‘They know where I live,’ she’d said, when I rang her from the American hotel. ‘Best to let it die down a bit.’

‘And I can come and stay then?’ I’d said into the hotel phone.

She hesitated. ‘I’ll talk to Steve. He just wants a quiet life, after the things he’s seen.’ Her husband Steve’s experiences as a milkman had apparently been hair-raising, but I would never find out, since I would never meet him. Jenna would be dead within two years and I had no further contact with Steve after he didn’t tell me when her funeral was. My own mother, buried without me.

Jeremy was snoring so loudly now, two years later. He slept on his back, mouth open, arms flung out, so I found myself cramped at the side of the bed. I nudged his head so it fell to the side, and he gave a gurgling sound, then went back to snoring. Sighing, I got out of bed.

I had been back in the UK for almost two years now, but I was still not used to freedom. I would shoot awake, heart racing, and it would take a while to remember I was not in prison, I had not missed the wake-up call. I was safe. But my brain did not understand this.

In my bare feet and the heavy pyjamas I slept in, to discourage touching, I went into the living room of Jeremy’s little flat, overlooking the seafront in a dilapidated former resort. The screech of seagulls and crash of waves all night long. The orange of streetlights illuminated the living room/kitchen, which, thanks to me, was now tidy and clean, with cushions and lamps and candles. I’d never had my own space to decorate, and I’d gone a bit mad in Ikea, throwing things into the trolley while Jeremy smiled nervously. He was almost out of cash back then, I knew.

I should have got a job, but how could I go to an interview as Casey Adams? Racy Casey? A brief look on the internet after my release had filled me with horror – so many people thought I was guilty still. So many websites dissecting every detail of the murders, trying to prove it was me. I needed to change my name. And there was an easy way to do that, a free way in fact, unlike deed poll. Jeremy had awkwardly suggested the idea over my welcome-home dinner in a Frankie and Benny’s, me still half dead with tiredness and shock.

‘So – I mean, only if you want to, of course,’ he said. ‘I thought we could, maybe, if you like, get married.’

It took me a while to pick through all the clauses. I was drinking a cocktail, something sugary sweet, after no alcohol for years.