Page 69 of Rich Little Liars

‘But it is your fault. Partly. Can’t you see that?’ Daniel’s face was flushed now, his composure cracking. ‘We were falling apart long before Roxanne came along. She just made it obvious. Made it impossible to keep pretending everything was fine.’

‘So she’s the hero of this story? The woman who opened your eyes to your terrible marriage?’

‘She’s the only person who’s been honest with me in years!’

Movement behind me. Roxanne stepping into the kitchen properly now, her presence no longer just felt but asserting itself. I felt rather than saw her move closer – felt the shift in the room’s atmosphere as she moved between us.

‘Maybe I should go,’ she said quietly. ‘Let you two⁠—’

‘Stay.’ Daniel’s voice was sharp. Commanding. ‘You don’t have to leave just because Kelly’s having one of her episodes.’

‘Episodes?’ The word came out strangled. ‘Is that what you call it when your wife objects to your affair?’

‘It wasn’t an affair, for crying out loud.’

‘You keep saying that like it makes a difference!’ I was shouting now. Couldn’t stop myself. ‘Like the technicality of whether you actually fucked her changes anything about what you did!’

Roxanne flinched. Or pretended to. That wounded expression she did so well – the victim caught in someone else’s crossfire. But her eyes were wrong. Too watchful for someone who was simply uncomfortable.

‘Kelly.’ Daniel stepped towards me, his hands raised like he was approaching a wild animal. ‘You need to calm down.’

‘Don’t tell me to calm down.’

‘You’re being hysterical.’

‘I am not hysterical!’ I grabbed the dishcloth from the counter without thinking. Something to do with my hands. Something to grip while rage flooded through me in hot, overwhelming waves. ‘I am a woman whose husband has been gaslighting her for weeks, trying to make her believe she’s crazy for having a perfectly reasonable reaction to betrayal!’

‘See?’ Daniel turned to Roxanne, gesturing at me like I was an exhibit. ‘This is what I’ve been dealing with. This is what I live with every day. The accusations. The paranoia. The constant feeling that nothing I do will ever be enough.’

Roxanne nodded slowly. Sympathetically. Like she understood. Like she and Daniel were the reasonable ones and I was the problem that needed managing.

Something in me snapped.

I lunged at her.

God knows what I intended – to grab her, shake her, scratch that understanding expression off her face. But Daniel caught me before I could reach her, his arms wrapping around me from behind, pinning my own arms to my sides. I struggled against him, the dishcloth still clutched in my fist, my elbow catching the handle of the pan I’d left soaking on the stove.

The pan clattered. Water sloshed across the hob. And the dishcloth – twisted and forgotten in my grip – slipped free as I thrashed.

I watched it fall. It seemed to take forever. Tumbling through the air in a lazy arc, drifting towards the burner I’d forgotten to turn off after making dinner. The flame was low, barely a flicker of blue against the evening dimness.

The cloth caught instantly.

A small bloom of orange at first – almost pretty, like a flower opening. Then spreading. Racing across the damp fabric with a hunger that defied logic, leaping to the dishcloth hanging beside the cooker, climbing the wooden utensils that hung from the wall.

‘Shit.’ Daniel released me, lunging for the sink. ‘Water! Get water!’

But the cooking oil was too close. I’d left the bottle open after dinner, the cap sitting beside it on the counter, and now the flames found it – the golden liquid pooling where I’d been careless, where I’d been too distracted by my crumbling marriage to clean up properly.

The fireball that erupted made us all stumble back.

Heat. Searing, impossible heat that pressed against my face. The flames climbed the wall in seconds, blackening the paint, reaching for the ceiling with eager fingers. Smoke began to pour from the burning fabric – thick and dark and choking.

‘The extinguisher!’ I screamed. ‘Daniel, the fire extinguisher⁠—’

He was already moving. Towards the back door where the red cylinder hung on its bracket, gathering dust from years of optimistic neglect. His hands closed around it, pulled, twisted…

It wouldn’t come free.