While Kathleen Wyatt dried her eyes with her sweatshirt Cindy retrieved the post she’d deleted this morning and read it again.
Kathleen had written about her son-in-law, Lucas Burke, using ALL CAPS to shout in print that Burke had abused Kathleen’s daughter, Linda, and that he had even been violent with their one-year-old baby, Lorrie. Kathleen had written that she was terrified for them both, and even though the two had only been missing for a couple of hours, she trusted her gut.
Cindy had seen the post a few minutes after Kathleen had submitted it. The screaming capital letters, the many misspellings, and the nature of the post unloaded on a newspaper blog made the poster sound crazy. Or else, it had been someone’s idea of fun.
Now that Wyatt had broken into the newsroom and told the story to her face, her credibility had risen. But, damn it. Cindy couldn’t know if Kathleen was paranoid or in an understandable panic that her loved ones could be in danger—or worse. Her fear was relatable and the idea of a murderous husband plausible. It happened too often. And that it may have happened since Kathleen posted her cri de coeur this morning made Cindy feel awful and guilty. And still, there was nothing she could do to help.
Kathleen slapped the desk to draw Cindy’s attention.
Her voice was rough from yelling, but she said, “I called the police as soon as I couldn’t locate Linda. She has run away with the baby before. She’s twenty now. An adult. And after you call the police once or three times, you have to beg them to pay attention. But I did it. The cops called in the K-9 unit, put out an Amber Alert. Or so they say. I don’t know for sure.”
Cindy said, “When there’s a missing baby, what’d you say, she’s a year old?”
“Closer to a year and a half.”
“They’re looking for her.”
Kathleen reached into her fanny pack and pulled out a picture of mother and child. They both looked very young. “Lorrie is fourteen months to be exact. And you’re right. Anytime a baby is missing, they’re supposed to go all out. That baby could be dead already. If you’d run this picture in the paper six hours ago…”
“I’m a reporter, Kathleen. I need confirmation, you must know that. But, still, I feel sorry—”
“Don’t you dare tell me how sorry you are. Sorry won’t help my daughter. Sorry won’t help her baby girl.”
“Sit tight,” Cindy said. She reviewed her story about the shooting in the Tenderloin, changed a few words and then rewrote the “kicker,” the last line. She addressed an email to Tyler, attached her story and pressed “send.”
Kathleen Wyatt watched.
When Cindy saw that the email had launched, she said to Wyatt, “No promises. Let me see what I can do.”