Brent’s father, Kent, had mostly ignored him in favor of his phone.
Gene pulled up to the gate and punched in the code Leanne had given him months earlier. It still worked. The gate swung open, and he drove up the long gravel driveway. Every light in the house seemed to be on.
He was out of the car before the engine fully stopped.
He took the front steps two at a time and tried the door. Locked. He pounded on it.
“Leanne! Open the door!”
Footsteps approached from inside. The door opened six inches, held by a chain. Edna Sparks peered through the gap, her silver hair immaculate despite the hour, her expression cool and composed.
“Gene, it’s nearly four-thirty in the morning.”
“I know what time it is. Leanne called me. I want to see my daughter.”
“Leanne is resting. She’s had a difficult evening.”
“Then I’ll help her rest. Open the door, Edna.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
Her face did not change.
“She’s not leaving.”
Something in the way she said it—not she’s unavailable, not she can’t see you, but she’s not leaving—turned Gene’s blood to ice.
“That is not your decision,” he said, keeping his voice level. “I’m her father. She called me for help.”
“She’s confused. She’s been under tremendous stress. The family is handling it.”
“Get out of my way.”
“Gene, I understand your concern, but—”
He did not let her finish. He stepped back and drove his foot into the door just below the lock. The chain ripped free from the frame and the door flew inward. Edna stumbled back with a gasp.
Gene pushed past her into the marble foyer.
“Leanne!”
“You can’t just— This is breaking and entering. I’m calling the police!”
“Call them,” Gene snapped. “Please. I’d love to have them here.”
He moved deeper into the house. The layout was wide and open, the living room flowing into the dining room and then the kitchen. No Leanne. Then he heard it: a muffled cry from upstairs.
He ran for the staircase.
Edna tried to block him, but he slipped around her. Behind him he heard Kent’s voice joining Edna’s protests, but he did not look back. The upstairs hallway was lined with family photos: the Sparks family at galas, charity events, vacations, always smiling, always immaculate.
Gene followed the sound of voices to a closed door at the end of the hall. He tried the handle. Locked from the outside.
“Leanne!”
“Dad!” Her voice came from the other side now, closer, desperate.
Gene stepped back and kicked. The door was solid wood, but the lock was decorative. It took three kicks before the frame splintered and the door burst open.
The room was a bedroom, expensively furnished but strangely sterile, almost clinical. In the center of it, Leanne sat on the floor in a thin nightgown, arms wrapped around herself, rocking slightly.
She looked up when Gene entered, and his heart shattered.
His daughter—his strong, brilliant daughter—looked like a ghost. She had lost at least twenty pounds. Her hair hung limp and unwashed. Dark circles shadowed her eyes.
But it was her arms that made his vision blur with rage.
Burns. Dozens of them. Circular and precise, running up both forearms in neat rows. Fresh ones still blistered. Older ones had scarred over. The pattern was deliberate, methodical.
This was no accident. This was no random injury.
This was torture.
“Oh, baby.”
Gene crossed the room in three strides and dropped to his knees, gathering her into his arms. She collapsed against him, sobbing.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you. I should have—”
“Shh. It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m getting you out of here.”
“She won’t let me leave,” Leanne whispered. “She said if I try, they’ll have me committed. She said no one would believe me because of my history.”
Gene pulled back just enough to look at her.
“What history?”
“The one Brent created. He’s been giving me something, Dad. Pills. He said they were vitamins, but they made me foggy. Paranoid. He documented everything. My mood swings, my irrational behavior. He has videos, doctor’s notes. They’ve been building a case that I’m mentally unstable.”
Gene’s mind snapped into place. A gaslighting operation. Classic abuser tactics, only sophisticated.
“Where’s Brent now?”
“Downstairs. I think he and his brother Brian were drinking. That’s why I got my phone. I hid it weeks ago after Edna took my first one.”
Gene helped her to her feet. She was unsteady, and he kept one arm around her as footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Brent appeared in the doorway first, his expensive shirt untucked, his eyes bloodshot. Behind him stood Brian, nearly identical except for the scar on his chin. Together, they blocked the exit.
“Gene.” Brent’s voice was slurred, but amusement still threaded through it. “Breaking and entering. Assault on my mother. You’re really not helping Leanne’s case here.”
“Get out of my way.”
