Chapter 5: The Man Named Dennis Harlow
Gary was arrested at our home forty minutes later.
I know this because Reyes told me, standing at the airport security office with a cup of coffee someone had brought me that I hadn't touched.
He relayed the information the same way he delivered everything — plainly, without decoration, watching to see how I received it.
"He didn't resist," Reyes said.
"He was sitting at the kitchen table when they arrived.
His car keys were in front of him."
"He was going to run."
"That's the working assumption, yes."
I looked at the untouched coffee.
"And Cynthia?"
"Ohio units reached the property twelve minutes ago.
She's safe.
She's being assessed by a medical team now as a precaution." He paused.
"The woman at the house — Carol Harlow — is cooperating fully."
I looked up.
"Harlow."
"Dennis Harlow's wife," Reyes confirmed.
"She claims she was told Cynthia was a relative in a difficult family situation.
A temporary arrangement." His voice stayed even.
"She may be telling the truth.
We don't know yet."
Dennis Harlow.
I had been turning the name over in my mind for the past hour, pressing it against every memory I had of the last two years, trying to find a crack where it might fit.
"How did Gary know him?" I asked.
Reyes sat down across from me.
"Dennis Harlow ran a private placement service.
Operated through a shell company registered in Nevada.
On paper, it looked like a consulting firm." He folded his hands on the table.
"We've been aware of him for approximately eight months.
We had not yet connected him to your daughter's case."
"Eight months," I said.
"Yes."
"Cynthia has been in Ohio for a year."
"Yes."
I let that sit between us without saying anything else, because there was nothing to say that would make it smaller.
"How much?" I asked finally.
Reyes didn't pretend not to understand the question.
"The agreement found in the suitcase specifies eighty thousand dollars," he said.
"Paid in two installments.
The first before the trip.
The second thirty days after confirmed placement."
Eighty thousand dollars.
I thought about the savings account Gary had told me was for a kitchen renovation we'd been planning.
The account I had never had direct access to because Gary handled all the finances.
Because Gary had always handled all the finances, and I had trusted him, and I had never once thought to ask why.
"He planned it before they even left for Disney," I said.
"Based on the document date, yes.
Approximately six weeks before the trip."
Six weeks.
He had sat across from me at our kitchen table for six weeks, eating dinner, watching television, asking me how my day was — with that plan already in motion.
He had watched Cynthia do her homework.
He had driven her to school.
He had hugged her.
"I want to see the rest of the photos," I said.
Reyes hesitated.
"Ma'am, some of them are — "
"I want to see all of them."
He held my gaze for a moment.
Then he slid the folder across the table.
I looked at every one.
The last photo was the one that broke something open permanently.
It was Gary again, this time at what looked like a restaurant.
Across from him sat a man I now knew was Dennis Harlow — older than he looked in the room photos, heavyset, wearing a collared shirt.
Between them on the table was an envelope.
They were both laughing.
I set the photo face-down on the table.
"I want to speak to whoever is handling Gary's arrest," I said.
"I want to know what he's being charged with.
I want to know every charge.
And I want to know what happens to Dennis Harlow."
"I can arrange that."
"I also want to know — " My voice caught once, then steadied.
"I want to know how soon I can get to Ohio."
Reyes reached into his jacket pocket and slid a business card across the table.
A name I didn't recognize, and below it, a direct number.
"Detective Paulson in Columbus," he said.
"She's been assigned to Cynthia's case.
She's expecting your call."
I picked up the card.
"There's one more thing," Reyes said carefully.
"When Gary was taken in, he made a statement before his attorney arrived."
I waited.
"He said — " Reyes glanced at his notepad.
"He said, 'Tell her I didn't think she'd ever find out.
Tell her I'm sorry.' "
The room was very quiet.
"Don't tell me that again," I said.
"Understood."
I picked up my phone and dialed Detective Paulson's number.
She answered on the second ring.
"This is Paulson."
"My name is Helen," I said.
"Cynthia is my daughter.
I need to know when I can see her."
A brief pause.
"Mrs.
— Helen.
I was just with her." Another pause, softer this time.
"She asked me to tell you something if you called."
My hand tightened on the phone.
"She said to tell you Biscuit is doing fine," Paulson said.
"She said you'd know what that meant."
I pressed my hand over my eyes and didn't say anything for a long moment.
May you like
"Tell her I'm on my way," I finally managed.
"Tell her I'm already on my way."
