I turned my back to the locked door and surveyed the small room, looking at it with new eyes. I had no tools with which to prise the wooden boards from the windows and no weapon of any obvious kind. I walked over to my desk. A small black pot held my pens and pencils, a sharpener and a ruler. I picked up a pen, made a stabbing motion with it. I imagined stabbing Mother and my insides clenched.

Despite the warmth of the room, cold chilled my bones. I pulled off the bloodstained brown dress and changed into a black doll dress with scarlet roses embroidered over the chest. I hated to wear one of her doll dresses again, but I had to get away from the blood.

The dress was so tight that I could barely draw breath, so I reached up behind my neck and ripped a tear down the back of the dress. The tearing sound was intensely satisfying. I stood in front of the mirror and craned my head round to look at the damage I had done to the dress. Mother would be mad, but if things went my way, she would have little chance to react to what I’d done. I pulled on a fresh pair of knickers and a pair of black tights that I found in the back of the wardrobe. My body grew warm. Panic fluttered in my chest as I turned my attention back to the pot of pens and pencils.

I sat down at the desk and began to write a letter to my real parents, Jane and Peter Dalton. I wrote the word ‘Dear’ then paused, unsure what to call them. They were my mother and father, but it seemed odd to use those words. It seemed too familiar, yet they were my family. They were my real mother and father. I thought about the police. They would probably be first to find the letter, which meant I had to make it very clear who the letter was addressed to. I scrunched up the paper and grabbed a fresh sheet. This time I began ‘Dear Jane and Peter’. Tears filled my eyes. I told myself not to over-think the words.

I wrote for two hours. Wrote until I heard the car pull up to the cottage.

I folded the letter up and tucked it down inside my tights, wrapping it around the bandage on my right foot.

She was back.

I grabbed my fountain pen, lay down on the bed and dug my teeth into my left wrist, tasting blood.

Chapter 37

I heard rather than saw Mother open the door. She stepped into the room. The door creaked and knocked against the wall.

Mother didn’t move towards the bed. I caught a faint whiff of orange-blossom moisturizer.

‘Mirabelle?’ her voice was quiet.

I managed not to flinch when she took a step forward. I kept my eyes closed and focused on listening to her movements.