I tried to concentrate on my other senses, since my ears and eyes were overwhelmed. Touch – the female guard gripping my shoulder like a vice, as if I could run away with handcuffs biting into my wrists. They were heavy, and my forearms already ached. Taste – sour fear in my throat, my tongue dry from the hot van ride from prison. And smell – the heat of an LA day, petrol from the TV vans surrounding the courthouse, and my own terrified sweat. They were all dead – David, Abby, Madison. I had been accused of their murders, a triple murder, including a child. And California had the death penalty.

My legs buckled under me and the guard grunted in annoyance, dragging me upright. Then she pressed down on my head and pushed me through the crowd of reporters. Even in my panic, struggling to get each petrol-soaked breath into my lungs, I could see the irony. It was exactly what Jenna had told me to visualise as I was growing up: One day you’ll have a crowd of press all calling your name. Except I wasn’t on the red carpet. I was being taken to court for an arraignment, after three days of non-stop questioning by police. It was just a formality. Then I’d go back to prison to await my trial, and if found guilty, I might get the death penalty. I might die for this.

The holding cells were deep in the courthouse, so at least the noise of the crowd faded to a dull hum. I sat on a crackly blue mattress and felt the heat of the van’s stuffy metal interior evaporate from my body, leaving me shivering. I was wearing the familiar orange jumpsuit I’d seen on TV, that people back home sometimes bought as a Halloween costume. Halloween had been and gone, just after the murders, a fact made much of in the press, that such horrific killings had taken place in a city full of skeletons and fake blood and ghouls. But this was real.

The jumpsuit was too big for me, so I’d rolled up the arms and legs, and underneath I wore plain white cotton underwear, a bra that didn’t fit, with no wire in it. Someone else’s clothes, washed many times, reeking of industrial laundry detergent. It’s strange how helpless it makes you feel, not wearing a stitch that is actually yours. The suit smelled of someone else’s sweat, and the ‘sneakers’ for my feet were also too big. I could still wear child’s sizes. My female guard had signed me over to a male one. He was large and slow. All the guards were slow, as if their brains were fried by the heat. He was chewing gum and ambled over to the bars of the cell to look in on me.

‘Well, well, quite the crowd for you outside, little lady.’

My teeth were chattering. ‘I’m innocent.’