It’s not the same cops that arrest me. Why would it be? We’re in an entirely different part of London. But somehow, they seem the same. Impersonal and indifferent. Even as I’m covered in my ex boyfriend’s blood.

Things move quickly. There were about fifty witnesses to what happened, and no one is under any doubt that I will be quickly convicted and sent to prison. But once I’m in police custody, I learn I will be assigned a defense attorney. Someone public, whom the court will pay for. Because I don’t have any money, anymore.

My barrister turns out to be a squat, sweaty man with a thick Essex accent. He’s balding and has red eyes, both from smoking as sleeplessness, as he informs me during our first meeting, the morning of my appearance in the Magistrates’ Court. He introduces himself as Colin Ealing.

The first thing I ask him is what has happened to my son. “Has Donnie been put into foster care?”

“Your son is still with the family friends you left him with. Mr and Mrs…” Colin checks his notes. “Green. After they were informed of your arrest, they applied for temporary kinship carer status through your local council estate and were granted emergency status. That means they can keep Donnie and look after him for up to 16 weeks, 24 if this is deemed an exceptional circumstance. Which I suspect it will be.”

I frown at him. “Kindship carers? But they’re not kin.”

“Kinship carers can be family friends,” Colin says, “or anyone close to the child or family.”

I suppose Meghan and Steffan have watched Donnie a few times, but I wouldn’t say they are particularly close to him, or to Sean and me. However, I decide to keep this to myself. With my parents in Manchester - and without the financial means to care for Donnie - and Sean’s parents in Mallorca, Meghan and Steffan might be the best option for Donnie right now. Definitely better than being put into foster care. At least at theirs, he can stay in the same school, the same building. There will be less disruption in his life. And they can bring him to visit me.

“What will happen to him if I’m convicted?” I ask, after mulling this information over.

“It depends… As family and friends guardians, they currently don’t have parental rights. They’re just ‘looking after’ Donnie. You still have parental responsibility. If you’re convicted… then they could apply for a legal order, which would give them parental rights. If they decide not to keep Donnie, then the family court would probably approach Donnie’s grandparents. If both grandparents refused, then he would go into foster care.”

“And he could end up with a stranger?” My voice is hollow. I don’t know what I thought would happen, when I decided to kill Jason, but it wasn’t this. My mind was so focused on revenge that I couldn’t see the future. It was like I had tunnel vision. And now Donnie could end up with strangers…

But I can’t let myself think about that. There are still many people who would care for him before that. My parents… Sean’s parents, if they ever come back to London. And Steffan and Meghan might decide they like having a child… maybe they’ll apply for a legal order…

I swallow down a lump in my throat. Never in my life did I imagine my son would be raised by two swingers, one of whom used to be a stripper. Then again, I suppose Sean and I were nontraditional, too…

“We should talk about your hearing today,” Colin says, interrupting my thoughts. “This appearance is only a formality, as murder cases are always sent directly from the Magistrates’ Court to the Crown Court.”

“Right…” It’s hard to focus on anything, when I’m thinking about Donnie, but I wrench my mind back to the present.

“You won’t have to enter a plea today,” Colin continues.

“What does it matter what I plead?” I ask. “Fifty people saw me kill Jason.”

“A not-guilty plea doesn’t necessarily mean you’re innocent,” he says, looking at me seriously. “It could mean there were exceptional circumstances. And considering your state of mind at the time: your grief, the loss of your job, the miscarriage… I think you could come across as sympathetic to a jury. Especially if we play up the miscarriage.”

“I cheated on my husband, got pregnant with my lover’s baby, attacked my boss, practically killed my husband by breaking his heart, and then murdered the man I had an affair with.” I raise an eyebrow. “I don’t think I’m particularly sympathetic.”

I turn out to be right. The Magistrates’ Court passed my case up to the Crown Court, and after much consultation with Colin, I plead not guilty. Colin wants to argue that my miscarriage brought on a antenatal psychotic episode. He brings in experts on miscarriage and antenatal depression. But the jury doesn’t like me. I can tell, from the way they watch me, like I’m something disgusting that they found in a public toilet. After the affair and Sean’s death, I get the impression that they think I deserved the miscarriage, that it was some sort of divine retribution for my sins. This feels very maudlin, very American in its puritanical, religious fervour, but it’s helped along by the prosecution, who play up my promiscuousness, slatternly behaviour, terrible mothering, and selfishness. They paint me as some sort of Jezebel, and it’s hard to refute it, when deep down, I agree with them.

Maybe I did deserve the miscarriage. Maybe I did deserve to lose my husband, my son, and my unborn baby.

It isn’t just that I didn’t tell Sean about Jason. It isn’t just that I went on the second date with Jason. It isn’t even that I got pregnant with Jason’s child and lied to Sean.

My sin started before that: it began with when I first followed the paths of curiosity and cyber connectivity to the Weekend Club. It cemented when I suggested to Sean that we try it out. And it bloomed into something evil and twisted when the Weekend Club took over my life and brain; when it made me stop paying attention to my husband child; when I prioritized the simple, selfish pleasures of my flesh - and my thirst for adventure - over the people I had pledged to love most and protect.

At least, these are the things I tell myself, late at night, as I think over the things that were said in court that day, as I reexamine each and every one of my depravities, my failings.

It doesn’t take long for the prosecution to find the Weekend Club. And that’s when things really go downhill for me. Even though Sean participate in this, too, it is me who is crucified. After all, Sean didn’t kill anyone. Sean didn’t betray the rules we had set up. Sean is a man, and therefore not a slut, no matter how hard he might try to be one. And Sean is dead. That, perhaps, is the best defense. No one wants to crucify the dead.

As horrible and humiliating as it is to listen to the prosecution read out the messages I sent on the Weekend Club - somehow, they have gained access to those - this also leads to a realisation. I’m not sure if it’s a good realisation or not. But it is a clarifying one.

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The realisation is this: there were so many people who might have wanted to hurt me and Sean. There are so many people who might have wished to ruin my marriage like I ruined theirs. There are too many people who might have wanted Sean dead.

I was so sure it was Jason. Beyond sure. I was willing to bet my life, and the life of my son, and it being Jason. But as the prosecution lines up my many sins in front of me to examine, I begin to see the bigger picture.

It could have been any one of them.

Mark, or more likely, Julie.

Freddy or Samantha.

Ewan or Maddie.

Perhaps someone else, someone I never knew about, whom Sean slept with; some crazy bitch who wanted him for herself, and who, when she couldn’t have him, killed him.

The thought keeps me up at night, in the days after the realisation hits me.

I can believe anything of Julie and Mark, but what about Maddie and Samantha? Are either of them really capable of killing my husband? What if they discovered I’d fucked their husbands and decided to get revenge? I don’t really believe that either of them could commit murder, but they could have meant to just hurt Sean. Perhaps they just wanted to hit him with their car, not kill him, and then things got out of hand. Or maybe they hired someone to do their dirty work, and Sean saw his face, and, panicking he’d get caught, he decided to finish the job?

Even wild cards, like Paulo and Jake, suddenly seem suspicious. Neither of them had any discernible reason to want Sean dead, and neither of them knew where I lived, but still… you never know how the twisted mind of a person works. Maybe they were on the app to find and stalk victims. Perhaps they followed me back to my apartment. Perhaps they’d been staking me out for weeks, months.

As these thoughts twist through my mind, I become even colder and more withdrawn in court. It’s hard to fight for your innocence when it’s starting to hit you that perhaps, you killed the wrong person.

Not that I care about Jason. He is better off dead, and the world is better off without him. No, what fills me with rage and fear and guilt is thinking of the person out there, the one who did this, still free. Not paying the price. The person who robbed me of everything, walking free. Because I want to kill him, or her, whoever they are. I want to make them suffer. And I want to know they’re dead before they can harm Donnie, or anyone else I love.

In the end, I’m convicted of first-degree murder. No one seems to buy that I was at diminished medical and pschological capacity due to the miscarriage. After all, it had been a month. And the fact that I brought my own knife condemns me in the end. It screams premeditation.

I feel indifferent when I receive the verdict. After all, it’s true. I did kill Jason. I did mean to. And it was premeditated. In a way, I’m reassured to know that the justice system works; that the jury can clearly and accurately read the situation and come to the correct solution.

After the sentencing comes down, I am transferred to HMP Bronzefield. It’s in Surrey, to the southwest of London, but not too far that friends and family can’t come visit. If anyone even comes. I’m not expecting many friends, but Meghan promises me, during one of my phone calls, that she will bring Donnie soon.

But it isn’t Meghan who comes to visit me during my first visiting hours.

It’s Steffan.

I’m shocked when I see him, not because I haven’t thought about him often, knowing he’s taking care of my son, but because I haven’t communicated with him at all. It’s been exclusively Meghan who has been giving me updates on Donnie and making sure I talk to him regularly over the phone.

“Hi,” I say, as Steffan sits down at the table with me.

He looks different, I notice. Thinner. There are bags under his eyes and hollows in his cheeks. It’s like he isn’t getting as much sleep, or hitting the gym as often. Probably the result of now caring for a five-year-old who is grieving both his parents.

“Where’s Donnie?” I ask, looking around at the soft play area. Other kids are playing there, but I don’t see my son.

Steffan doesn’t answer directly. He looks around the room, then back at me. “This is very nice, for a prison.” And it’s true, there are soft chairs for inmates and their visitors to sit on, a snack bar with tea and coffee, and of course, the soft play is very nice for those visiting with children. It’s not the terrifying prison visiting room with the phones and plexiglass windows that I’ve seen in movies.

“I suppose so,” I say.

“I thought you’d be somewhere grimmer, considering what you’re in here for.”

I don’t respond to this. I’m still waiting for Donnie to appear. Did he have to go through extra security? But that doesn’t make any sense. Anyway, Steffan wouldn’t have left him alone.

“If you’re looking for Donnie, he isn’t here.”

I turn back to Steffan to see a strange, almost gleeful look on his face. Dread begins to pool in my stomach at the sight of it, and I swallow, my throat suddenly dry.

“Why not?” I ask.

“Meghan and I don’t think a prison is a good place for a child to visit.”

“What?” I stare at him, disbelieving. “You mean… ever? But Donnie has to come visit me! I’m his mother! You have to bring him here!”

“And maybe we will…. in time.” Steffan gives me a self-satisfied smirk. “But right now, Donnie is dealing with a lot of change and trauma. His father died. Then his mother abandoned him.”

‘I didn’t abandon him! It’s not like I wanted this to happen.”

Steffan gives me a cold look. “What did you think would happen, when you murdered your lover? That you would walk away scott free?”

“I don’t… I wasn’t thinking about that.”

“And that’s your entire problem, Jazz. You’re never thinking about Donnie, or your husband, or anyone else, for that matter. You’re only ever thinking about yourself. And because of that, you took your family for granted. The best thing that ever happened to you--the one thing so many of us would have given anything to have--and you took it for granted. More than took it for granted! You let it slip away. You even lost your other child.”

I can’t seem to form words. I have no idea why Steffan is being so mean to me, why he’s being so vindictive. If I weren’t in so much shock, I might grab him by the hair and slap him across the face. But even if I weren’t… part of me can’t bring myself to do it. I’ve already paid such a high price for my violent actions. I don’t want to pay any more.

“And then,” Steffan continues, his face and voice riddled with contempt, “your husband dies. And instead of making that appreciate even more what you have--Donnie, your child--you decide to get revenge, and abandon him so that you can have the momentary satisfaction of thinking you’ve killed your husband’s killer. You have no patience, Jazz. You go for the instant gratification, whether that’s sex or revenge. And you forget what really matters.” His eyes bore into mine, and in them, I see a fathomless blackness I have never seen before. A cruelty and self-preservation that I could never even have imagined. And that’s when it hits me: the ugly, awful truth. My breath hitches, and I want to scream, but before I can, Steffan is speaking again.

“That’s the difference between you and me. I have patience. I can play the long game.”

“It was you,” I whisper. My hands are shaking, and my voice wavers as well. “You killed Sean. You overheard our argument that day, and you were angry I’d taken my family for granted, so you killed him.”

Steffan gives me a contemptuous look, but his eyes are gleaming. “I told you, Jazz, all those months ago: bringing a child into the world is the most precious thing a person can do. And those who take that for granted… well, they don’t deserve their children.”

Steffan stands, but I’m too weak and shocked to stand as well. All I can think is that Steffan has my son now. He killed my husband, and he stole my child. A numb buzzing is beginning to fill my head. I can’t think straight. I can’t see straight. All sound is becoming muffled and distorted.

“Good-bye, Jazz,” I hear Steffan say, from far away. “I doubt we will see each other again for a long, long time.”

It’s only after he is gone that the scream is torn from my throat. When the guards come, they have to carry me away, kicking and screaming, and it is a long time before the screaming stops reverberating through my head.

The End