Her twin sister, Monica, had brought her a bag of clothes, as well as toiletries and make-up and jewellery. Monica was waiting, right now, out on Eliza’s bed. It had been easy to pack Eliza a bag – most of Eliza’s things were at Monica’s house already. Ever since Denni had killed herself, Eliza had been living with Monica and her husband, Tom.

Eliza dried herself slowly, looking over her scrapes and bruises. She dressed. Underwear, make-up, clothes, jewellery.

She stood before herself, feeling a little renewed. She wore her spare glasses – round-wire rims, big and retro. She wore a grey knit sweater, blue jeans, flats. Gold hoop earrings. The nurse still wanted to re-dress the wound on the back of her head, but she felt a little more normal. Just in so much pain.

No matter what anyone says, it’s all my fault.

She examined the cut over her brow, a butterfly stitch holding it in place. She dabbed more foundation over the bruise on her cheek. She wanted to hide what had happened to her – she didn’t deserve the sympathy.

She thought of Wren – Monica’s little girl. Then she thought of her and Monica’s older sister Kiera, who was Denni’s mother. Denni, with her underage tattoos and her sense of humour and her long brown side-braid.

Denni, who had killed herself on the Hanging Tree almost a year ago, the discovery of her body streamed live on the internet.

Denni, who had been like a daughter to Eliza.

Guilt. Indecision. What should she tell them?

Use your tools, Eliza, she thought. The tools the therapist had given her, to help her work through the insurmountable grief of losing Denni. Use your permission slips.

She had a small hospital notebook that the nurse had procured for her. She wrote:

I give permission for Eliza Ellis to be strong today, to not feel guilty, and to work her hardest to find the missing girls.

Signed, E. Ellis

She ripped it out and tucked it into the frame of the mirror. A token to leave behind. Signing a permission slip for herself was an intention-setting exercise she now swore by, a technique that had worked well for her this past year.

A knock on the bathroom door. ‘You okay in there, Eliza?’ It was Monica.

‘You have permission to be strong,’ she told herself in the mirror. ‘You will find the girls. You’ll fix this.’

She opened the door. Her identical twin sister, with the shorter haircut and the unbruised face and the watering eyes. Monica hugged her tight. She smelled like cinnamon and roses. ‘Shhh, it’s okay . . . we’ll find them . . .’

The familiar nurse walked into the room. When she was done re-bandaging Eliza’s head, she pulled a leopard-print headscarf out of her pocket.

‘I brought this in from home this morning, poor love. It’ll cover both this bandage and the butterfly stitch.’