I’M DRIVING BACK FROM the hospital on Friday after Martin removes my stitches, including another harangue for free, when my phone peals forth Eye of the Tiger, now my special ringtone for Helen.
“Hi, what’s up, sweetie?”
“Tom, where are you?“ she asks, with a serious tone.
“I’m on my way back from the hospital, honey. Martin removed my stitches. What’s wrong?“
“Nothing life-threatening,“ she assures me, “I just need you to stop by the department. I need to talk to you about something. More precisely, I need to tell you something.“
I arrive at the police department about 20 minutes later and go straight to Helen’s office. She’s not sitting behind her desk, where she usually would be, but instead on the couch, where we sit when we chat or have lunch.
I come and sit down beside her and
