Chapter 9
NOW
The first thing I do is check every lock in the house.
Front door: locked. Back door: locked. Kitchen window: locked and checked twice.
Everything is secure. I move through the ground floor systematically, testing each door, then again because the second check didn’t feel certain enough.
My hands are still shaking from the ring, from the note and the realisation that someone has been inside those ruins.
Someone who knows and wants me to know they know.
YOU SHOULD HAVE BURNED TOO
The words loop in my head like a mantra or curse.
I’ve hidden the ring and the note in the back of my wardrobe, shoved behind some sweaters, as if not seeing them might make them less real.
But I can still feel the ring’s presence.
Still feel the sick twist in my stomach when I think about someone keeping it until the right moment.
Upstairs, I check the bedroom windows. The spare room. The bathroom. Every single one secured tightly, but I test them anyway because what if I’m wrong? Someone could slip inside while I’m sleeping, while I’m distracted, or pretending everything is fine.
When I’ve finished my circuit, it’s nearly four o’clock and I’ve checked every entrance more times than I can count. The house feels smaller now. Tighter. Like it’s closing in around me. But at least it’s secure. At least nothing can get in without me knowing.
I stand in the kitchen and force myself to breathe properly.
My phone sits on the counter where I left it this morning.
Three messages from Richard that I haven’t answered.
The first asking if I’m still okay for tonight.
The second saying he’s picked up ingredients for dinner.
The third, sent an hour ago, just asking if everything’s all right.
I should cancel. Should tell him I’m not feeling well, need to reschedule, something has come up. Because how can I sit across from him tonight and pretend everything is fine? How can I let him cook for me, smile at me and kiss me when I’m carrying this secret that’s getting heavier by the day?
I type a message with trembling fingers.
So sorry, not feeling well. Can we reschedule?
His response comes quickly, full of concern I don’t deserve.
Of course. Hope you feel better. Let me know if you need anything.
I set down the phone and stare at it. The right thing would be to push him away completely.
To protect him from whatever is coming. Because something is coming.
I can feel it in the way the air has changed, in the way East Hampton’s residents have started looking at me differently over the past couple days.
That’s the thing I’ve noticed most.
The shift in how people respond when they see me.
Yesterday, I passed Caroline in the park.
Instead of her usual pointed greeting, she just nodded.
No smile. No attempt at conversation. Just acknowledgement that barely qualified as polite.
Her dog pulled towards me, wanting to sniff and investigate, but she tugged it back with more force than necessary. It was borderline violent.
Emma hasn’t texted since the brunch disaster.
Natasha crossed the street yesterday when she saw me coming, suddenly very interested in something on her phone.
Even the women who jog past every morning – the ones I’d started recognising by their routines – have been giving my house a wider berth.
Where they used to run right past my front gate, chatting and laughing, now they move to the far side of the park.
Still visible. Still watching. Just from a safer distance.
East Hampton is closing ranks. Deciding I don’t belong.
Or maybe they’re just reflecting back the suspicion that Caroline’s been seeding.
A few well-placed questions. The occasional suggestion that the new resident’s story doesn’t quite add up.
That’s all it would take in a place like this.
Town life thrives on gossip, and I’ve unintentionally given them plenty.
The tragic widow who fled to East Hampton seeking peace. Who keeps to herself and bolted from a brunch gathering like she had something to hide.
They’re not wrong.
I move to the living room window and peer out from behind the curtain.
The park is quiet in the fading afternoon light.
A man walks a chocolate Labrador along the far path.
A car pulls into a driveway three houses down.
Normal town life carrying on while I cower behind my curtain afraid of… someone.
I drop the curtain and check the window lock again. Still secure. Still holding.
But for how long?
The day bleeds into evening without me noticing the transition.
By nine o’clock, I’ve worn a path in the carpet between the living room and the kitchen.
My legs ache from standing. My head throbs from lack of food and too much adrenaline.
But I can’t stop. Can’t rest. Because resting means letting my guard down.
I try to sleep around midnight but lie awake listening to the house.
Every creak is footsteps. Every gust of wind against the windows is someone trying to get in.
The heating unit makes a sound like metal scraping and I bolt upright, heart hammering, convinced someone is picking the lock downstairs.
I get up and check.
Everything is still on lockdown.
But I don’t feel safe.
I make tea and sit watching the clock tick towards morning. My phone buzzes once – Richard, checking in – but I don’t look at the message. Can’t face his kindness when I’m falling apart like this.
When dawn finally comes, grey and unwelcoming, I’m still sitting there. Haven’t slept. Haven’t moved except to check the locks twice more during the night. My eyes feel gritty and my mouth tastes sour but at least I’ve made it through another night. At least nothing happened.
Except something did happen. I lost another piece of myself to fear. Another fragment of the person I’m supposed to be rebuilding crumbled away.
My phone is full of messages I haven’t read. Richard mostly, but also a few from my old friends in my old life. I delete them without opening. Whatever they say, I don’t want to know.
Around noon, I make myself eat something. Toast that turns to ash in my mouth. I manage three bites before giving up and throwing the rest away.
From the kitchen window, I watch the park.
More joggers this morning, moving in pairs and groups.
They all stay on the far side. All avoid looking directly at my house.
As if by not acknowledging me, they can pretend I don’t exist. Can maintain the fiction that East Hampton is still perfect, and that I’m not destroying that fiction with my presence.
I wonder what they’re saying about me. What stories Caroline has been spreading. Whether they think I’m dangerous or just pitiable. Whether they’ve worked out yet what I am. And mostly… who sent those letters? Now I know it can’t be a bored teenage kid.
Maybe I deserve this.
By afternoon, I’ve stopped going near the windows. Instead, I sit in the centre of the living room where I can’t be seen from outside. Where I’m hidden. Safe. Or as safe as I can be in a house that suddenly feels full of vulnerabilities I never noticed before.
My phone buzzes again. I flinch at the sound. Another message I won’t read. Another person I’m letting down by hiding here. But what choice do I have? Going out means confronting East Hampton’s new coldness. Staying in means confronting my fear.
Either way, I lose.
I must sleep at some point because I wake with a start on the couch, my neck aching and my mouth dry.
The room is dark. I’ve lost hours without meaning to.
Panic surges as I scramble up and turn on the lights, checking every room to make sure I’m still alone and nobody has come in while I was unconscious. That the locks have held.
This is what my life has become. Counting breaths. Checking locks.
Waiting for the next blow.
The third day arrives and almost passes without ceremony.
I haven’t slept properly in over forty-eight hours and it’s starting to show.
My hands shake constantly now. My vision blurs at the edges.
I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror and barely recognise the woman staring back.
Hollow-eyed. Gaunt. Hair unwashed and skin pale as paper.
I look guilty. Like I’m falling apart.
My phone has stopped pinging so frequently.
I should feel relieved but instead it makes me feel more isolated.
As if even the digital world is giving up on me, deciding I’m not worth the effort of concern.
I sink to the floor and stare at the phone.
Seven unread messages from Richard. The most recent from this morning.
I open it without thinking.
Kelly, I’m worried about you. Please just let me know you’re alive. That’s all I need. One message. Please.
The concern in those words makes my chest hurt. He doesn’t even know what he’s worried about – the ring or the notes or how I’m unravelling here in my locked house. He just knows something is wrong and he wants to help.
I should let him. Should stop pushing him away and let him be the decent person he clearly is. But the idea of explaining everything, of watching his face change when he realises what I am, feels impossible.
Another message comes through while I’m staring at the screen.
Richard again.
I’m coming over if I don’t hear from you soon.
The thought of him showing up uninvited sends a fresh wave of panic through me.
I can’t have him here. Can’t let him see how far I’ve fallen or risk him looking at this house – with its obsessively locked doors and drawn curtains and the frantic energy I’ve left in every room – and working out just how damaged I am.
But I can’t ignore him either. Can’t keep pretending I’m fine when clearly I’m not.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard. What do I say? How do I explain without explaining? How do I keep him at arm’s length while also pulling him close because I’m so desperately lonely I can barely breathe?
I type and delete three different responses.
Each one sounds wrong. Too much or not enough.
Too honest or not honest enough. I stare at his message for ages.
At the lifeline being offered. At the choice I have to make.
Keep hiding and falling apart alone, or reach out and risk everything by letting someone see the mess I’ve become.
The decision feels impossible. But sitting here on the floor of my locked house, barely eating or sleeping or functioning as a human being, I know which option leads to survival.
And it isn’t this one.
I type before I can second-guess myself. Before fear can override the desperate need for something to change.
Please come over. I need you.
I hit send before I can delete it. The message shows as delivered. Then read.
I watch the screen, waiting, my heart pounding.
Three dots appear. He’s typing.
Then his response comes.
On my way.