People she’d love to kill…

1. Elaine. For rearranging her Sylvanian Families display and pretending it was “accidental”.
2. The postman. For staring at her stomach like it might blink.
3. Every single reporter crouched behind the hedges. Simply for being there.
4. AJ. Already ticked off. Twice, just for good measure.

She sighs.

Rhiannon Lewis is bored. Catatonically, murderously bored. And, even worse, she can’t kill anyone right now, which is part of the problem. AJ’s stupid little sperm has ruined that for her. There’s something about being a host to another human that’s made her…slow. Not soft, she’s not lost all sense of self yet, but definitely slower.

It’s been days since she’s left the house. Not for lack of trying, not entirely, anyway, but it‘s hard to storm the streets when your ankles are swollen, your bump is ballooning, and the front garden is infested with reporters like rats in a bin. She can’t even walk her own dog. Tink’s been scratching at the door for days and Elaine, saint that she is, already has her hands full fending off journalists and reheating food for what remains of her family now that her son is in jail.

That’s when she notices you.

Craig’s mum had mentioned you over dinner a few nights ago, something about a sweet girl from two streets over. She hadn’t been listening at the time, too focused on stabbing her roast potato with a fork. “She offered to walk Tink, poor thing,” Elaine said, “since you’ve been…Well, you know” Housebound. Bloated. Miserable. In mourning.

Now you’ve got Tink’s leash looped around your wrist, and Rhiannon watches from the window, chin propped on the armrest and thinks: You’ll do.

Here’s the thing: Rhiannon isn’t just bored. She’s hormonal. Horny hormonal. Pregnant, psychotic, and banned from killing. The worst possible combination for a serial killer. The baby has somehow hitched itself to whatever part of her brain used to enjoy recreational violence, and now all that heat has to go somewhere.

When you ring the bell, still holding the leash, Rhiannon is already halfway through inventing a story about how you will know each other.

“Hi,” she says as she opens the door, tracking your movements like a hawk. “Thanks for walking her. You’re a lifesaver. What’s your name again?”