She heard a voice calling, gruff and angry. Not Tom.

She fled down the wallaby trail, towards Fisherman’s Hut. She swung the rifle over her shoulder and turned her torch back on, smothering the beam with her hand, leaving enough light to show the twisting roots and erosion holes.

The trail opened onto a clearing of rocks and soil and leaf matter.

Someone was already at the hut.

Her torch beam lit up the figure, who stood in front of the hut’s open door, back towards her, silhouetted in the rain. She dropped the torch from her numb fingers and it rolled on the ground, lighting up the trees, lighting up the figure. It turned and look at her.

She screamed. The figure was tall and dark as oil, with a head far, far too big for its body.

Terror flooded her. The person had no face.

A person as big as a bear . . .

She screamed again and reached for the rifle. A noise came from the figure, dark and deep and inhuman.

She backed away, levelling the rifle with shaking hands.

‘Stay away from me!’

The figure moved towards her, raising its arms, and at the same moment footsteps crashed down the trail right behind her.

Eliza fired.

The sound was like thunder.

The figure clutched its side and dropped to the ground. Eliza spun and pointed the rifle at whoever was chasing her down the path.

‘Stay back!’

Torchlight shone into her face, blinding her.

‘Eliza!’ It was Murphy’s voice. ‘Don’t shoot!’

Her knees buckled.

He caught her around the shoulders and eased the rifle out of her grip. ‘Eliza! What happened? Are you alright? Are the girls here? Tom said you thought —’

She heard muffled shouting from the hut behind her. Murphy snatched up her torch from the ground, far stronger than his phone’s flashlight. She saw the figure on the ground . . . its abnormally large head . . .

It was someone in motorcycle leathers and a matte black helmet.

‘Oh no,’ gasped Eliza.

‘Badenhorst! Down here!’ roared Murphy. ‘Jack’s been shot.’

‘Jack?’ whispered Eliza. ‘Oh no . . . oh no, oh no, oh no . . .’ She slumped and Murphy held her upright.

Detective Con Badenhorst came crashing out of the wallaby trail, his own torch in hand, his white linen shirt torn. ‘What happened?’ he shouted. Not waiting for an answer, he ran to Jack, easing the helmet off his head.

All the overlapping torch beams made the scene shift and dance, making crazy shapes in the trees around the clearing. Eliza couldn’t believe what she’d done. ‘I’m so sorry, Jack. Oh no, oh no, I’m so sorry, Jack, no . . .’

Con clamped his phone between his shoulder and his ear. ‘Gabriella, call an ambulance. Jack Michaels has been shot, down by Lake Mackenzie. We’re off the road. We cannot afford to lose him.’

‘No,’ Jack groaned. ‘Don’t bring anyone else . . .’