Chapter 9: Courtroom 3B

I could have changed it back. I stood at the terminal with my hand on the keyboard for four full minutes, and I could have moved that trial to any part in the building, and Camille Whitlock would have gotten nothing but a wasted evening. I didn't. Because at some point between the fourth minute and the fifth, I heard my father's voice — not the courtroom voice, the kitchen voice, the one that used to say Wren, you can be scared and right at the same time. So at 9:11 Monday morning I walked...