I heated up the noodles in the microwave, which I had finally learned how to use, and ate them in silence at the kitchen island, listening to the noises of LA outside. Police choppers, coyotes howling, endless traffic flowing, and, underneath it all, the seeping silence of the desert.

Rachel

Rachel

Marilyn was standing over me, tentatively rubbing my back. I was sitting in my desk chair – now someone else’s – with my head between my knees. I had almost fainted when I saw what was on her screen. It was a picture from two days ago, snapped by some paparazzo, of me coming out of Alex’s flat, looking shifty in his ill-fitting clothes. How had I not seen the photographer? It was alongside a picture of me back then, in my skirt and vest top. ‘Racy Casey questioned over murder’, read the headline. Exoneree Casey Adams, formerly accused of murdering her employers and their child in Los Angeles in 2000, has resurfaced in the picturesque Lake District. We can reveal that she is once again a suspect in a murder enquiry, having been questioned over the death of Anna Devine this week. Local sources have confirmed that Adams, now 38, is going by the name Rachel Caldwell. Sources close to her say, ‘We are totally shocked. She always seemed so quiet, keeping herself to herself.’ (Exactly what they always say about serial killers.) ‘I can’t believe I’ve been living near a convicted murderer all this time. I remember the case well – that poor little kiddie. She must have changed how she looks, to pull the wool over our eyes.’ Who was this source? I suspected Audrey, from the references to living nearby. Of course she’d make it all about her. She was probably already worrying about the effect on the value of her house. She’d be dining out on this for years. The article ended with Rachel Caldwell was released without charge in the matter of Anna Devine’s murder, but who would read that far without passing judgement?

Feebly, I said, ‘I’m not convicted. I was, but then I was . . . unconvicted.’ People never knew how to describe that. One trial said I was guilty, another had cleared me – how did you know which to believe? Once again, I felt the futility of it. Here was a perfect story, me linked to two murder cases. Of course I must be guilty. The appeal had been a mistake. My breath came quick with panic. What if they extradited me back to America and put me through a third trial? You couldn’t do that in America, could you? No. God, no, what was going on? If this story had already broken, it wouldn’t be long before the reporters were back, here and at my cottage. I had to get away.