Chapter 4
NOW
I wake to the sound of voices outside my window. Low murmurs, punctuated by laughter that’s too loud for seven in the morning. I lie still for a moment, listening, before dragging myself out of bed and pulling back the curtain just enough to see.
Two women stand in the park, both in running gear.
They’re not the same women from before. One of them – blonde, ponytail swinging – gestures towards my house while saying something to her companion.
They’re not even trying to be discreet about it.
The other woman glances over, and even from this distance I can see the curiosity on her face.
The way her expression shifts into something knowing.
I let the curtain fall and step back from the window. My pulse is doing that thing again, that rapid flutter I can’t control. They’re just talking. Just neighbours chatting on their morning run. There’s nothing sinister about it.
Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.
I stand there in my bedroom – this room that still doesn’t feel like mine, with its perfect pale walls and plush carpet – and try to remember the breathing exercises the therapist taught me. My heart keeps racing, my thoughts spiralling into territories I’ve spent weeks trying to avoid.
Downstairs, I start making coffee and stand at the kitchen counter, trying to decide what to do with another empty day.
Unpack more boxes. Go for a walk. Pretend I’m someone who belongs here.
The machine beeps and I fill my cup. The normalcy of it – the simple domestic task – should be soothing.
Instead, it feels like an act. Like I’m rehearsing the role of Kelly Reynolds, Ordinary Widow, and forgetting my lines.
I catch sight of Caroline walking past my house with her small dog, moving slowly enough that it’s clear she’s looking.
Her gaze sweeps over the windows, the door, the front lawn I haven’t touched since moving in.
The dog stops to sniff at my gatepost and she lets it, using the pause as an excuse to stare more openly.
She doesn’t wave. Doesn’t smile. Just looks, assessing.
Taking inventory of the new arrival and finding something that doesn’t quite add up.
I duck away from the window before she can see me.
This is ridiculous. I’m being paranoid. Town life means visible life – everyone sees everyone, knows everyone’s business. That’s just how it works in places like this. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean they know about my past.
But the thought has planted itself now, and I can’t dig it out.
What if someone’s worked it out? What if they’ve learned of my tragedy in that fire, of Daniel, of everything that happened?
The realtor promised discretion. The solicitor said my privacy would be protected.
But information has a way of leaking, especially when it’s the sort of information people find interesting.
Tragic. Scandalous, even, if they knew the truth about what I’m really running from.
And East Hampton is exactly the sort of place where people dig. Where curiosity masquerades as concern, and concern becomes investigation.
I drink my java too fast, scalding my tongue, and go back upstairs to get dressed. I need to go out. Need to prove to myself – and to whoever might be watching – that I’m just a normal woman living a normal life. That there’s nothing to see here, nothing to wonder about.
The morning passes in a blur. I walk round the park, nodding at the few people I pass.
An elderly man with a walking stick. A mother pushing a stroller, her toddler trailing behind on a scooter.
They all smile. They all look friendly. But I can’t shake the feeling they’re assessing me, measuring me against some invisible standard I don’t know how to meet.
I’m passing the bench near the fountain when a voice stops me.
‘Kelly, isn’t it?’
I turn. It’s one of the women I’ve seen jogging – the blonde with the ponytail. She’s sitting alone now, a takeout coffee cup in her hand, her running gear swapped for an emerald sweater and tailored pants.
‘Yes. Sorry, I don’t think we’ve—’
‘Miriam,’ she says, not standing. ‘I’m at number fourteen. Across from Caroline.’
‘Right. Nice to meet you.’
She sips her coffee, watching me over the rim. ‘Settling in okay? Must be strange, moving somewhere new all on your own.’
Something about the way she says this feels like she’s making a point. All I can do is shrug it off and continue as if everything is normal. It’s all I can ever do.
‘It’s an adjustment,’ I tell her. ‘But everyone’s been welcoming.’
‘Have they?’ She smiles, and I’m not buying it. ‘That’s good to hear. East Hampton can be very particular about newcomers. Especially ones who keep to themselves.’
There’s no way to respond to that, so I stay quiet. The silence lasts a beat too long.
‘Anyway.’ She stands, brushing invisible lint from her pants. ‘I’m sure I’ll see you around. Caroline’s planning another gathering soon. You should come. Let people get to know you properly.’
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.’
‘Then I’m glad you moved here. You shouldn’t be alone.’
The water finishes boiling and I pour it, grateful for something to do with my hands. When I turn back, Richard is still watching me, but there’s no pity in his gaze. Just understanding. Like he knows what it means to be lonely, to be carrying something heavy you can’t put down.
We drink our tea and talk about easier things.
He tells me about his day – one patient who insisted their ailment was rare and exotic when it was actually just indigestion.
I tell him about the grocery store, about Caroline and her dog, about how strange it feels to live somewhere so quiet after years in a busier town.
I don’t mention the women in the park or the way I feel watched, much less the paranoia that’s becoming harder to distinguish from reality.
‘Caroline means well,’ he says. ‘But she can be… intense. If she’s bothering you, don’t hesitate to let me know. I can have a word with her.’
‘No, it’s fine. She’s just being neighbourly.’
‘Is she though?’ He grins. ‘Or is she gathering intelligence for the homeowners’ association?’
I laugh despite myself. It feels good, that laugh. Like releasing pressure from a valve. Like remembering what it feels like to be normal. To no longer be in emotional agony.
When Richard finally leaves, promising to check in soon, I linger in the empty kitchen and realise I feel fractionally better. Lighter. Like maybe, just maybe, I could have something resembling a life here. Like East Hampton could be more than just a hiding place.
The feeling lasts exactly until I go to lock the front door for the night.
Then I see it.
A white envelope on the doormat, stark against the dark wood. I didn’t hear it arrive. Didn’t hear footsteps or the mail slot opening or anything at all. But there it is, my name written across the front in block capitals. Not handwritten – printed, impersonal.
KELLY REYNOLDS
My hands shake as I pick it up. It’s not thick – just a single sheet of paper inside, from the feel of it. No return address. No stamp. Hand-delivered, which means someone came to my door, maybe while I was taking a bath, and pushed this through my mail slot.
I should wait. Should sit down, calm myself, open it carefully and rationally.
Instead, I tear it open right there in the hallway.
The note inside is brief. One sentence, printed in the same block capitals.
I read it once. Twice. Three times, like reading it again might change what it says.
It doesn’t.
My legs go weak. I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor, the note still clutched in my hand, and the world narrows to those five words on the page.
I KNOW WHAT YOU DID