Page 27

I watch my blood trickle to the tiles: three bright strings spooling on the white floor, my stuffing escaping. I allow the puddle to creep across two tiles, and then sop it up with my towel. It keeps flowing as I squirt on ethanol, savouring the fresh, burning sting.

Cutting helps me get back in the moment. It grounds me. When people talk about meditation and mindfulness, I know exactly what they mean. And looking at my scars reminds me that I have suffered, and I’ve never ever turned my pain outwards onto other people. Only in.

I hold my hand steady as I follow the cuts with superglue, enjoying the pain like a song. Glue stops the bleeding and reduces scarring. If only I’d learned about it earlier.

I stand slowly even though I haven’t bled enough for it to be an issue. All the same, I drink a glass of water before dabbing myself clean. I wipe the floor and rinse the towel. Only men think it’s hard to remove blood from fabric.

Once clean, I straighten my dress and walk out. The bedroom is stuffy.

The dinner bell rings. I have to talk to my family and get a straight answer about whether or not they’ve seen or heard from Jenna. I have to make sure I’ve ticked that box so I can call the police. But I feel sick at the prospect.

I try to tell myself I’m being ridiculous. That we’re such a close family. I know my father can be mean, but it’s not that bad, is it?

It is though. I know it is.

But mostly he’s generous, solid, strong. You wouldn’t choose to live in the same house as your parents well into adulthood if you didn’t like them, would you? And yet there are times when I wish I could escape.

This wouldn’t be happening if I’d moved away.

I know I should go down but I hurry up the narrow stairs to Jenna’s room, telling myself again that maybe she’s snuck up without anyone noticing, wanting to feel close to her. As I push through, my phone pings with a message from Mr Whitlow. He’s just asking if I’ve spoken to my parents. I tell him I’m just about to and that the twins say Rose has been bullying Jenna, and he says he’s sorry and will investigate.

I slide my phone away and look up and freeze, fear slicing through me, but it’s only the damned velvet spider again. I stare at its unseeing eyes then drag the chair from the desk and stand on it and take it down. I throw it in her wardrobe, and I’m about to shut the door when I see her costume stuffed on top of her shoes in a tangle, layers of black and purple chiffon.

Had she planned not to go to the rehearsal today?

I tug it out and stare at the skirt I rehemmed just last night to her horror. If only I hadn’t done it. If only I’d listened. Was this why she hadn’t come home tonight?

It can’t be. It’s six centimetres of sheer gauze and a metre of thread. I toss it back and drag the chair to the desk and somehow knock over her bin. Paper and hairbrush fuzz and crisp packets fall out. I scoop it all back in, set it straight, and then I see the necklace.

It’s a gold chain, the pendant a red stone circled with a plain gold band. It’s Ava’s, another of her birthday presents from Tristan. She must’ve lent it to Jenna. But why was it in the bin?