She opened a file and turned the screen toward him.
The entries were dated, detailed, and horrifying.
Paula Chun had started working at the Scottsdale Spark Center three years earlier, excited to help people recover. Within weeks, she began noticing inconsistencies. Patients displaying symptoms that did not match their diagnoses. Medication records that did not align with treatment plans. Complaints of abuse that were never investigated.
One entry, dated eighteen months before Paula’s death, read:
I confronted Dr. Leman about the discrepancies today. He told me to stop asking questions if I valued my career. When I pressed, he got specific. He said I could end up like the patient in Building C who fell down the stairs. I thought he was exaggerating. Then I checked the records. Building C is single-story. There are no stairs.
Gene photographed every page with his phone while Melissa watched silently.
Another entry, written one month before Paula died, was worse.
I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about Melissa. If something happens to me, will she understand why I couldn’t just walk away? I have copies of everything now—patient files, medication logs, internal memos. I’m going to take them to the state board next week. I’m terrified, but I can’t let this continue.
“Did she make it to the state board?” Gene asked.
Melissa shook her head. “She had an appointment scheduled. She died the night before. They said she took pills. Lots of them. Washed down with vodka. But Paula didn’t drink. She was allergic to alcohol. It gave her migraines.”
Melissa’s hands clenched together.
“I told the police that. They didn’t care. The medical examiner ruled it suicide. Case closed.”
“Did Paula ever say where she kept the copies?”
“Her apartment. But I cleared it out after she died. There was nothing.”
Gene thought for a moment.
“Did she have a storage unit? A safe-deposit box? Anywhere else she might hide something?”
Melissa’s eyes widened.
“Her office at the university. She still had one there from graduate work. She volunteered sometimes, mentoring students. I never checked it.”
“Can you get me in?”
“I still have her keys.”
They drove to the university together.
Paula’s old office in the psychology building was small and shared with another adjunct. The current occupant was out. Melissa unlocked the door and they stepped inside.
Desk. Bookshelf. Filing cabinet.
Gene began searching methodically: drawers, behind books, under furniture. Nothing.
Then he noticed the ceiling tile above the desk sat slightly crooked.
He climbed onto the desk and pushed it upward.
A cardboard box rested above the tile.
“Got it.”
Inside were six labeled USB drives and hundreds of pages of printed files. Patient records. Internal emails. Financial documents.
“She really copied everything,” Melissa whispered.
Gene flipped through the pages. Intake forms with forged diagnoses. Medication schedules designed to induce compliance, not healing. Internal memos discussing “difficult patients” who required “special handling.” Financial records showing payments to state inspectors, local police, and public officials.
This was it.
This was the evidence.
“Melissa, I need to take all of this,” Gene said. “I promise you I’ll use it to make sure Paula didn’t die for nothing.”
Tears streamed down her face as she nodded.
“Destroy them. Please.”
“For Paula,” Gene said, “I will.”
He drove home with the box secured in the trunk like it was made of diamonds. On the way, he called Marcus.
“We have it. Paula Chun documented everything. Patient abuse. Medical fraud. Bribery. Probably murder.”
“Jesus,” Marcus said. “Gene, this is massive.”
“We need to be careful.”
“If the Sparks find out—”
“They will soon. But by then it’ll be too late.”
When Gene got home, Leanne was waiting with news of her own.
“Carolina Wells called. She wants to meet tonight.”
Gene felt the pieces shifting into place.
“Where?”
“A coffee shop downtown. Eight o’clock. She said to come alone.”
“No chance. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“Dad, she specifically said she won’t talk if you’re there. She’s scared.”
Marcus stepped in. “I’ll go with Leanne. I’ll stay close, but out of sight. If anything feels wrong, we leave immediately.”
Gene hated it. But Carolina was a key witness. If she talked, they would have insider testimony to back up Paula’s documents.
“Fine,” he said at last. “But you check in every fifteen minutes.”
At 7:30 Marcus and Leanne left. Gene stayed behind, uploading Paula’s files to his encrypted servers and cataloging the evidence. The patient records were devastating. At least two dozen people had entered the centers with mild anxiety or addiction issues and emerged shattered through a combination of drugs, isolation, and psychological abuse. Some had died. Others had left as shells of themselves, too damaged to function.
The financial records were just as bad.
Dr. Snyder received fifty thousand dollars every quarter.
Chief Morrison got twenty-five thousand plus free treatment for his daughter.
Judge Patterson received a hundred thousand a year disguised as consulting fees.
Then Marcus called.
