‘Exactly. Poke holes in all the inconsistencies of the case, the collusion between your so-called lawyers and the prosecution. They just wanted to indemnify the nanny agency, so they weren’t acting in your interests. And the evidence is paper-thin. We’re confident that some new expert witnesses can present it in a different way. People who know about eyewitness deficiencies, patterns of abuse in children – which we can show started long before you ever got to America – and also behavioural and cultural experts, who can testify that the way you, uh, acted, was very consistent with a British person your age.’

They meant my so-called coldness outside the house, when I’d been photographed standing rigid, my arms folded. Not crying or wailing. But you have to understand I was stunned, and terrified. All I knew was that Abby and David were dead – I hadn’t gone upstairs. I was afraid for Madison, terribly afraid, hoping desperately she was somehow all right, knowing she wasn’t. ‘And the pictures from before – me drinking and stuff?’

George blushed slightly. ‘Trial by media – another way you didn’t get a fair hearing. We’ll be talking about British culture versus American too, that the drinking age is lower there, that people go out partying more. All that.’

I sat back. ‘You seem to have a really strong plan.’ It sounded too good to be true.

‘We hope so! We’ll keep in touch as we prep, and of course, on the day, we’ll be there with you in the courthouse.’

That sounded nice. A courtroom was the loneliest place in the world, especially when you looked out and saw no one on your side. Just hostile, angry eyes, sure that you had murdered a small child.

There was no more to say after that, so the guard came back, but instead of taking me to my cell she led me to the exercise yard, where Rhonda and Paola were sitting on a picnic bench. This wasn’t normally allowed, and I looked at the guard in surprise.

‘Go on,’ she said, nudging me. A reward for caring about her, maybe. Today was a good day. Uncuffed, I went bounding over.

‘Rhonda! It was the Innocence Project lawyers! They think I’ve got a really good shot, and . . .’ I saw her face, the grey shade of it. Dread. Her hands were shaking. ‘What’s the matter?’

Paola was having a lucid day today. ‘She get a letter. A date.’

I didn’t understand. ‘You mean for an appeal?’

Rhonda shook her head. She seemed to have aged ten years since I saw her earlier. ‘No, honey. An execution date. It’s time.’

‘No. That can’t be it.’ It hadn’t happened in so long, I couldn’t believe it. ‘There’ll be a stay, there’s always a stay. Or an appeal . . .’

Rhonda’s head swung to and fro. ‘It’s my time, honey. I knew it. I felt it.’