As I headed back to the flat, breaking into a light jog, I suddenly wondered. What if I’d misinterpreted what Anna had said to me that day outside the shop? I don’t want you near him, she’d shouted. But it suddenly occurred to me there were two people she could have meant. Sam had been in the car, had she glanced over at him as she said it? Knowing who I was, Racy Casey, what I had supposedly done in America, did she actually mean she wanted me to stay away from her son? After all, Sam was the same age as Madison had been, when someone suffocated the life out of her.

Casey

Casey

JUNE 2001

Prison was so much louder than I could have imagined. A constant echoing cacophony of metal doors, keys in locks, rattled bars, and women shouting and screaming. They knew a new inmate was arriving. Fresh meat. And they knew what I’d supposedly done.

‘Baby killer!’ someone hissed, as I was led down a corridor, and a fresh gob of spit landed just near the white laceless sneakers they’d given me. I cowered, and the female guard who was dragging me along sighed.

‘Gonna have to toughen up, Blondie.’

I was in a nightmare, except I couldn’t wake up. Going to court, awaiting trial, that had been bad enough, but I’d been so sure that justice would be done and I’d walk free. Why wouldn’t I? The evidence was flimsy at best, and I would never hurt a child, especially not one in my care. I was practically a child myself. But I hadn’t counted on Garrett Cooper the Third and his useless legal team. They weren’t actually working for me, not really, but to protect the nanny organisation. They’d told me to plead guilty for a lesser sentence, and when I refused, they let me go it alone in court. The company didn’t care. It was better for them if I seemed like a lone psychopath, clever enough to bypass their rigorous vetting process. I hadn’t counted on a corrupt justice system either, an ambitious DA, a governor who wanted to seem tough on crime.

Just a few hours before, I had stood before the judge. The jury had taken only two hours to find me guilty of three counts of first-degree murder. And then I had been sentenced not just to jail, but to death.

‘You shall be put to death by lethal injection,’ said the judge. ‘Casey Rachel Adams, may God have mercy on your soul.’

I still didn’t believe it. I was on Death Row.