Jochem had signed off, Best intentions, J.

Best intentions. I liked that. It was what I’d had, back then, when I tried to care for those poor children. It’s what I’d had in Coldwater, starting my life over, rescuing neglected and abused dogs, and yet no matter what I did, I always seemed to end up back where I started – fighting to clear my name.

I emailed back, thanking Jochem and asking if there was any way he could find out who had sold the story of my real identity to the press. Someone must have, and if I knew anything about the British press, whoever it was would have been well paid for outing me. Was it the same person who’d left my name on the fridge, or someone else, trying to make some quick money? Who did I know who really needed cash? Everyone, really.

It was amazing he’d already found so much out, when the police had totally failed to trace Marietta back then. Jochem truly was a wizard of the dark arts of the internet. How could I ever thank him? If only I’d had him on my side during my trial, I might never have been convicted. I stared out the window at the passing scenery, the green curves of the hills and flashes of blue water, which for once left me cold, my hands twitching with nervous energy.

We were passing through the next town over from Coldwater, little more than a village really, a place called Holmdale. As the bus paused for a moment at the stop, I glanced out at the main street, and froze. Someone I knew had just come out of a chippy there, a styrofoam carton in hand. Someone who should not have been here at all, who should have been hundreds of miles away.

Jeremy.

Casey

Casey

NOVEMBER 2000

The lawyer looked at me over the table. He had old-fashioned glasses, with clear rims, and coffee breath. He was sixty, maybe. Even his name was old-fashioned: Garrett Cooper the Third. So American. I could tell he had no idea how to even approach me, in my too-big clothes, shivering with shock and the cold of the police station. He’d been sent by the nanny agency that hired me, Little Helpers. They were understandably terrified of the bad publicity. One of their employees accused of murdering the entire family she worked for – it didn’t exactly look good.

‘I don’t understand,’ I said again.

I felt so stupid, like my brain wasn’t working. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten or been to the loo. My stomach felt like it was dissolving in acid fear and hunger.

‘I don’t know how else to say it, Miss Adams,’ the lawyer said. ‘This is a death-penalty state, and it’s certainly on the table for a crime of this magnitude.’

‘But . . . it’s California!’