Nineteen
“HELEN, I’M NOT CONVINCED it’s a good idea.”
Martin Maycord’s voice from Helen’s phone fills my car, the skepticism quite evident in his tone.
“Martin, it’s only for a couple of hours every day,” Helen says. “I’m not asking you to clear me for duty. I’m not asking to go full time. I’m not even going to be carrying a gun. And I wouldn’t ask at all if it weren’t necessary.”
“Are you saying the Myerton Police Department is in such bad shape that they need you that badly?”
“No, of course not,” she says. “But I really feel good and want to at least dip my toe in. Look, it’s been almost a month since I was shot, you took the stitches out last week, and the physical therapist says after a couple of sessions that I’m doing really well.”
“I just don’t want you using that arm.”
“And
