“Can’t do that. Leanne’s sick. She needs help. Professional help. We’ve already made arrangements.”
“You’ve been torturing her.” Gene’s voice was quiet now, almost flat. “Those burns on her arms. That isn’t help. That’s abuse.”
Brent glanced at Leanne’s arms and shrugged.
“Unfortunate side effects of her condition. She’s been self-harming. We try to stop her, but she’s very determined.”
“That’s a lie,” Leanne whispered.
“Is it?” Brent pulled out his phone. “Because I have video of you doing exactly that. Dated. Time-stamped.”
Gene felt Leanne tense.
“He staged it,” she said. “He drugged me and then—”
Brent spoke over her as if she had not made a sound.
“Paranoid delusions. Blame-shifting. Classic symptoms. We have three psychiatrists ready to testify that Leanne needs inpatient treatment. At our facility, of course. We’ll take excellent care of her.”
Understanding crashed through Gene like cold water.
This was bigger than control. The Spark Centers had done this before. They found vulnerable people, broke them down, and committed them to their own facilities, where they could do whatever they wanted behind closed doors.
“How many others?” Gene asked.
Brent smiled wider. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“How many other people have you done this to? How many patients are in your centers because you manufactured a mental illness?”
“That’s a serious accusation. You should be careful. Slander is expensive.”
Gene pulled out his phone and started recording.
“Say that again.”
Brian moved forward. “Put that away.”
“Or what?” Gene kept the camera steady on Brent. “You’ll burn me too? Add me to your collection?”
He shifted the camera slightly.
“Leanne called me for help. I found her locked in a room covered in burns. That’s imprisonment and assault. The police are going to want to see this.”
“The police are family friends,” Edna said from behind her sons. She had regained her composure.
“Chief Morrison’s daughter received treatment at our center,” she went on. “Free of charge. He’s very grateful.”
“And State Senator Harding’s son,” Kent added as he appeared beside his wife. “And Judge Patterson’s wife. We’re very well connected, Gene. Whatever you think you saw here, whatever story you think you have, it won’t go anywhere.”
Gene looked at all four of them—Brent and Brian blocking the door, Edna and Kent behind them. A family united in corruption.
How many people had they destroyed? How many families had they ripped apart?
“Leanne,” he said quietly, “can you walk?”
“I think so.”
“Good. We’re leaving.”
“I don’t think so,” Brent said.
Gene met his eyes. “You can try to stop us, but you’re drunk, and there are two of you and one of me. Someone’s going to get hurt. And when the ambulance comes, when the police come, Leanne’s injuries are going to need an explanation. All of this”—he gestured to the room, the locks, the sterile setup—“is going to need an explanation.”
“We’ve already explained it,” Edna said coldly. “Leanne is mentally ill. She’s dangerous to herself. We were trying to help her when her father broke in and assaulted us.”
“That story works if Leanne is still here,” Gene said. “It falls apart if she’s somewhere safe, giving her own statement, showing her injuries to doctors you don’t control.”
For a moment nobody moved.
Then Gene made his choice.
He bent, lifted Leanne into his arms, and walked toward the door.
“Stop,” Brent said, but there was uncertainty in his voice now.
Gene did not stop. He walked straight at Brent and Brian, and at the last second Brian stepped aside. Brent grabbed for Leanne, but Gene twisted away. They were past them and into the hallway.
“Brian, don’t let them—” Edna shouted.
Gene heard footsteps behind him. He moved faster, taking the stairs as quickly as he dared with Leanne in his arms. The front door still hung open from where he had kicked it in.
He made it to the car and set Leanne gently into the passenger seat. He ran around to the driver’s side.
A hand clamped onto his shoulder.
Brian.
Gene spun and drove his fist into the man’s stomach. Brian doubled over, wheezing. Gene jumped into the car, started the engine, and floored it.
In the rearview mirror he saw the Sparks family standing in the doorway of the mansion, backlit by the house lights, watching.
They did not chase.
They did not need to.
They thought they had already won.
Gene pulled out his phone and handed it to Leanne.
“Call 911. Tell them you’re a victim of domestic violence and you need to go to the hospital. Tell them you’ve been held against your will.”
Her hand shook as she took the phone.
“And Leanne, tell them you want County General, not any hospital the Sparks family recommends.”
She nodded and made the call.
Gene drove toward the city, his mind already working. The Sparks had money, connections, and a prefabricated narrative. They had probably been doing this for years—maybe decades. But Gene had spent fifteen years taking down people who believed they were untouchable. He knew how to investigate, how to find evidence, how to build a case that could not be ignored.
More than that, he knew how to hurt them where it mattered.
The Sparks family had made a catastrophic mistake.
They had targeted his daughter.
