‘You want to marry me?’ I was genuinely shocked. I’d realised he had feelings for me, but we barely knew each other. Marriage, already?

He seized my hand, almost knocking over a bottle of ketchup.

‘Of course! Casey, I love you – I always have. I’d do anything for you. And this way, you can start over. Change your surname, use your middle name maybe, and no one will know. You can go back to college, even, if you want.’

I wanted my own money. ‘No. I need a job.’ I would get some compensation for my wrongful incarceration, but it didn’t come through for some time.

‘Well, then – won’t this be the easiest way? And I really do love you. I’ll look after you.’

It was those four words that swung it. The idea of being looked after, by someone with no agenda (although he did have one, of course). I looked across the plastic tablecloth at his earnest brown eyes, his tender smile. OK, so I didn’t fancy him, but maybe I could learn to. And did that really matter, when compared to feeling safe? And above all, the chance to be a different person?

I should have said no, learned to stand on my own two feet, left that faded town and gone far away. Instead, exhausted, frightened, still in shock, I said, ‘OK. If you want to, Jer.’

Which was not the most romantic way to respond to a proposal. Two weeks later we were married in a registry office, me in a cheap white dress from Monsoon. Jenna had not come, saying she couldn’t get away at such short notice. Jeremy’s father was dead and his mother was in a nursing home with MS, so it was just us and two witnesses from the council building. As he slipped the cheap ring on to my finger, I couldn’t help thinking of that moment back at the Safrans’ house, when I had been handcuffed by the officers who answered my 911 call. You’re never getting out of this one.

Now, in the pale light of morning, I rummaged in the bookcase, careful to be quiet, and took out a road map of the UK. I spread it wide on the dining table, with a noise like flapping wings. Where would I go? Anywhere but here, this poky seaside flat with rising damp and the sound of seagulls keening all night long, burrowing into my nightmares, so I imagined myself back in prison, the women wailing and crying.