“Ready?” she asked.

Rosalind had been the one person from my old life who never once believed the story — who had written to me in prison, plain unsentimental letters about case law and patience, who had told me, in her dry way, that the appeals process existed for exactly this and that I should stop feeling sorry for myself and start remembering everything I knew.

She had spent two years quietly keeping my professional license from lapsing, keeping my contacts warm, keeping the door open.

I stepped into the car without looking back at the prison even once.