Page 7 of Rich Little Liars

I’ve prepared for this. Practised it.

‘I was married. My husband died,’ I say. Then, before I can shut my big mouth: ‘House fire. A few months ago. I just needed to start over somewhere new.’

The words come out smoothly. Almost believable.

Richard’s expression shifts – sympathy without disgusting pity. ‘I’m so sorry, Kelly. That’s… I can’t imagine.’

‘Thank you.’ I take a long sip of wine. ‘I’m managing. Some days better than others.’

‘Of course.’ He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask for details. Just nods like he understands that some things can’t be explained in a bar. ‘Well. If you ever need anything – and I mean anything, not just medical – please let me know. I realise we’ve only just met, but I mean it.’

And looking at him – at his kind eyes and his steady presence and the way he’s not demanding anything from me – I believe him. We stay for another drink. The conversation flows easier now, lighter, touching on books and travel and the sort of inconsequential things that feel like relief after weeks of heaviness.

When we finally leave, the night is properly dark, the kind of country dark you don’t get in cities. Richard walks me back, our footsteps in sync, not quite touching but close enough that I can smell his cologne over the salty air.

‘Thank you,’ I say when we reach my house. ‘For the drink. For being kind.’

‘Any time.’ He smiles. ‘Really. I’m glad you came tonight.’

We linger there a little, not quite ready to say goodbye. Then he lifts a hand in a small wave and walks away towards his own house, a few doors down.

Inside, I lean back against the door and realise I’m smiling.

For the first time since the fire – since before the fire, maybe – something feels like it might actually be okay.

3

THEN

Roxanne appeared on a Tuesday, which felt significant later but probably wasn’t. She knocked on the door just after breakfast, when I was still in my robe and Daniel had already left for work. Through the frosted glass, I could see a shape – slim, hunched slightly, feminine.

I opened the door to find a woman about my age, maybe younger, with light hair pulled into a messy ponytail and eyes that were startlingly pale blue. She wore jeans that had seen better days and a jacket that didn’t quite fit, sleeves too long, shoulders too broad. There was something about her that made me think of a stray cat – wary but hopeful, ready to run at the first sign of threat.

‘I’m so sorry to bother you,’ she said, and her voice was soft, apologetic. ‘My car broke down about a mile up the road. I’ve been walking for ages trying to find help, and yours is the first house I’ve come to. I don’t suppose I could use your phone? Mine’s dead.’

She held up a cell phone as evidence, the screen dark. Her fingers were red with cold, nails bitten down to the quick.

It was the sort of situation my mother would have warned me about. Strange woman. Sob story. Don’t let her in. Like the start of a horror movie. But she looked so tired, and it was cold, and I’d been raised to be helpful even when it was inconvenient.

‘Of course,’ I said, stepping back. ‘Come in.’

She followed me into the hallway, her sneakers squeaking on the marble floor. She took in the house with quick, darting glances – the sweeping staircase, the chandelier Daniel had had shipped from Milan, the living room with its baby grand piano neither of us played. I found myself seeing it through her eyes: the six bedrooms we didn’t need, the home cinema we hadn’t used a single time, the kitchen with a wine fridge stocked with bottles that cost the earth. It was the kind of home that looked effortless but actually required a cleaner three times a week and a gardener on retainer.

‘This is lovely,’ she said. ‘Really lovely. You’re lucky.’

‘Thank you.’ I gestured towards the kitchen. ‘Phone’s through here. Would you like a cup of coffee while you’re waiting? You look frozen.’

‘That’s so kind. I’d love one, if it’s not too much trouble.’

I made coffee while she made her call, standing by the window and speaking in low tones to someone about a breakdown service and how long it might take. Her voice had a slightly rough quality to it, like she’d smoked once or shouted too much or maybe just hadn’t used it properly in a while. When she finished, she set down the phone and accepted the mug I offered with both hands, like it was precious.

‘They said at least two hours,’ she explained. ‘I’m really sorry. I can wait outside if⁠—’

‘Don’t be silly. Sit.’

She sat at the kitchen table, cradling the mug. Up close, I noticed she had the same colouring as me – fair skin, light hair, greyish-blue eyes. I wondered if she’d been teased about her Swedish aesthetic in school, too.

‘I’m Roxanne,’ she said.