Page 12 of Rich Little Liars

She walks away before I can say anything, her heels clicking against the path with a rhythm that sounds like a frustrated teacher snapping me to alertness. I stand there for a moment, heart beating fast.

Let people get to know you properly.

What does that mean, exactly? What do they think they don’t know?

I move on to the store and buy groceries. Pasta. Tinned tomatoes. A loaf of bread that will go stale before I finish it. I smile at the cashier and make small talk about the weather, how mild it’s been for October, and whether we’re in for a harsh winter. She’s friendly, chatty, the kind of person who probably knows everyone in a ten-mile radius. When she asks if I’m new to the area, I tell her I’ve just moved here. Her expression shifts – just slightly, just for a second – into something sceptical.

‘Lovely town,’ she says. ‘Very close-knit.’

The way she says it doesn’t feel genuine.

When I get back, there’s a car parked outside Richard’s house. I recognise it from the clinic parking lot – his car, which means he’s home. I should knock on his door. Say hello. Thank him again for the drink at the bar. But the thought of conversation, of pretending to be okay, feels exhausting. I’m not sure I have another smile left in me today.

Instead, I let myself into my house and put away the groceries. The silence presses in from all sides, thick and watchful. I turn on the radio for company, but the cheerful chatter of the presenters only makes me feel more alone. They’re talking about autumn recipes, about pumpkin spice and cosy nights in, and it all feels so distant from my reality that I might as well be listening to a foreign language.

By early afternoon, I’ve run out of tasks to distract myself. The house is as unpacked as it’s going to be. I’ve cleaned surfaces that were already clean. I’ve rearranged furniture that doesn’t need rearranging. I’m standing in the living room, staring at nothing, when the doorbell rings.

My stomach drops. That visceral reaction I can’t control – the flood of adrenaline, the instant certainty that this is it, they’ve acquired details of my trauma, it’s over.

I force myself to walk to the door slowly, calmly, like someone who has nothing to fear from unexpected visitors. Through the frosted glass, I can make out a shape – tall, broad-shouldered. Not Caroline. Not the police. Someone else.

I open the door and find Richard holding an oven dish wrapped in a dishcloth.

‘Hello,’ he says, smiling that warm smile. ‘I hope I’m not intruding. I made too much food last night and thought you might like some. Moving house is exhausting, and I doubt you’ve had time to cook properly.’

The kindness of it nearly undoes me. I have to swallow hard before I can speak.

‘That’s really thoughtful. Thank you.’

‘It’s just homemade pie. Nothing fancy.’ He holds out the dish. ‘You can return the dish whenever. No rush.’

I take it from him. It’s still warm, the heat seeping through the dishcloth into my palms. Real. Tangible. An act of simple human kindness that feels almost alien after weeks of isolation.

‘Would you like to come in?’ I ask. ‘I could make tea.’

‘That’s not what I was after.’

‘I know.’ I widen the gap in the door. ‘Please.’

He comes with me into the kitchen, and I’m suddenly aware of how bare it still looks. A few mugs hanging from hooks. Nothing that suggests someone lives here. Nothing that looks like a home.

I boil water while Richard sits, then I fumble with the mugs, nearly drop one, catch it at the last second.

‘How are you settling in?’ he asks. ‘Honestly?’

‘Fine. It’s fine.’

‘That’s not very convincing.’

I glance at him. He’s watching me with those kind brown eyes, concern written across his face. Not judgement. Not suspicion. Just genuine care, which somehow makes it worse.

‘It’s an adjustment,’ I admit. ‘New place. New people. It’s a lot.’

‘I’m sure. And you’re doing it alone, which makes it even harder.’ He pauses. ‘I don’t mean to pry, but do you have support? Family? Friends you can talk to?’

The question hits harder than it should. What do I say? That my parents died years ago – my mother from cancer, my father from a heart attack six months later, like he’d just given up? That Daniel’s family blamed me before they even knew the truth, before the investigation, before anything? That the few friends I had couldn’t cope with my grief and guilt and the way I couldn’t talk about what happened, and they slowly stopped calling until the silence became permanent?

‘Not really,’ I say quietly. ‘It’s just me.’