Chapter 10
NOW
Richard arrives within ten minutes, which means he must have left his house the moment he sent that text. I’m still sitting on the floor when I hear his knock – gentle, not demanding. The sort of knock that says I’m here if you want me, but I won’t force my way in.
I pull myself up and check my reflection in the hall mirror. I look exactly how I feel: wrecked. There’s no hiding it now. No pretending I’ve just been busy or tired or any of the other lies I’ve been telling myself.
When I open the door, his expression shifts immediately. Concern bleeding into something sharper. Almost fear.
‘Christ, Kelly.’
‘I know. I look terrible.’
‘That’s not—’ He stops himself. ‘Can I come in?’
I step back and he enters, closing the door behind him. I watch him take in the hallway. The lights all blazing even though it’s barely evening. The way I immediately reach out and test the door lock, making sure it’s secure now that he’s inside.
‘How long since you’ve slept?’ he asks quietly.
‘I don’t know. Two days? Three?’
He nods like this confirms something he suspected. Then he does something unexpected. He pulls me into a hug. Not gentle or tentative, but firm. Solid. Like he’s trying to hold me together through physical pressure alone.
I don’t realise I’m crying until I feel the dampness spreading across his shirt.
‘It’s okay,’ he murmurs. ‘Whatever this is, it’s okay. You’re okay.’
But I’m not okay. We both know it. I’m so far from okay I can’t even see it from here.
When I finally pull back, he keeps his hands on my shoulders. Anchoring me. His brown eyes are full of worry but no judgement. No suspicion. Just care that I don’t deserve.
‘Have you eaten anything today?’
I try to remember everything. ‘Not much.’
‘Right. Kitchen. Now.’
He steers me there and sits me at the table like I’m a child who needs supervision.
Then he moves around my kitchen with more confidence than I do lately, opening cupboards and the fridge, assessing what’s available.
He makes scrambled eggs and toast. Simple food that won’t upset an empty stomach.
Sets it in front of me with a glass of water and doesn’t sit until I’ve taken the first bite.
The food tastes like nothing but I eat it anyway because he’s watching and because some part of me recognises that not eating is part of the spiral. That I need to start taking basic care of myself if I want to get through this.
‘Better?’ he asks when I’ve finished half the plate.
‘A bit.’
‘Good.’ He leans back in his chair, studying me. ‘Now tell me what’s really going on. And before you say it’s nothing or you’re fine, don’t. I can see you’re not fine.’
I open my mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. The exhaustion has stripped away my ability to lie convincingly. And maybe I’m just tired of lying. Tired of carrying everything alone.
‘I had… a note,’ I say finally.
‘A note?’
‘Something through my door.’
His jaw tightens. ‘What did it say?’
I should tell him. Should explain about the ring and the two letters and how someone clearly has detailed knowledge of what happened that night.
But the words stick in my throat. Because explaining the ring means explaining why it matters.
Means revealing more about the fire than I’ve been willing to share.
‘Something vague about my past,’ is all I can tell him. ‘An accusation. A threat.’
‘Is that what got you so down the other day?’
All I do is nod.
‘Kelly,’ he says firmly. ‘This is serious. You need to report this.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because.’ I stop. How do I even tell him? ‘Because it would make things worse. Would draw attention I don’t need.’
‘From who? The police? Kelly, they’re supposed to help in situations like this.’
But they won’t help. Not if they start digging or asking more questions about the fire and about Daniel and all the things I’ve been trying to leave behind. The investigation was closed. Accidental death. No one to blame. But if they reopen it and start looking closer…
‘I just can’t,’ I repeat. ‘Please don’t push this.’
He looks like he wants to argue but something in my expression stops him. Instead, he reaches across the table and takes my hand.
‘Okay. I won’t push. But I’m worried about you. You can’t go on like this.’
‘I know.’
‘Come on. You need to rest.’
‘I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes—’
‘I’ll stay – sit right beside you and make sure nothing happens. You’re safe with me here.’
The offer is so kind it makes my eyes sting. But I can’t accept it. Can’t let him see how bad the bedroom is – the curtains permanently drawn, the way I’ve positioned furniture against the door even though it has a lock. The evidence of my complete unravelling laid bare.
‘The couch,’ I say. ‘I’ll rest on the couch.’
He doesn’t argue. Just leads me to the living room and settles me on the cushions with a blanket he finds draped over a chair. Then he sits at the other end, within arm’s reach but not crowding.
‘Close your eyes,’ he says. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
I do, and at long last, I feel something close to safe. Richard’s presence is a tether keeping me anchored. His steady breathing a rhythm I can match. The knowledge that someone is watching – someone friendly, someone protective – allows my guard to drop just enough.
I don’t think I’ll actually sleep. But exhaustion has its own agenda, and within minutes I’m drifting. The last thing I register is Richard’s hand resting lightly on my ankle. A point of contact that says I’m here. You’re not alone.
When I wake, the light has changed. Evening has become proper night, the room lit only by the lamp in the corner. For a few blissful seconds, I don’t remember why I’m on the couch or why my body aches. Then it all comes flooding back and I tense automatically.
‘Hey.’ Richard’s voice, soft. ‘You’re okay. You slept for about two hours.’
Two hours. That’s more consecutive sleep than I’ve had in days.
I sit up slowly, my neck stiff from the awkward angle.
‘How do you feel?’ he asks.
‘Better. A bit.’
‘Good. Stay there. I’m going to make you some tea.’
He disappears into the kitchen and I hear the kettle, the clink of mugs. Normal domestic sounds that make this feel almost ordinary. Like we’re just two people spending an evening together, not a disaster being temporarily managed.
When he returns with the tea, he stands rather than sits. ‘I need to find something,’ he says. ‘Do you have any honey? I think tea with honey might be better for you right now.’
‘Kitchen drawer. The one beside the fridge.’
He vanishes and I hear him in the kitchen, opening drawers. The soft sound of wood sliding on runners. A pause.
Then: ‘Kelly?’
Something in his voice makes my stomach drop. That tone people use when they’ve found something they weren’t supposed to see.
‘What is it?’ I call back, already knowing. Already feeling the dread spreading cold through my veins.
He appears in the doorway holding a piece of paper. White. Familiar.
The first note.
I KNOW WHAT YOU DID
I must have shoved it in that drawer ages ago and forgotten to move it. Or maybe I didn’t forget – maybe I hid it there deliberately and my paranoid, exhausted brain simply lost track of all the places I’ve been stashing evidence of my unravelling.
‘Is this the note you were talking about?’ Richard asks quietly.
My mind races, trying to find a plausible explanation – the right lie that will defuse this situation before it explodes. At the same time, I’m grateful this is all he found. Just imagine if he’d stumbled upon the other one and my wedding ring.
‘That’s the one.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing.’
‘These words suggest otherwise.’
‘I know, and that’s the problem. I haven’t done anything. It’s basically a sick prank.’
‘A prank?’ He looks at the note again, then at me. ‘Kelly, this isn’t funny. This is harassment.’
‘I know. I mean – it’s not funny. But it’s not serious either. Just some stupid thing.’ The words tumble out too fast, tripping over each other. ‘Probably kids. You know what teenagers are like. They think they’re being edgy.’
‘Kids?’ His scepticism is obvious. ‘What kids would even know you well enough to—’
‘I don’t know. Caroline’s grandchildren visit sometimes. Maybe they heard gossip about the new widow and thought it would be clever to—’ I stop, hearing how desperate I sound. How implausible.
Richard sits beside me again, still holding the note. His expression has shifted into something I can’t quite read. Concern mixed with confusion and something else. Suspicion? No. Not quite that. More like dawning realisation that what he’s dealing with is bigger than he thought.
‘Has anything else happened?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Has anyone followed you or tried to hurt you?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Then why is it bothering you so much?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve been stressed and not sleeping and I made it sound worse than it is.’
He stares at the note for a while. Reading it again. Turning it over. Looking for clues I know he won’t find because whoever sent it was clever. No fingerprints. No distinguishing marks. Just block capitals and cheap paper that could be from anywhere.
‘This doesn’t feel like a prank to me,’ he says finally. ‘This feels targeted. Personal. Someone knows about your husband and, from the sounds of it, they have an accusation to make as well. What are you supposed to have done wrong?’
‘Honestly, I have no idea.’
‘But they know about the fire.’
‘Lots of people know. It’s not exactly a secret. House fires make the news.’
‘Did yours?’
The question catches me off guard. I know it did, but the last thing I need is him personally investigating and finding something he’s really better off not knowing. It’s better to play dumb, I quickly decide.
‘I don’t know. Don’t think so. Does it matter?’
‘It might. If someone found out about you through news coverage, that’s one thing. But if someone from your past has tracked you here…’ He trails off, clearly trying to work through possibilities.
‘No one tracked me. No one from before knows I’m here. I didn’t tell anyone where I was moving. Even if I did, there’s nothing to hold me accountable for.’
Another lie.
Richard is quiet, turning the note over in his hands again like it might reveal secrets through touch alone. ‘I don’t think this is a prank,’ he says again. ‘I think someone is targeting you specifically. And I think you know more about who and why than you’re telling me.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Come on.’ He sets the note on the coffee table and turns to face me fully. ‘I’m trying to help you. But I can’t do that if you’re not honest with me. What really happened in that fire? What are you so afraid someone will find out?’
The question hangs between us. Direct. Unavoidable.
The moment I’ve been dreading since he first showed interest in me.
Since he first looked at me with kindness instead of suspicion.
I could tell him. Could explain about the fire and Daniel and Roxanne and all the choices that led to that night.
Could lay it all out and hope he understands and doesn’t look at me differently, hope his feelings are strong enough to survive the truth.
But the risk is too great. If I tell him and he reacts badly – if he goes to the police or tells someone in the town or just walks away – then I’ve lost everything. The safety I’ve built here. The one person who makes me feel human. The illusion that I might deserve a second chance.
‘Nothing happened,’ I say. My voice is flat. Dead. ‘It was an accident. A terrible accident that killed my husband and destroyed my life. That’s all. There’s no conspiracy. No secret. Just bad luck and tragedy and me trying to rebuild.’
‘Then why—’
‘I panicked, okay?’ The words come out sharper than I intend.
‘I’ve been alone here, isolated, and when I got this note I spiralled.
Made it into something bigger than it was because I’m damaged and paranoid and not coping as well as I should be.
You’re right. I need help. Professional help.
But there’s no mystery to solve. No dramatic revelation waiting.
Just a traumatised widow who needs therapy and probably medication and definitely more sleep. ’
It’s a good performance. Probably my best yet. Self-aware enough to seem honest. Vulnerable enough to deflect further questions. I watch Richard’s face as he processes this, trying to gauge whether he believes me.
His expression softens. The suspicion recedes, replaced by sympathy.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to push. I’m just worried about you.’
‘I know. And I appreciate it. Really. But I’m okay. Or I will be, with time.’
He picks up the note again, folds it, tucks it into his pocket. ‘I’m keeping this. In case it becomes relevant later. In case whoever sent it escalates.’
‘It won’t. It’s just someone being cruel.’
‘Maybe. But I’d rather be safe.’
I want to argue, to demand he give it back, but that would only reignite his suspicions. So I nod and let him take it, let him believe he’s helping by collecting evidence, and try not to think about the other note hidden in my wardrobe.
Richard stays for another couple of hours.
We don’t talk about the note again. Instead, he makes me eat more food – tinned soup this time, nothing fancy – and we watch something mindless on television.
When he finally says he should go home, let me rest properly, I walk him to the door.
Test the lock before opening it, a habit I can’t break even with him watching.
‘Call me if you need me,’ he says. ‘Any time. Promise?’
‘Promise.’
He kisses me before leaving. Softly. Like I’m something fragile that might shatter.
Maybe I am.
I lock the door behind him and stand in the hallway listening to his footsteps fade away. The house feels emptier now than it did before he arrived. His presence had filled spaces I didn’t know were hollow. Now they’re exposed again. Echoing.
Now he has evidence of my secrets moving further from my control. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That he believes my lie about pranks and stress. That he won’t dig deeper.
But I can’t quite convince myself.
Because Richard is kind, but he’s not stupid. And the more time he spends around me, the more he’ll notice the gaps in my story. The places where trauma doesn’t quite explain the level of fear.
The moments when grief looks more like guilt.