Maybe that was why the hammer was on the back seat. She’d used it two days before to fix the fence at her parents’ house – her dad was useless at that kind of thing – and left it in the car when she was done.

Either way, there it was.

It happened almost as though she was in a dream. Everything fell into place. The girl, the hammer, the sudden realization of what she had to do.

And when it was done she finally understood who – what – she was.

She didn’t sleep that night. She lay awake, content – satiated – for the first time in her life.

It didn’t last. The emptiness came back and the hunger grew. This time, though, she knew what to do about it. The relief was boundless.

The second time was not as good as the first. How could it be? The first was perfection. But it was still blissful. It still worked. As had the next, and the others after that.

And now she needed to kill again. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow.

She took a bite of the sandwich. It was good; her hunger abated.

But only her hunger for food. The deeper hunger – the real hunger, the hunger that defined her – remained.

She tidied up the plate, then cleaned the table. She couldn’t stand mess; it was why she had hated the dog her parents had brought home when she was a teenager. It wandered around shedding hair and sniffing things and licking her hands.

Fortunately it was stupid, like all dogs, so it happily devoured the meat she had laced with rat poison. She told her parents it had eaten something toxic – mushrooms were the main suspect – and they had held a twee little ceremony for it.

Like she gave a shit about the dog. She didn’t understand how anybody cared about an animal. It was ridiculous, and she could barely hide her contempt for her parents as they placed a rock with Allie – the dog’s name – on it in a corner of the yard. She had the feeling they were doing it for her, to help her grieve the loss of her beloved pet.

They needn’t have bothered.

She checked her work schedule. She was due in at 7 p.m.; her shift would wrap up around midnight, and then – her stomach clenched in anticipation – she would find and kill number seven.

There was a knock on the front door, then it swung open. Her mum walked in.

‘Hi,’ she said. She seemed tense and nervous. Her eyes were red. She’d been crying, Andrea assumed.

‘G’day Mum,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

‘I came because – your dad and I want to talk to you.’

‘I was at your place yesterday. Is something up?’