Gabriella tapped her chin in thought. ‘In one of her YouTube videos, Madison had “the word is kundela” written on her sleeping bag . . . Maybe it’s just harmless pranks like flashing your underwear, but if it became more than that . . .’ She paused. ‘Were you aware that Denni was cutting herself?

‘I know . . . the coroner’s report said Denni had scars . . . What does that have to do with —’

Gabriella looked away, talking to herself again. ‘The Honcho Dori Club was a precursor to this Kundela Game. When Madison realised she could get people to do what she wanted, she got a taste for it . . . But who would have put a Hungry Man warding statue in her room?’

‘Hungry Man?’ Eliza shuddered. ‘What does that have to do with it? What’s a Honcho Dori?’

‘Do you want me to make us coffee first? This might be hard.’

An hour later, Eliza was still scrolling through the screenshots of the Honcho Dori Club group chat on Gabriella’s phone. She felt sick.

Gabriella sipped her second cup of coffee, deep in thought.

Eliza was a teacher – she knew how teenagers worked. She could easily read between the lines of the ‘messages of support’, seeing the hints of approval each time a self-harm wound was sufficiently large:

Wow, u must be in so much pain, ur so strong

Damn bitch, don’t blunt the knife lmao, you need to be kind to yourself girl

I wish I was as strong as you sis

And then the messages of slight derision from someone nicknamed Honcho if someone’s wound wasn’t deep enough:

Looks like you are recovering

A band-aid will cover that up

Not much blood on that one. You must have wiped the blood away already, hope it didn’t get on your school skirt

Dare you to cut deeper next time. Really feel it.

Both subtly and overtly, Honcho was encouraging self-harm, and the others were following suit.

Honcho had to be Madison’s username.

Eliza recognised the photos of Denni’s arm, from the freckles and skintone, and then by the photos of a knife that even now was in the kitchen drawer of this house. She was VoodooQueen.

She had yet to decipher the other usernames; she wasn’t sure she wanted to. The only consolation was that VoodooQueen’s photos became less severe over time, demonstrating a semblance of recovery, even as the other girls’ comments seemed to be trying to egg her on.

C’mon, VoodooQueen, anyone would think you weren’t feeling anything anymore.

Aren’t you strong enough for the Honcho Dori Club, VoodooQueen?

‘What does Honcho Dori even mean?’ whispered Eliza.