“This is about Leanne, isn’t it? What happened?”
Marcus was one of the few people Gene trusted completely. They had worked together for seven years and made a dozen documentaries. Marcus was the producer who smoothed the edges while Gene did the digging.
“It’s bad,” Gene said. “Her husband’s family—they’ve been abusing her systematically. And I think it’s bigger than just Leanne.”
“Jesus. What do you need?”
“Time. And maybe your research skills.”
“I’ll handle the network meeting,” Marcus said immediately. “Send me names.”
A nurse led Gene to Leanne’s room. She was lying in a hospital bed with an IV in her arm, bandages covering the burns. She looked small and painfully young, the way she had when Sarah died.
“Hey, Dad.”
Gene pulled a chair up beside her bed and took her hand carefully, avoiding the bandages.
“Hey, baby. How are you feeling?”
“Scared. They’re going to come for me, aren’t they?”
“Probably. But you’re safe here. I’m not leaving.”
She turned her face away for a second, ashamed.
“I’m so stupid. You warned me about Brent, about his family, and I didn’t listen. I thought you were just being overprotective, and now—”
“Stop. This is not your fault. They’re professionals at this. They’ve been doing it for years.”
Leanne looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?”
Gene told her what he had already found: the former employees, Paula Chun, the pattern of people leaving the Spark Centers under suspicious circumstances.
“They kill people,” Leanne whispered.
“I don’t know that yet,” Gene said, though a part of him already believed it. “But I’m going to find out.”
He squeezed her hand.
“Leanne, I need you to tell me everything. From the beginning. When did things change?”
She took a shaky breath.
“About six months after we got married. Brent started coming home late. Drinking more. When I asked about it, he got angry. Not violent at first. Just cold. Dismissive. Then Edna started inviting me to lunch. Just the two of us. She was so nice at first. Sympathetic. She said Brent was under pressure from the family business and that I needed to be more supportive.”
“When did the drugs start?”
“Maybe eight months ago. Brent said I seemed anxious and should try these vitamins his family’s centers used. I trusted him.”
She gave a bitter laugh.
“They made me foggy. I would lose time. Forget conversations. Brent started documenting it. Taking videos of me when I was confused. Making it look like I was delusional.”
“And the burns?”
Leanne’s face went pale.
“That started three months ago. Edna did it. She said it was a therapeutic technique. That pain could break through my mental blocks. She’d heat up this metal tool and press it to my arms. Brent would hold me down. Sometimes Brian would watch.”
Gene felt his rage stop being hot. It hardened into something cold and precise.
“Did they ever say why? Why you?”
Leanne stared at the blanket.
“Edna said I was perfect. Young. Isolated from my father. Trusting. She said I’d make a good test case for their new program.”
“What program?”
“I don’t know exactly. But I heard them talking once. Something about expansion. About using their methods on more patients. Edna said if they could break me—the daughter of Gene Mullins, the documentary filmmaker—then they could break anyone. It was like I was a trophy.”
Of course.
They had not chosen Leanne only for Brent’s satisfaction. They had targeted her because of Gene. To prove they could.
There was a knock at the door. A woman in a rumpled suit stepped inside.
“Detective Laura McIntyre,” her badge read.
“Mr. Mullins. Miss Mullins. I need to take your statements about what happened tonight.”
Gene stood. “Before we do that, I need to know something. Are you familiar with the Sparks family?”
McIntyre’s expression did not change, but something flickered in her eyes.
“Everyone knows the Sparks. Big donors. Prominent family.”
“Do you know Chief Morrison?”
Now she frowned. “We work in different precincts, but yes. Why?”
Gene made a decision.
“Because the Sparks family just told me Morrison is in their pocket. They implied they’ve bought judges and senators too. I need to know whether I can trust you before my daughter says anything on the record.”
For a long moment, McIntyre simply studied him. Then she closed the door and pulled a chair closer.
“I’m going to be honest with you,” she said. “Morrison and I don’t get along. He’s old school. Plays politics. Cares more about his clearance rate than actual justice. If the Sparks have pull with him, I’m not surprised.”
“So we can’t trust the police,” Leanne said quietly.
“You can trust me,” McIntyre said firmly. “I’ve been a cop for twelve years. I’ve seen a lot of abuse cases. Rich families think money makes them untouchable. Sometimes they’re right. But I don’t care how connected they are. You tell me what happened, I’ll document it, and I’ll build a case even if it doesn’t go anywhere right away.”
“Even then?” Gene asked.
“Even then. Because eventually patterns emerge. Eventually someone breaks ranks. Eventually the truth comes out.”
She took out a notebook.
