Page 63 of Rich Little Liars

‘My parents are dead. Daniel’s family…’ I trail off. His father passed. I haven’t spoken to his mother since it happened. ‘That’s not an option.’

‘Friends?’

I think about Emma and Natasha, their messages of hollow concern. About Caroline and her endless surveillance. About the whole town that’s been watching me fall apart without lifting a finger to help. How am I supposed to trust people who can’t even be honest with themselves? As far as I can see, every one of them is about the packaging. Nobody has a clue what’s inside and – if I had the means to find out – I’d certainly hate what I saw.

‘No,’ I say quietly. ‘I don’t have friends here. Not really.’

Something shifts in Harvey’s expression. A softening I haven’t seen before. He looks at me the way you might look at a stray animal – with a kind of helpless compassion that knows it can’t fix everything but wants to try anyway.

We sit in my kitchen while forensics are called and arrangements are made. Harvey is different now – looser, more human. He mentions a daughter. A wife who left years ago and how he still hasn’t got the hang of cooking for one. Small details of a life that exists outside investigations and suspicion.

And slowly, incrementally, something loosens in my chest. Not the fear – that’s still there, coiled tight and ready to spring. But something else. The isolation, maybe. The sense that I’m completely alone in this nightmare.

The afternoon fades into evening. Forensics come and go, dusting the boards, taking casts of the footprints, photographing everything from angles I wouldn’t have thought of. Harvey coordinates it all, his presence a steady anchor in the chaos.

When the last technician leaves, the house feels too quiet. Too empty. The thought of being alone here – of lying in bed listening to every creak, every rustle, every imagined footstep – makes something in me seize up.

‘Would you…’ I stop. Start again. ‘This is probably inappropriate. But would you stay? Just for a while. Until I fall asleep.’

Harvey looks at me. I expect him to refuse – to cite protocol, or propriety, or any of the dozen reasons why a police officer shouldn’t be babysitting a woman who might still be a suspect in his mind.

‘It’s not technically legal while I’m on duty.’

‘What about off duty?’

‘Hmm…’ he says, glancing at his watch. ‘I’ll be right here.’

The relief that floods through me is embarrassing in its intensity. I don’t have the energy to feel ashamed of it. Don’t have the strength to pretend I’m anything other than exactly what I am: a woman at the end of her rope, desperate for someone – anyone – to help her hold on.

‘Thank you.’

‘It’s nothing.’ He glances towards the kitchen. ‘I don’t suppose you have any more coffee? It’s been a long day.’

‘I think I can manage that.’

It’s too early for sleep anyway. The clock on the wall shows barely half past seven, and my body is still humming with residual adrenaline. The thought of lying alone in the dark, replaying everything that’s happened, feels unbearable. But sitting in my kitchen with another person, doing something as mundane as making coffee – that feels possible.

Almost normal.

22

NOW

The house descends into silence.

Forensics have been and gone. The patrol car has made its first pass. And Harvey is still here, standing in my kitchen like he’s not quite sure what to do with himself now that the official business is finished.

‘I could throw a little liquor in the coffee,’ I offer. ‘If you’re staying.’

‘I’m off duty.’ He shrugs. ‘Why not.’

‘Decaf okay? I’ve learned the hard way that caffeine after six means I’m staring at the ceiling until three in the morning.’

‘Decaf is fine. I get it. At my age, the real stuff gives me palpitations.’

‘You don’t want it then?’

‘No, I still do.’