Page 61 of Rich Little Liars

‘Harvey.’

His voice is clipped. Professional. The voice of a man interrupted mid-task.

‘It’s Kelly Reynolds.’ I sound like I’m being strangled. ‘Someone’s been here. At my house. While I was at the hospital. They left a message on the boards. A threat.’

A pause. I can almost hear him shifting gears, recalibrating.

‘Are you inside the house right now?’

‘No. I’m outside it. I followed footprints and I found the message and I don’t know if they’re still here. I don’t know if someone’s inside.’

‘Right. Don’t go in. Don’t touch anything. Stay exactly where you are.’ I hear movement on his end – keys, a door closing. ‘I’m on my way. Ten minutes. Can you get to a neighbour’s house? Somewhere you’ll feel safer?’

The thought of knocking on Caroline’s door, of explaining this to anyone in East Hampton, makes something in me recoil. I’ve been finding it hard to trust anyone around me – my entire adopted community is nothing more than a snake pit, and I’m tired of feeling like a mouse.

‘I’ll wait by the front gate.’

‘Good. Stay on the line with me until I get there.’

I make my way back, phone pressed to my ear, every sound amplified to painful clarity. The scrape of my shoes on gravel. The distant bark of a dog. My own breathing, too fast, too loud, like someone hyperventilating through a paper bag.

The minutes stretch endlessly. I stand at my gate, watching the empty street and trying not to imagine every possible horror lurking behind hedges and in parked cars. Harvey keeps talking – about traffic, about how close he’s getting – and I understand what he’s doing. Filling the silence so I don’t have to be alone with my fear.

At least he believes me, I can’t help thinking.

When his car finally appears round the bend, the relief is so intense I nearly drop the phone. He pulls up directly outside, engine off in seconds. He’s out of the car and moving towards me before I can even lower the phone from my ear, his face set in an expression I haven’t seen before. Concern. Genuine, unguarded concern.

‘Show me,’ he says.

I lead him round the house, explaining as we go – the open gate, the footprints, the message scrawled across the plywood. He listens without interrupting, his expression growing grimmer with each detail. When we reach the boarded window, he studies the red lettering. His jaw tightens. Something flickers across his features – anger, maybe, or frustration – before he schools his expression back to neutral.

‘Did you touch anything?’

‘No. I saw it and I called you.’

‘Good. That was the right thing to do.’ He pulls out his phone and takes several photographs, the flash stark against the grey morning light. ‘I’ll get forensics out here. See if they can lift anything from the paint, the boards, the surrounding area.’

‘Will that help? Will it tell you who did this?’

‘It might. These things take time, but we’re building a picture.’ He turns to look at me properly. ‘Ms Reynolds, I need to check inside the house. Make sure no one’s in there. Would you be comfortable with me doing that, and you waiting out here while I do?’

I open my mouth to answer, but movement catches my eye. Across the fence, through the gaps in the hedge, I can see figures gathering. Caroline, unmistakable in her navy coat, standing with two other women I vaguely recognise. They’re not even pretending any more – just standing there, watching, their faces arranged in expressions of politeness that don’t quite mask the avid curiosity underneath.

One of them has her phone out. Taking pictures, maybe. Or texting the rest of the town about the latest drama at number seven.

‘No,’ I snap. ‘I don’t want to wait out here. Can I come with you?’

Harvey follows my gaze to the watching neighbours. Something shifts in his expression – understanding, maybe. Or sympathy for a woman who can’t even fall apart in private any more.

‘Stay behind me. Don’t touch anything. If I tell you to get out, you get out. Understood?’

‘Understood.’

We enter through the front door. Harvey moves differently now – alert, hand near his belt, checking corners and doorways with the trained awareness of someone who’s done this many times before. I follow close behind, my pulse loud in my ears, half-expecting someone to leap out of every shadow.

The hallway is empty. The living room, empty. The dining room, empty. Each space we clear feels like a small victory, a room reclaimed from the threat that’s been hanging over me.

In the kitchen, Harvey pauses by the boarded window. From inside, you can’t see the message – just plywood and nails and the absence of light. But I know what’s on the other side. Can feel its presence.