Because the one who might is indistinguishable, until it is far too late, from the ones who never would — and the copy costs you nothing, until the day it costs you everything not to have it.

Chapter 20 — The Key Warm in My Hand

Eighteen months after the trial ended, the autumn sun came across the front porch of my father’s brick house, and I sat on the porch swing with a warm mug of tea and watched my daughter chase a butterfly across the grass.

Mira is two now.

Her dark curls bounce when she runs.

Her laughter is bright and clear and completely unburdened, the laughter of a child who has never once, in her whole life, been afraid in her own home, and who — if I have anything to say about it, and I have everything to say about it — never will be.