‘Don’t you have files on this stuff? Denni King, Miss Ellis’s niece, was Bree’s best friend. Ever since Denni died, she gets angry – really angry. They told her it’s post-traumatic stress. I don’t know how many times she’s been suspended since Denni died.’

Con and Gabriella glanced at each other.

‘You did know that, right?’ said Madison slowly.

Con shrugged, not liking how this girl kept him on the back foot. ‘We’re still reviewing information.’

It might’ve been in the files Coops sent, but he couldn’t remember reading it. Surely the social worker would have mentioned it.

‘You didn’t know about Bree’s PTS?’ Anger crept into Madison’s voice. ‘Have you done any research? It’s not a secret: Bree tells anyone who will listen.’

‘You mentioned in your video that you had footage of Bree,’ said Gabriella quickly. ‘Could we see that before you upload it?’

‘If you have to,’ she said, her voice still heated. ‘I was midway through editing it when you arrived. All I can do is these videos. You know, something that actually helps?’

‘Well, actually —’ began Con, but Gabriella kicked him. He had been thinking of the chaos her last video had caused up at the track.

They followed Madison to her bedroom: a bright and open space, tidy and clean, boasting a king-sized bed with plush birds lined up along the pillow. A large computer screen stood on a desk against the wall, video-editing software open.

Madison sat down at the desk. ‘We filmed this last year . . . a lot has changed since then.’

She played the video. Bree sat in front of a black backdrop. She wore no make-up, her blonde hair was scruffy and loose around her face, and her pale eyes were full of anger.

‘My name is Bree Wilkins . . . and this is my spoken word.’

A steady drum beat played in the background. The video cut to another angle: Bree’s face blurred, then sharpened back into focus. The production was artsy and sleek. A guitar riff began, and so did Bree’s performance:

‘Some days it’s like I’ll feel only one of three things:

hollow or lifeless or like I’m covered in stings

from the clothes I have to wear,

the smile on my face that won’t compare

with the smile on the screen

from an Instagram Queen.

I can’t pretend I don’t feel bad about my waist,

but maybe there’s more than how much food is on my plate

to make me feel like I’m not beneath the Queen Bee,

maybe I can be Queen Bree without needing to kill me —’

Gabriella glanced at Con, eyebrows raised. He kept watching the screen.

‘If people get near me, they’ll be infected too:

then they’ll hate me as much as I do —’

Abruptly, the video ended in a black screen.