Chapter 5
NOW
The note sits on my kitchen counter where I left it three days ago, the paper already starting to curl at the edges.
I haven’t touched it since that first night, when I read it over and over until the words stopped making sense.
Now I just walk past it, again and again, pretending it isn’t there while being unable to think about anything else.
I KNOW WHAT YOU DID
I’ve barely slept. Every sound in the night sends my heart racing – the rustle of wind against windows, the distant bark of a dog.
I lie awake imagining footsteps on gravel, someone standing outside in the dark, watching.
Waiting. When I do manage to drift off, I wake within minutes, heart pounding, convinced I’ve heard something.
The front gate opening. A key in the lock. Breathing outside my bedroom door.
During the day, I stand at windows and scan the park for anyone who looks too interested, too aware.
Everyone becomes a suspect. The joggers who pass at regular intervals in expensive gym outfits that clearly haven’t seen a drop of sweat – are they the same people every time, or are there more of them now?
The man who parks his Bentley outside just to walk his retriever every morning at eight – why does he always pause near my house, letting the dog sniff at the same patch of grass?
Caroline, of course. Always pearl-clutching Caroline, with her assessing gaze and her too-keen interest in the new arrival.
I’ve started keeping the curtains half-closed, enough to see out but not enough for anyone to see clearly in. It makes the house feel smaller, darker, but at least it offers the illusion of privacy. At least I can pretend I’m not completely exposed.
The problem is, I don’t know who sent it.
Don’t know how much they know or what they want.
The note didn’t include demands or threats – just that simple, devastating statement.
Which somehow makes it worse. A threat I could understand.
A demand I could respond to. Money, silence, something tangible.
But this? This is just waiting. Watching.
Letting me destroy myself with uncertainty.
I’ve considered leaving. Packing everything back into boxes and disappearing before whoever sent the note can follow through on whatever they’re planning.
I’ve even looked at properties in other towns, other counties, places where nobody would think to look for me.
But running would only confirm their suspicions, wouldn’t it?
And where would I go? I’ve already used up my fresh start.
Already burned through the insurance money buying this house, this new life, or whatever kind of life it will eventually become.
So I stay.
And I wait.
And I try to work out who knows and how they found out my deepest, darkest secret, and what they’re going to do with the information.
The possibilities circle through my mind like vultures.
Someone from before – a neighbour, a friend of Daniel’s family, someone who recognised my face or my name and connected the dots.
Or someone here, someone in East Hampton who made it their business to dig into the new arrival’s past. Caroline seems the obvious choice, with her clipboard and her homeowners’ association duties and her air of knowing everyone’s business. But it could be anyone.
That’s what’s driving me insane – the not knowing.
By the fourth day, I’m barely functioning.
I’ve drunk so much coffee my hands shake constantly, but I’m still exhausted, running on adrenaline and paranoia.
When I catch sight of myself in the bathroom mirror, I look grey.
Hollowed out. There are shadows under my eyes that makeup can’t hide, and my cheekbones stand out too sharply.
I look exactly like someone with something to hide.
Then the invitation arrives – mid-morning, hand-delivered by Emma. I watch through the window as she walks up my driveway, an envelope in her hand, and my stomach clenches. Another note. Another accusation. But when I answer the door, she’s smiling.
‘Morning. I hope I’m not disturbing you.’ She holds out the envelope. ‘Natasha and I are hosting a brunch tomorrow. Very casual, just a few of the neighbours. We thought it would be nice for you to meet more people properly.’
The envelope is cream, fancy-looking, my name written in elegant script across the front. Nothing like the harsh block capitals from the other day.
‘That’s kind,’ I manage. ‘But I might feel out of place.’
‘Nonsense. It’s exactly your place – we’re inviting you, aren’t we?’ Her smile doesn’t waver. ‘Please come. It’ll be fun. Or at least as fun as these things can be.’
I should say no. Should make an excuse. But refusing would look strange, wouldn’t it? Suspicious. The sort of thing someone with secrets would do.
‘What time?’ I hear myself ask.
‘Eleven. Natasha’s house. Details are in the envelope.’
After she leaves, I stay in the hallway holding the invitation and trying to figure out if this is a trap. If Emma and Natasha know something. If this gathering is actually an ambush, a chance to corner me with questions I can’t answer.
But that’s insane. They’re just being friendly. Just trying to welcome the new neighbour. This is what people do in towns like this. I’m the one making it sinister.
Except everything feels sinister now.
Everything feels like a test I’m failing.
I spend the rest of the day trying to convince myself it will be fine.
That I can handle a simple brunch. That this might actually help – a chance to prove I’m harmless, boring, exactly what I appear to be.
Maybe if I seem normal enough, friendly enough, whoever sent the note will realise they’ve made a mistake.
For a moment, I even consider getting a normal out-of-the-house job just to fit in with these people.
The problem is, I don’t have the qualifications (or the stomach) to match whatever their up-market, prudish jobs are.
Besides, it seems like most of them were born with silver spoons in their mouths.
They don’t need to work. Neither do I. Yet, anyway.
But the thought rings hollow even as I think it.
Because they haven’t made a mistake.
They know the truth.
The note said so.
By the time the next morning arrives, I’ve rehearsed my story until it feels almost true.
Paranoid that I’ve already been researched, I have to give them something: young widow.
House fire. New beginning. Simple. Sympathetic.
Nothing that invites follow-up questions.
I’ve practised my facial expressions in the mirror – sad but coping, grateful for the fresh start, ready to move forward with my life.
I look like a woman who’s been through something terrible but is coming out the other side.
I look like a liar.
I dress with intention – jeans and a soft grey sweater, nothing too formal or too casual.
Makeup to hide the shadows under my eyes.
Hair washed and dried properly for once.
I look in the mirror and see someone who could pass for normal.
Someone who belongs at a neighbourhood gathering, in the company of the rich.
The walk to Natasha’s house takes less than two minutes, but I manage to second-guess myself three times.
I could still turn back. Could claim I felt ill, forgot something urgent, anything.
But that would only make things worse. So I keep walking, past the other houses with their perfect gardens and gleaming windows, until I reach number eighteen.
The blue shutters are obvious, cheerful against pale stone walls.
Through the front window, I can see people already gathered inside.
More than I expected. At least ten women, maybe more, all holding coffee cups and chatting in clusters.
My chest tightens. This isn’t intimate. This isn’t a small group.
This is an audience.
I take a breath and ring the bell.
Natasha answers, bright and welcoming. ‘Kelly! Come in, come in.’
The living room is a masterpiece of casual richness. Abstract art hangs from the walls, expensive bouquets sit in vases that are placed everywhere you turn, and there’s so much marble. It’s enough to make you sick.
But as I look around, it’s easier to notice the cracks in this facade.
Emma’s in the nearest room, her laugh a fraction too loud.
Natasha steps beside me, constantly glancing at her phone with an expression that flickers between anxiety and something darker.
These women are performing for each other.
Each compliment more fake than the last. Every outfit a statement. I recognise the performance, of course.
Because I have one of my own.
‘Everyone, this is Kelly Reynolds,’ Natasha announces. ‘She’s just moved here.’
A chorus of hellos. Smiles that don’t look forced. Emma appears at my elbow with a flute of champagne I didn’t ask for but accept gratefully.
The next twenty minutes pass in a blur of introductions.
Names I immediately forget. Faces that blend together.
Everyone seems friendly enough, asking the usual questions about where I’m from, what brought me to East Hampton, whether I’m settling in well.
I give my rehearsed answers and try to smile at the right moments.
But something feels off. There’s a quality to their attention that makes my skin prick.
They’re listening too intently. Watching too closely.
When I speak, the room goes quiet in a way that feels less like politeness and more like scrutiny.
Or maybe I’m just paranoid. Maybe this is what normal conversation feels like and I’ve forgotten.
Later, Caroline arrives fashionably late, making an entrance in a cream coat and silk scarf. She spots me immediately, her gaze sharpening with recognition.
‘Kelly. How lovely to see you here.’ She sits in the chair directly across from me, folding her hands in her lap. ‘I’m so glad you’re making an effort to integrate into town life. It’s important, don’t you think? Being part of the community.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Of course.’
‘And how are you finding East Hampton? It must be quite different from what you’re used to.’
There’s something in her tone. Something that sounds like she already knows the answer.
Like she’s testing me.
‘It’s nice. Quiet.’
‘Where did you say you moved from?’
I didn’t say. I’ve been intentionally vague about specifics. ‘Not far.’
‘And your husband…’ Caroline tilts her head. ‘Emma mentioned there was a fire?’
The room shifts. Or maybe it’s just my perception of it, the way every conversation seems to pause, every face turns in my direction. They’re all listening now. How do they know so much so quickly? All waiting for my answer.
‘Yes,’ I say. My voice sounds strange. Too high. I keep it as vague as possible – enough to satisfy their curious minds, not so much that they can weaponise it. ‘A house fire. Not too long ago.’
‘How awful.’ Caroline’s expression is sympathetic, but her eyes are sharp. It’s feeling too much like an interrogation. ‘You must have been devastated.’
‘I was. I am.’
‘Were you there? When it happened?’
The champagne trembles in my hand. I set it down quickly, trying to hide the tremor. I feel a bead of sweat on my temple that I’m hoping they don’t spot. I dab it away and hide it under a pretend scratch. ‘I don’t really like to talk about it.’
‘Of course, of course. I understand completely.’ But she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t change the subject. ‘It’s just that one hears things. About fires. About investigations. I imagine it must have been very complicated.’
The word ‘investigations’ lands like a stone. I stare at her, my pulse thundering in my ears. Does she know? Is this her? Did Caroline send the note? If so, why? They all know far more than I want them to. Why did I have to open my stupid mouth?
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, dreading the response.
‘Oh, nothing specific. Just that these things always are, aren’t they? Complicated. All those questions about how it started, whether there was anyone to blame and so on.’
‘Caroline.’ Emma’s voice cuts through, firm. ‘That’s enough.’
But it’s more than just enough. It’s too much.
Because now I understand. This wasn’t just a friendly brunch.
This was reconnaissance. An opportunity for them to assess the new arrival, to probe for weaknesses, to satisfy their curiosity about the widow who appeared out of nowhere with insurance money and a tragic backstory.
And Caroline knows something. Or thinks she does.
Or wants me to think she does.
The room suddenly feels too small. Too hot. All these women sitting in their perfect clothes in this perfect house, drinking bubbles and pretending this is fine while they dissect me like a specimen under glass.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, standing abruptly. The champagne flute tips, spilling across the table. ‘I need to… I should go.’
‘Kelly, wait—’ Emma reaches for my arm, but I pull away.
‘Thank you for the invitation. It was lovely to meet everyone.’
I’m moving quickly towards the door. Behind me, I can hear the murmur of voices rising, questions being asked.
Someone says my name. Someone else laughs – nervous or amused, I can’t tell.
Let them talk. Let them wonder. I just need to get out of this house, away from their watching eyes and probing questions.
The front door seems impossibly far away. I’m aware of how I must look – wild-eyed, panicked, guilty – but I can’t stop myself. Can’t slow down. Can’t pretend any more.
I practically run across the park, my breath coming in sharp gasps. When I reach my own front door, my hands are rattling so hard I can barely get the key in the lock. Inside, I collapse against the door exactly like I did the night I found the note.
Except now it’s worse. Because I’ve just confirmed every suspicion they might have had. I’ve drawn attention to myself in exactly the way I was trying to avoid. I’ve shown them I have something to hide. And somewhere out there, whoever sent that note is watching.
Waiting to see what I’ll do next.