But the sunrise would bring with it another day in court, and by evening there would be fresh torments keeping me awake. The same psychologist who once treated trauma with stories suggested my insomnia was triggered when my father left, one night when I was nine years old and asleep. Caleb blamed my sleeplessness – like everything – on Stephen. Despite teaching Caleb that family was the only thing to rely on, I’d never truly expected anyone to stay. Stephen had already left. If I wasn’t careful, I’d lose Caleb too. Genevieve suggested I needed more self-control. And a better job, of course. To her, that was at the heart of every problem.

When 2 am slid into 3, I padded into the kitchen. I poured light milk into one of Claire’s blue-and-white striped mugs and slid it into the microwave. Someone, I forgot who, told me that chemicals in warm milk encouraged sleep. It didn’t work. But it was eight hours since the crackers and cheese that had passed for dinner. I was hungry.

Caleb’s words from the hospital floated back to me as I remembered how distraught he’d known Penelope must be. He would never have hurt Penelope. She must know that, she must be able to help. I had to talk to her again. At least it was something.

If only I could sleep!

The sun rose again, of course. We returned to court. Outside, women gathered wearing badges reading mothers of the murdered. One woman, grasping two children’s hands, pressed her angry, wet face close to mine. ‘Hello, Noah, Ashley,’ I said, feeling faint. ‘You’ve brought them here from the city?’

Another woman stepped in. ‘I know you! You’re his mother!’

Something inside me snapped. ‘I’m trying to save my son. Why don’t you go home?’

‘Go home?’ The woman’s words floated, vaguely out of sync. ‘Thanks to your son, I don’t have a home. I’m lucky to have a caravan. My neighbours live in a tent.’

A third woman, brief, brutal: ‘Your son will leave jail one day. My boy is stuck in a wheelchair.’

A fourth, snarling through yellow teeth. ‘You can send Christmas cards to jail. My son’s in his grave. If you were a better mother, I’d still be a mother.’

I stepped towards that woman, mouth open, words ready to come out or teeth to bite.

‘Phoebe!’ Genevieve said. ‘Caleb needs you.’

She was right. I closed my mouth. These women were right to be angry. They just didn’t known who to be angry at, so lashed out at everyone. I pushed into the security screening area, well ahead of Caleb. The guard stared, eyes fierce beneath a mop of silver-grey hair. Those eyes seemed to project his thoughts. It’s disgusting. Covering up for your murdering son.

‘Are you all right?’ Douglas asked, in our conference room.

I straightened my shoulders. ‘I’m fine.’