In prison, I’d had plenty of time to think about Madison’s last moments. Had she been frightened when it happened? She never seemed to be frightened of anything, just bored or anxious. It was easy to forget she was only five when she died. She had been wearing make-up at the time, blue eyeshadow smeared over her lids, concealing the petechiae – tiny purple spots that are a classic sign of smothering. Had the eyeshadow been put on by her killer, or was she wearing it in bed? I had told the police I didn’t know – she could have done it herself, she liked putting on make-up and dressing up in her room, swanning up and down in her child-sized high heels.

There was so much speculation online about Madison – had she been hurt in any way, interfered with? Almost like they wanted it to be true, to make the case as sordid as possible. Oh God, how awful, people would say, their eyes glinting, licking their lips. There was no evidence she’d been touched in that way. Just put to bed as if to sleep. There was a cigarette burn on her inner arm, which had been done about a week before, the police thought. There was bruising on her hands, as if she had been awake and held down. People think smothering is somehow an easy death, a gentle cloud carrying you off, but imagine not being able to breathe for the two or three minutes it takes to die, and you’ll get the idea. There was no foreign DNA on her body or her bedclothes, or the unicorn pillow used to kill her, just her parents’ and mine. But I had been her nanny. Of course I’d left some traces in her room.