thing you send when you want to seem caring without actually getting involved.

I don’t respond to that one either.

The morning crawls by. I eventually shower, standing under water so hot it turns my skin pink, trying to wash away the hospital and the blood and the memory of Richard’s body crumpling to the floor. I dress in clean clothes that feel like armour. I stand at various windows watching East Hampton go about its day.

Around noon, I force myself to go outside. Not far – just to the end of the driveway to retrieve the post from the box by the gate. But even that short journey feels like running a gauntlet.

Caroline is across the park, talking to a woman I don’t recognise. They both stop speaking when I appear in my doorway. Both turn to look, concerned and curious. I can almost see their thoughts happening. The assessment of my appearance, my demeanour, my guilt or innocence.

I walk to the mailbox. Retrieve a handful of envelopes I don’t bother to examine. Walk back to my front door. The whole time, I feel their eyes on me. And when I glance over my shoulder before going inside, they’re still standing there. Still watching. Their conversation has resumed, heads bent together, and I know with absolute certainty they’re talking about me.

About the break-in.

About the widow at number seven who brought violence to their quiet streets.

Inside, I drop the mail on the console table and press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. This is what I was afraid of. This is why I kept to myself and didn’t want to integrate, why every friendly overture felt like a trap. Because I knew – somewhere deep in my bones I knew – that the moment things went wrong, they’d turn on me. That East Hampton’s rich little welcome was always conditional.

That I’d never really belonged.

That my wealth didn’t automatically make me belong here.

That my life is a lie; my past, the person I am.

Hell, even my money is a lie.

The afternoon is worse. I watch through various windows as the town continues its surveillance. The kids. The dog walkers. The mothers with strollers who pause just a little too long on the sidewalk opposite my house. Everyone stealing curious glances. Keeping their distance like I’m contagious.

A delivery truck pulls up outside my house. The driver approaches my door with a parcel I don’t remember ordering, and I watch through the peeper as he rings the bell, waits, rings again. I don’t answer. Can’t face even this brief interaction, this moment of being seen and assessed by a stranger who’s probably already heard rumours about me.