Chapter 14
NOW
The police arrive in seventeen minutes.
When I see the headlights sweep across the windows, I scramble downstairs and look through the peeper. A police car sits on the street, the markings familiar but somehow wrong in this context. Wrong because they’re here. Because I called them.
Because I’ve invited scrutiny.
The officer who gets out is alone. Male, tall, moving with the sort of unhurried confidence that comes from handling domestics and false alarms more often than actual emergencies. He checks the street, scans my front lawn, then walks up the driveway.
I open up before he can knock.
‘Ms Reynolds?’ His voice is pleasant. Professional. ‘I’m Officer Joseph Harvey. You called about an intruder?’
‘Yes. In my back yard. I saw someone standing there.’
He nods like this is completely reasonable. Like women call him at one in the morning about shapes in yards all the time. ‘May I come in?’
I step back and he enters, his boots leaving wet prints on my pale floors. He’s maybe forty, with greying hair and sharp eyes that take in everything – the lights, the tidiness, my unwashed hair and rumpled clothes. Taking inventory. Making assessments.
‘When did you first notice this person?’ he asks, pulling out a notebook.
‘About twenty minutes ago. I mean I’ve been seeing the shapes for a few nights now, but I only just realised it was a person. I was upstairs and looked out the window and they were just standing there.’
‘Which window?’
‘The spare room.’
‘And where exactly was this person standing?’
‘Near the side gate. The one that leads round to the front.’
He writes this down. ‘Can you describe them?’
‘I couldn’t see properly. It was dark. They were just a shape. A dark shape.’
‘Height? Build?’
‘Average? I think? I couldn’t really tell from that angle.’
‘Were they doing anything? Moving around? Looking in windows?’
‘No. Just standing there. Not moving.’
He looks up from his notebook. His expression remains neutral, but I can see what’s happening behind his eyes. Woman alone. Middle of the night. Vague description. The maths of it adding up to something that’s probably nothing.
‘Has anything like this happened before?’ he asks.
The question lands wrong. Like he already knows the answer. Like he’s testing me.
‘No. I mean… I’ve seen shapes in the garden a couple of times. But I thought it was just trash cans or whatever. This was different.’
‘Different how?’
‘It was closer. More obviously a person.’
He writes this down too. ‘And you live here alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long have you been at this address?’
‘A few weeks.’
‘New to the area then.’
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway.
‘And before that?’
‘I moved from out of town. After my husband died.’
His pen pauses mid-word. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Was it recent?’
‘A little while ago. It’s still raw.’
‘Must be difficult. Big change like this, all on your own.’
The sympathy in his voice sounds genuine, but it still feels like part of the assessment. Building a picture of Kelly Reynolds, Bereaved Widow, who sees intruders in empty yards.
‘Would you mind if I take a look round?’ he asks. ‘Check your property, make sure everything’s secure?’
‘Of course. Yes. Please.’
He moves towards the kitchen and I follow, suddenly conscious of how the house must look to him. The lights in every room. The curtain that’s now drawn just enough to keep an eye on the property without being seen. The general air of someone who’s barricaded themselves inside.
At the back door, he tests the lock. ‘This is secure. You keep it locked at night?’
‘Always.’
‘Good. That’s good.’ He peers through the window into the darkness beyond. ‘I’ll go out and have a look. You stay inside, keep the door locked.’
I watch as he lets himself out and disappears into the yard. His flashlight beam sweeps across the patio, the grass, the borders. He’s very thorough. Looking for evidence of what I saw. Or evidence that I’m imagining things. When he returns, his expression hasn’t changed.
‘I’ve checked the whole perimeter,’ he says, stamping mud off his boots. ‘No signs of anyone having been there. No footprints, no disturbance. The gates are all secure. Nothing’s been tampered with.’
‘But I saw someone.’
‘I believe you saw something. Gardens can play tricks at night. Shadows, reflections in glass, trees moving in the wind. It’s easy to mistake one thing for another, especially when you’re not familiar with the space yet.’
The condescension is subtle but unmistakable: You’re new here. You don’t know what’s normal. You’re probably just jumpy.
‘I know what I saw.’
‘Of course. And it’s always better to be safe. You did the right thing by calling.’ He closes his notebook. ‘I’ll make a note of this in case anything else happens. But there’s no evidence of trespass or attempted break-in. Your house is secure.’
‘So that’s it?’
‘Unless there’s something else you’d like to add?’
The question hangs there. Open. Inviting. Like he knows there’s more to this story than shapes in the darkness. Like he can see straight through my lies to the mess underneath.
I should tell him about the notes, the ring, the way someone has been terrifying me for a short while. A proper officer would investigate. Would take it seriously. Maybe he would even figure out who’s doing this before they escalate further.
But telling him means explaining why those notes matter. Means revealing what I did, risking everything I’ve built here on the possibility that he might help instead of ruin me.
‘No,’ I hear myself say. ‘Nothing else.’
He watches me for a moment longer than necessary.
Then nods. ‘Right then. I’ll file the report and increase patrols in the area.
If you see anything else suspicious, call immediately.
Don’t wait. And consider getting some security lighting installed.
Motion sensors can be quite effective as deterrents. ’
‘Thank you.’
He moves towards the front door and I follow, relieved this is ending. That I’ve managed to call for help without incriminating myself. That Officer Harvey will leave and I can go back to managing this alone.
But at the door, he pauses.
‘Ms Reynolds,’ he says, his tone shifting. ‘How did your husband pass?’
My pulse spikes. ‘There was a fire. At home.’
‘Hmm.’ He’s studying me now with more focus. ‘Thought you looked familiar. I remember seeing your face on the news.’
The room tilts. I grip the doorframe to steady myself.
‘Okay,’ I manage. ‘But that was private. A family matter.’
‘Of course. My apologies.’ But his expression says he’s still working through it. Still trying to put things together. ‘Terrible thing. Can’t imagine what you went through.’
‘It was difficult.’
‘I’m sure.’ He pulls a card from his pocket and hands it to me. ‘My direct number’s on there. Don’t hesitate to use it if you need anything. We look after our residents in East Hampton.’
The way he says ‘residents’ makes it sound conditional. Like I’m only barely qualified for the designation. Like he’s watching to see if I’ll prove myself worthy or reveal myself as the problem I actually am.
‘Thank you,’ I say again, taking the card.
He gives a final nod and walks to his car. I watch from the doorway as he gets in, makes some notes on his laptop, then drives away. The street returns to silence. To darkness broken only by my blazing windows.
Inside, I lock the door and test it twice, but it doesn’t make me feel safer.
Because he recognised me. Or recognised my name. Or at least sensed there was something familiar about the story of Kelly Reynolds and her dead husband and that fire that made the news.
How much does he know? How much will he remember once he goes back to the precinct and starts searching databases? How long before he connects the tragic widow at number seven with whatever information exists about that night?
I stay frozen in the hallway, Officer Harvey’s card in my hand, and try to work out if calling the police was the stupidest thing I’ve done or the only sensible option I had left.
Both, probably.
The night passes without sleep. I move through the house in circuits. Every sound makes me jump. Every shadow feels significant. The fear that had eased with a police officer in my house has returned doubled, tripled, because now I’ve put myself on their radar.
Now they’re watching too.
By dawn, I’m exhausted but wired. I make tea and stand watching the sky lighten from black to grey to the pale wash of early morning. The back yard looks innocent in daylight. Empty. Just grass and borders and a fence that shows no evidence of anyone having stood near it.
Maybe Officer Harvey was right. Maybe I did imagine it. Maybe exhaustion and isolation and constant fear have finally tipped me into seeing things that aren’t there.
The doorbell rings at seven in the morning.
Too early for casual visitors. I’m not anticipating deliveries. I approach the door with my heart already racing, expecting… something. Police again. The intruder. Caroline with more questions.
Through the peeper, I see Richard.
Relief makes me weak. I open the door.
‘I heard,’ he says without preamble. ‘Police car at your house last night. Are you all right?’
‘How did you—’
‘Emma texted me. She saw the car. Word spreads fast here.’ He’s looking good in his work suit. ‘What happened?’
‘I thought I saw someone outside. I called the police. They came and checked but found nothing.’
‘Found nothing?’
‘No evidence of anyone being there.’
He steps inside without being invited, closing the door behind him. ‘But you’re sure you saw someone?’
‘I thought I did. But maybe I was wrong. The officer seemed to think I’d just seen shadows or something.’
‘Kelly. Look at me.’
I do. His brown eyes are full of concern.
‘You’re not sleeping. You’re barely eating. You’re seeing things that may or may not be there. This isn’t sustainable.’
‘I know.’
‘Then let me help. Please. Whatever’s going on, don’t deal with it alone.’
The offer is so kind it almost breaks me. But accepting help means explaining. Means risking the one good thing I have left.
‘I can’t,’ I whisper.
He’s quiet for a moment. Then he reaches out and pulls me into a hug. I stiffen initially, then allow myself to sink into it. To let his warmth surround me. To pretend for just a second that I’m someone who deserves this kindness.
‘I’m worried about you,’ he murmurs into my hair.
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘No, you won’t. Not like this.’ He pulls back a little, keeping his hands on my shoulders. ‘The police being here last night – that’s going to make things worse. You know that, right? The town will be talking. Caroline will have questions. It’ll escalate the gossip.’
I hadn’t thought about that, or considered how calling for help would make me look more suspicious rather than less. More unhinged rather than more reasonable.
‘What do I do?’ The question comes out small. Desperate.
‘You could start by trusting me. By telling me what’s really going on.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because if I tell you, you’ll leave. And I can’t lose you too.’
The admission slips out before I can stop it. Raw and honest and more revealing than anything I’ve said to him before.
Richard’s expression softens. ‘Kelly. Whatever you think I’ll do – whatever you’re afraid of – I’m not going anywhere.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘You don’t know what I’ve done.’
The words hang between us. Heavy. Damning. I watch his face, waiting for the realisation to dawn. For the kindness to curdle into suspicion. For him to step back and away and out of my life before the truth has a chance to stain him too.
But he doesn’t move.
‘Everyone’s done things they regret,’ he says quietly. ‘Everyone has secrets they’d rather keep buried. Whatever yours is, it won’t make me walk away from this.’
‘It might.’
‘Then tell me and let me decide.’
The invitation sits there. Open. Genuine. One last chance to let someone in before the walls close completely. But I can’t risk it. Can’t bear to watch his face change when he learns the truth about that night. About Daniel.
About what I did or didn’t do or should have done differently.
‘Not yet,’ I say instead. ‘Please. Just… not yet.’
He looks at me, then nods. ‘Okay. But soon. Because this…’ He gestures at the house, at me, at the whole mess of it. ‘This can’t continue.’
‘I know.’
‘Promise me you’ll try to rest today.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘That’s not good enough.’
‘It’s the best I can do.’
He sighs, then leans forward and kisses my forehead. It’s the sort of kiss you give someone you’re trying to save.
‘I have to go to work,’ he says. ‘But I’ll check in later. And Kelly? If anything else happens – anything at all – you call me first. Before the police. Understood?’
I nod, not trusting my voice.
After he leaves, I stand in the empty hallway and try to work out how much longer I can keep this up. How many more nights of no sleep and phantom intruders and police visits before everything falls apart completely.
Not long, probably.
But for now, I have Richard’s kiss on my forehead and his promise that he’s not going anywhere.
It’s not much.
But it’s all I have.