“Everyone out,” he ordered.
When the room emptied, he gestured toward the sofa. “Sit. Tell me everything.”
She perched at the edge, as if ready to run.
“My grandmother died last year,” Isabella began. “I was living with her in Little Village. After she passed, two people said they were from child services. They took me to a facility in the mountains. They said it was temporary.”
Her voice grew softer.
“There were other kids. And women. Most of the women were kept sedated. Some cried at night. Some just stared at walls.”
Alexander’s jaw tightened.
“Your wife was there. They kept her separate at first. She was thin. Pale. But she talked to us when she could. She told stories. She said we had to remember our names. Remember who we were.”
His heart pounded painfully.
“Do you know where this place is?” he asked.
She nodded. “Near Aspen. An old private clinic with a tall iron fence. The sign says ‘Wellness Recovery Center.’”
A recovery center.
He recognized the tactic instantly. Clean branding. Hidden horror.
By dawn, Alexander had activated every quiet resource at his disposal. Private investigators. Former intelligence contacts. Attorneys skilled in navigating gray areas.
Not the police.
Not yet.