Dear Diary,

Chaos. It was sheer chaos. I don’t know how my mind kept ordering my body to do things, but somehow, while black waves of hate and fury crashed and broke inside my brain, my limbs worked. I took the dog. Got in the car. Drove away from where I’d left her after it was over. Headed back onto the empty highway and turned east toward the coast. Somehow I ended up on the verge of an abandoned parking lot outside a closed-down factory, I didn’t even know where it was. Blistering sun baking the asphalt. Dead grass and old brown bottles smashed and scattered. I sat on the edge of the lot and gripped my head. Rocked. Made noises. I couldn’t bring my breathing rate down. My heart was hammering in my neck and temples, the sheer force of my blood thrumming through my veins making my skull feel like it was being squeezed. With every beat the thought came.

I killed a girl. I killed a girl. I killed a girl.

There was a crushing inevitability to it. A kind of relief. I’d always known that one day it was going to get out of control. Maybe not this out of control. But perhaps that had been my mistake—I should have let it out in little gasps, pressure released from a shuddering, shaking, blistering hot valve. Now a girl was dead. I sat on the ground and felt the world turning under me, tried to get a grip.

When the grip came it was just that—a foothold after frantic hours of floundering, drowning in the dark. I had to be smart now. I looked at the car, the animal curled in the passenger seat, visible through the open driver’s-side door. Time to be measured. Careful. Whatever happened next, it needed to be on my terms. No one was going to take control from me again. I had to think.

Get rid of the dog. Kill it.

No, I wouldn’t kill it. I couldn’t kill again, not now, not with exhaustion rapidly taking over from the fury. If I hurt the thing and it got away from me, someone would find it, might find it even if I could bring myself to finish the deed. I’d drop it at the RSPCA. It wasn’t far. They didn’t ask questions. The sun was setting. They’d be closed now. Simple. Easy. No mess.

I dumped the dog and drove back toward home, didn’t even look at Penny’s house, turned my head right away, shielded my eyes as I ran to the front door. Chloe was in the living room, the television on, uni papers spread all over the floor. She slammed a textbook closed at the sight of me.

“Jesus Christ!” She tried to take my arms. The scratches. The girl had fought hard. “What happened?”

“I got a flat tire on the ute.” I tore away from her, headed for the bathroom, tried to keep my voice level. “I stopped by the side of the road and slipped. Fell down into a ditch.”

“Oh my god, are you—”

“I’m fine, Chloe! Fucking hell, would you just leave me the fuck alone! Every time I come in the door you’re all over me!”

I slammed the bathroom door in her face, spat more vitriol at her from the other side of it as I washed my slashed arms and neck. My thoughts were still racing. The flat tire story. That wasn’t smart. She’d expect a new one on the ute now, the unused spare. I’d have to wait until she went to bed, go out and change it, puncture the old one. The ute. I should get rid of it. I’d parked behind the bushes when I first saw the girl, but it’s possible someone saw me drive off after I’d knocked her out and loaded her into the back. Maybe someone saw me crossing the back roads. I shouldn’t get rid of it too quickly or without warning. We’d only just obtained it. Nothing suspicious now. No stupid moves. I had to be careful. They’d be looking for someone who talked about the case a lot. Someone who changed their appearance suddenly. Acted weird.

Chloe was upset, sulking at my outburst. Good. I’d let her be mad at me for the rest of the evening, blessed silence. I’d make out like I had a concussion from rolling into the ditch. I’d crawl into bed and stay there.

The night seemed to pass in years. Chloe came and went. Said things. I didn’t listen. Lay on my side of the bed pretending to sleep, counting off the times my mind repeated the hellish words.

I killed a girl. I killed a girl. I killed a girl.

I awakened from a half sleep the next day at noon, forgetting all about the tires. Nightmares. I’d had to explain the fever, the sweats, the twitching by saying I was suddenly sick. Chloe bought it. Of course she did. She returned in the afternoon, slamming the screen door like she always did, probably coming home from being up the street buying me chicken soup ingredients. Doing her best to care for me like I really was sick. I didn’t move. Listened as she switched the television on, the blanket pulled up over my head.

 … found alive this morning by a driver traveling on the Hume Highway at Menangle at around six a.m. Police say they’re searching for a man in connection with the child’s abduction and sexual assault, and are appealing to members of the public to …

I shot upright in bed and ran to the door to the lounge room. Images of police cars, an ambulance, an empty field lined by wire. Some small blond guy and his wife now in a police conference room, both crying, shaking, giving thanks to police for searching for their little girl through the night. Relief and terror. The girl’s parents.

She was alive.