Chapter 9: The Last Thing Gary Ever Said to Me
Gary's attorney requested one final meeting before the plea was entered.
Not with Cynthia.
He had stopped asking about Cynthia after the second time I said no.
With me.
I agreed to it.
Not because I owed him anything.
Not because I believed there was anything he could say that would matter.
I agreed because Whitfield told me Gary had information about two other families connected to Harlow's network — information he was prepared to share in exchange for nothing, no deal, no reduction — and that my presence had been specifically requested by Gary as a condition of him sharing it.
"He wants to look you in the eye when he does it," Whitfield said.
"That's what his attorney told us."
"Fine," I said.
Dana drove me to the county facility.
She waited in the car without being asked.
The room was small.
A table, four chairs, fluorescent light overhead.
Gary was already seated when they brought me in.
He was wearing a jail-issue shirt and he looked like he had aged several years in three weeks.
His attorney Braddock sat beside him, notepad ready, expression professionally blank.
Gary looked at me when I sat down.
I looked back.
"Thank you for coming," he said.
I didn't say anything.
"I'm going to give them the names," he said.
"The other families.
I'm going to give them everything I know about how Harlow operated.
I don't want anything for it.
I just — I need you to know I'm doing it."
"All right," I said.
He swallowed.
His hands were flat on the table.
"I need you to know that I loved her," he said.
"I know you don't believe that.
I know there's no version of this where that makes sense.
But I need you to know it anyway."
I looked at him for a long moment.
"She learned to cry quietly," I said.
"Did I tell you that?
She told me she learned to cry quietly because she didn't want to disturb anyone in the house."
Gary's face changed.
"She's fourteen years old," I said.
"She spent a year in a stranger's house learning to make herself smaller so she wouldn't be a problem.
That is what your love produced."
He didn't say anything.
"Give them the names," I said.
"Do that much.
And then don't contact me again.
Not through Braddock.
Not through anyone.
Whatever you need to say to me, say it to the prosecutor."
I stood up.
"Helen — "
"Goodbye, Gary."
I walked to the door.
The officer outside opened it.
Behind me, I heard Gary's chair scrape back.
Then Braddock's voice, low and firm: "Gary.
Sit down."
The door closed.
Dana was parked exactly where she said she'd be.
I got in.
She handed me a coffee from the cup holder without a word and pulled out of the lot.
We drove for about ten minutes before she spoke.
"How do you feel?"
I thought about it honestly.
"Empty," I said.
"But the good kind.
Like something that was taking up space is just — gone."
Dana nodded.
May you like
"Good," she said.
We drove the rest of the way home in comfortable silence, and I drank the coffee, and I watched the road, and I did not think about Gary once.
