Page 30 of Rich Little Liars

‘Then why is it bothering you so much?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve been stressed and not sleeping and I made it sound worse than it is.’

He stares at the note for a while. Reading it again. Turning it over. Looking for clues I know he won’t find because whoever sent it was clever. No fingerprints. No distinguishing marks. Just block capitals and cheap paper that could be from anywhere.

‘This doesn’t feel like a prank to me,’ he says finally. ‘This feels targeted. Personal. Someone knows about your husband and, from the sounds of it, they have an accusation to make as well. What are you supposed to have done wrong?’

‘Honestly, I have no idea.’

‘But they know about the fire.’

‘Lots of people know. It’s not exactly a secret. House fires make the news.’

‘Did yours?’

The question catches me off guard. I know it did, but the last thing I need is him personally investigating and finding something he’s really better off not knowing. It’s better to play dumb, I quickly decide.

‘I don’t know. Don’t think so. Does it matter?’

‘It might. If someone found out about you through news coverage, that’s one thing. But if someone from your past has tracked you here…’ He trails off, clearly trying to work through possibilities.

‘No one tracked me. No one from before knows I’m here. I didn’t tell anyone where I was moving. Even if I did, there’s nothing to hold me accountable for.’

Another lie.

Richard is quiet, turning the note over in his hands again like it might reveal secrets through touch alone. ‘I don’t think this is a prank,’ he says again. ‘I think someone is targeting you specifically. And I think you know more about who and why than you’re telling me.’

‘I don’t⁠—’

‘Come on.’ He sets the note on the coffee table and turns to face me fully. ‘I’m trying to help you. But I can’t do that if you’re not honest with me. What really happened in that fire? What are you so afraid someone will find out?’

The question hangs between us. Direct. Unavoidable. The moment I’ve been dreading since he first showed interest in me. Since he first looked at me with kindness instead of suspicion. I could tell him. Could explain about the fire and Daniel and Roxanne and all the choices that led to that night. Could lay it all out and hope he understands and doesn’t look at me differently, hope his feelings are strong enough to survive the truth.

But the risk is too great. If I tell him and he reacts badly – if he goes to the police or tells someone in the town or just walks away – then I’ve lost everything. The safety I’ve built here. The one person who makes me feel human. The illusion that I might deserve a second chance.

‘Nothing happened,’ I say. My voice is flat. Dead. ‘It was an accident. A terrible accident that killed my husband and destroyed my life. That’s all. There’s no conspiracy. No secret. Just bad luck and tragedy and me trying to rebuild.’

‘Then why⁠—’

‘I panicked, okay?’ The words come out sharper than I intend. ‘I’ve been alone here, isolated, and when I got this note I spiralled. Made it into something bigger than it was because I’m damaged and paranoid and not coping as well as I should be. You’re right. I need help. Professional help. But there’s no mystery to solve. No dramatic revelation waiting. Just a traumatised widow who needs therapy and probably medication and definitely more sleep.’

It’s a good performance. Probably my best yet. Self-aware enough to seem honest. Vulnerable enough to deflect further questions. I watch Richard’s face as he processes this, trying to gauge whether he believes me.

His expression softens. The suspicion recedes, replaced by sympathy.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to push. I’m just worried about you.’

‘I know. And I appreciate it. Really. But I’m okay. Or I will be, with time.’

He picks up the note again, folds it, tucks it into his pocket. ‘I’m keeping this. In case it becomes relevant later. In case whoever sent it escalates.’

‘It won’t. It’s just someone being cruel.’

‘Maybe. But I’d rather be safe.’

I want to argue, to demand he give it back, but that would only reignite his suspicions. So I nod and let him take it, let him believe he’s helping by collecting evidence, and try not to think about the other note hidden in my wardrobe.

Richard stays for another couple of hours. We don’t talk about the note again. Instead, he makes me eat more food – tinned soup this time, nothing fancy – and we watch something mindless on television. When he finally says he should go home, let me rest properly, I walk him to the door. Test the lock before opening it, a habit I can’t break even with him watching.