He laughed softly. ‘If I had a nickel for every time I heard that . . .’

‘But I am! I’m, I’m only nineteen!’

I knew that wouldn’t count, that some states sentenced children to death, younger than me. I was an adult in the eyes of the law, even if I wore kids’ shoes and ate Lucky Charms for breakfast.

The guard passed me a paper cup of water through a hatch in the bars, then shuffled back to his chair and raised his newspaper. On the front was a picture of Madison in one of her pageant costumes, made up and smiling. I started to shake, so hard the water splashed over my jumpsuit. Madison was dead. She would never smile or laugh or wet the bed again. She had lived only five years of her life. That was an abomination.

I sat on the bunk until the shaking stopped. I tried to tell myself a trial was exactly that, a way to find out the truth. They would look at me, small, young, British – they loved us Brits over here – and they would see straight away that I couldn’t possibly have murdered a child. I had saved Carson! I had protected his soft body, squirming against mine, as I hid in the walk-in cupboard and held my breath and prayed he wouldn’t cry. I had called the police. I had saved us both. And now here I was.

I wondered where Carson was now. Would they give him to Ruth, his aunt? I couldn’t imagine her cuddling anyone, or remembering which soft toy was his favourite, or singing him Spice Girls songs to get him to sleep. Poor Carson. Poor Madison. Poor David. Poor Abby, and poor me! I just had to hope the jury would see the truth.

I wondered if Jenna had come, if she was on a flight right now. She had said so little on the garbled phone call I’d been allowed after my arrest, breathless with hysteria.

They think I did it, Mum! I don’t know what to do! I need a lawyer!