But there was a hard line to his jaw that I had not seen in a long time.

The next morning, the sun rose over Columbus in a pale grey haze.

The air was cold and damp as we walked up the massive stone steps of the Franklin County Courthouse.

I wore my neatest navy blue sweater.

My father wore his gray suit, the one he used to wear before he started carrying a handyman’s toolbox.

Courtroom 302 was small and smelled of old wood and floor polish.

Claire was already sitting at the defense table.

She wore a cream-colored wool coat and a pearl necklace.

Her hair was styled in a perfect, sleek bob.

Next to her sat her father, Martin Collins.

Martin looked at us as we walked in, his mouth curling into a familiar, arrogant sneer.

He whispered something to Claire’s lawyer, who sat with his arms crossed.

We took our seats at the plaintiff’s table.

“Keep your head up, Sophie,” my father whispered to me.

I nodded, keeping my eyes fixed on the empty judge’s bench.

At exactly eight o’clock, the side door opened.