Gene Mullins did not forgive. He did not forget. He documented. He exposed. He destroyed.
This was not over.
It was just beginning.
County General’s emergency room was understaffed and overworked at five in the morning, but the nurse who took Leanne back had kind eyes and the kind of steady professionalism that eased Gene, at least slightly. He explained the situation as clearly as he could: domestic violence, possible drugging, obvious evidence of sustained abuse.
The nurse nodded, photographed Leanne’s injuries, and started a sexual assault protocol despite Leanne’s insistence that Brent had never touched her that way.
“Better to rule it out,” the nurse said gently.
Gene wanted to stay with Leanne, but hospital policy separated them. He was left alone in the waiting room, still wearing yesterday’s clothes, his hands bruised from hitting Brian, his thoughts churning.
Then his phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number.
You’ve made a serious mistake. Return Leanne immediately and we’ll forget this happened.
Gene deleted it without replying.
Another buzz. This time it was a photo of his front door with one clear message attached.
We know where you live.
Instead of fear, Gene felt something click into place. Threats meant they were worried. Worried meant vulnerable.
He opened the recording app on his phone and reviewed the footage he had captured. Brent’s smug justifications. Edna’s comments about their connections to the police. Kent’s casual reference to public officials who owed them favors. It was not enough to prosecute by itself. Any decent lawyer would fight to suppress it. But it was enough to begin.
Gene opened his laptop and got to work.
First, he created encrypted backups of the video and uploaded them to three separate secure servers. Then he started researching. The Spark Centers had five locations across the Southwest. He pulled up corporate filings, licensing records, staff lists. He cross-referenced names with social media and public databases, looking for former employees who had left under suspicious circumstances.
He found seven in the first hour.
Three had posted vague complaints on job review sites before deleting them. Two had filed wrongful termination suits that were later settled out of court under nondisclosure agreements. One had died by suicide six months after leaving.
That last one stopped him cold.
Paula Chun. Licensed therapist. Age thirty-four.
Her obituary spoke of her dedication to her patients and her family’s grief. It said nothing about why someone so young and apparently so committed had died the way she had. Gene dug deeper. Paula’s sister had started a blog in her memory, writing publicly about grief.
In one post from two years earlier, she had written: Paula told me she saw things at her last job that kept her from sleeping. She wanted to speak up, but they threatened her career. She was so scared. I think that fear killed her more than anything else.
Gene wrote down the sister’s name and location.
Melissa Chun. San Diego. Two hours away.
A doctor appeared in the waiting room.
“Mr. Mullins?”
Gene stood. “How is she?”
“Physically, she’ll recover.” The doctor spoke carefully, professionally. “The burns are consistent with repeated contact from a heated implement, possibly a lighter or a small torch. Some will scar. We’ve treated and bandaged them. She’s dehydrated and malnourished, but we’re giving her fluids now.”
“And the drugs?”
“We ran a full tox screen. She has several substances in her system. A benzodiazepine, an antipsychotic, and something we’re still identifying. It’s a troubling combination, especially for someone who should not have been taking any of them.”
“Can you document all of this?”
“Already done. We’ve also contacted social services and the police, as required in abuse cases. A detective will want to speak with both of you.”
Gene tensed. “What precinct?”
“Central.”
“Not Morrison’s?”
The doctor frowned. “No.”
That was something.
“Can I see her?”
“She’s asking for you.”
As the doctor walked away, Gene’s phone rang again. This time it was his business partner, Marcus Webb.
“Gene, where are you? We have the network meeting at nine.”
Gene closed his eyes. He had completely forgotten. They were supposed to pitch their pharmaceutical exposé to a streaming platform that morning. Eight months of work. A potential six-figure deal.
“I can’t make it. Family emergency.”
“What? Gene, we can’t reschedule this. They’re flying in from—”
“You’ll have to do it without me.”
A pause.
