Shaking, remembering the feeling of Wren’s little arm snapping in her hands – I’m so sorry, Wren – she used the kitchen scissors to cut her hair in the bathroom mirror to roughly the same length as Monica’s, sweeping up the hair and dumping it in the bin. She took the cheese grater and raked some lines down her cheek and forehead. She winced at the sharp pain, the hot blood trickling down her face, but she’d successfully disguised the forehead wound she’d sustained up in the mountain.

Now she slipped her glasses off and put them in the pocket of her dress.

She looked more like Monica than herself, now. Or at least, enough to fool anyone who came to the house. The sight of blood would go a long way to keeping them from thinking rationally, and they’d hopefully jump to the conclusion Eliza wanted them to.

She took a tea towel and tied it around her mouth, then used a zip tie from under the sink to bind her wrists together, using her teeth to pull it tight with some difficulty around the loose gag.

She walked to the front door, her vision blurry without her glasses. She pushed over the entrance stand, including the glass vase of purple tulips on top, and laid herself down in the puddle of water and petals.

Before long she heard a car pull up outside.

CHAPTER 48

CON

Con searched the little crooked cottage, but Eliza was nowhere. Her car wasn’t outside either.

Murphy appeared next to him, the side of his head bleeding down into his beard. ‘She’s gone.’

‘We need to talk to Monica,’ said Con, leading the way to his car. ‘I can’t think of anyone else who would know what’s going on with Eliza.’

‘Why did you come here?’ said Murphy, as Con started the car and pulled out.

‘Bree’s dad thought he saw Eliza at the Hanging Tree days ago – on the morning we now believe Bree died.’

‘You think Eliza’s involved?’

‘She handcuffed Butch to a bed and hit you with a cricket bat,’ said Con. ‘Obviously she’s involved.’

They drove through the centre of Limestone Creek to Monica’s house. There were people everywhere: walking their dogs, chatting over low fences, actual lemonade stands set up by kids capitalising on the carnival of people who had flocked to the town these past few days. Spring had drawn out the red waratahs, riots of yellow daffodils and multicoloured tulips in the garden beds. TV crews from all over the world were interviewing people on street corners. It was like a sick festival.

Con felt he was the only one who could put a stop to it. He had to find Eliza. He had to solve this puzzle.

Finally they reached Monica’s house, and before Con could even pull the handbrake Murphy stepped out of the BMW and headed towards the front door.