A nurse gave me Chloe’s things in a sealed bag — her torn sweatshirt, and, caught beneath the fabric where it had been missed, a small, stiff, bloodstained scrap of paper.

Three names were written on it, in my daughter’s own hand.

I understood, later, that she had managed to write them in the moments before she lost consciousness, so that whatever happened to her, the truth would not be lost.

That is the kind of person my daughter is.

Even then.

Even broken.

She left a record.

Chad Kensington.