We enter a brightly lit room with a wide, oval conference table and eight chairs. A large flat-screen dominates the far wall.
“Have a seat,” she directs me. “We’ll be up as soon as the detective is screened.”
Rather than sit, I move to stand before her. “Can I ask you a question?”
“What is it?”
I scrunch my face up. “I know this is the worst time to ask, but…I was just wondering, if I ever get my life back, might I be able to keep consulting with the PPD?” Probably a meaningless question, but at this point, I need a thread of hope to hang onto—any hope at all—that I might be able to reclaim some part of my life in the unlikely event the good guys win before all my friends forget I ever existed.
She adopts a sisterly tone. “Look, I get that you enjoy it, and having read your file, I ca
