Chapter 8: The Red Door
Walsh answered on the first ring.
"She called me," I said.
"Cynthia called me.
Just now.
She found a phone."
"Are you recording—"
"I didn't record it.
I didn't think.
She said trees, mountains, a blue and white gas station sign, a white church with a red door, and a water tower.
She could see them from a window.
Walsh, they're moving again tonight."
"Stay on the line." Walsh's voice shifted — not louder, but sharper.
I heard her moving, heard another voice in the background responding to her.
"Blue and white gas station, white church, red door, water tower.
What state do we have on the Vermont lead?"
A muffled response.
"Expand the radius.
Pull every incorporated township within two hundred miles of the original address that has a water tower." A pause.
"Now, please."
She came back to me.
"Laura.
You did exactly right.
Is there anything else she said?"
"She said they moved two days ago.
She said Dr.
Marsh knows the police are looking." I sat down on Cynthia's bed again.
"She said Gary showed her papers.
Told her I signed them.
That I didn't want her."
Silence on Walsh's end.
"He told a fifteen-year-old girl that her mother gave her up," Walsh said.
Not a question.
"Yes."
Another silence.
When Walsh spoke again, her voice was controlled but only just.
"We're going to find her," she said.
"I need you to stay home and keep your phone charged.
If she calls again, keep her talking as long as you can and hit record immediately."
"Walsh." I stopped.
"Gary's attorney called me an hour ago.
He said Gary is willing to give up the location.
In exchange for reduced charges."
"I know.
The prosecutor is reviewing the offer."
"He told our daughter her mother abandoned her.
For a year.
He let her believe that." My voice was steady.
I was surprised by how steady it was.
"Whatever deal he gets — I need you to know that I will spend the rest of my life making sure that is part of the record.
What he did to her.
Not just what he did to me."
"It will be," Walsh said.
"I'll make sure of it personally."
I stayed on the bed after she hung up.
I picked up the ceramic elephant from Cynthia's shelf and held it in both hands.
At 11:47 p.m., Walsh called back.
"We found the church," she said.
I closed my eyes.
"It's a small township in upstate New York.
We have units moving to the location now.
Laura — we have eyes on a building matching the facility description.
There are lights on inside."
"Is she there?"
"We don't know yet.
We're being careful.
We don't want to trigger a secondary move." A pause.
"I'll call you the moment I know something.
I promise."
I didn't sleep.
I sat in Cynthia's room with the ceramic elephant in my lap and the light on and my phone face-up on the bed beside me.
Donna called at midnight.
I told her what was happening.
She said she was coming over.
I said yes this time.
She arrived at 12:20.
She made tea neither of us drank.
We sat together on Cynthia's bed and didn't talk much.
At 2:08 a.m.
— almost exactly one year and four days after Gary had called me to say Cynthia was gone — my phone lit up.
Walsh.
"We have her," she said.
"Laura.
We have Cynthia.
She's safe."
Donna heard it through the phone.
She put both arms around me and I let her.
I didn't say anything for a long time.
Walsh stayed on the line.
May you like
"She asked for you," Walsh said finally.
"The first thing she said when our officers reached her — she asked if her mom was coming."
