Next I came across a YouTube video about me, a clip from a documentary. I didn’t want to watch it, but I needed to know if they said anything about my life now, so I plugged headphones into the jack on the side of the computer, and bunny-hopped through the scroll bar, wincing each time I heard something about suffocation, or gunshot residue, fingerprints, shooting distance. I could immediately tell from the deep-throated voice-over that the documentary was on the tackier end of TV. Women Who Kill was the title, and I supposed I could have sued over that, since I had been cleared of murder in the end, but the whole thing was exhausting, like whack-a-mole. There would always be people who thought I was guilty.

There was a shot of the house, police tape across it, and it hit me like a punch. Next up, images of David, Abby and Madison, smiling and happy. Murder victims always look happy. They aren’t going to use a bad picture, a grouchy one, are they? Me, however, they used the worst one they could find, where I had a double chin and spots, in a tiny skirt and scarf-like top, holding a bottle of alcopop in both hands. Racy Casey, that’s what they called me. All the evidence against me was trotted out again, the forum post, the medicine I’d brought with me from England, the bruises on Madison’s arms I had supposedly not told anyone about, her bed-wetting. Pictures of her in her pageant outfits, heavily made-up. Glamorous shots of Abby in her acting days. David on a film set, headphones on. They’d even found some minor celebrities to comment on how great David and Abby Safran had been, how they and their daughter were set for stardom, Hollywood at their feet. Nothing about the constant rejections or looming bankruptcy. Very little about Carson, either, and I was glad for him. He deserved not to be forever defined by living through the murders in the so-called house of horror (very original, calling it that). The programme strongly hinted that I had done it – short skirts equalled murderer, apparently – and then at the end it just stated in a few lines of text that I’d been exonerated and released after four years on Death Row in the Central California Women’s Facility, and that the murders remained officially unsolved. Adams is believed to have returned to the UK, it said.

So nothing that could help people track me down to the Lake District and Coldwater. Unless someone here had seen these photographs of me and recognised me? I looked around the library again. Would somebody watching this documentary connect it to Rachel Caldwell, now pushing forty, single and childless, an unpaid assistant in a dog shelter? Perhaps someone had.