Chapter 165
Emily's POV
At the hospital, Neal's sister was still receiving treatment. Multiple fractures, facial contusions, and severe emotional distress.
Aline paced the waiting room, her face tight with anger. "Put him in jail. I can't take it anymore, he's always causing trouble."
Neal's father, Ruben Ramos, stood up excitedly. "My son has mental issues. He needs help, not prison."
I watched Ruben closely. His behavior was crude and aggressive. Growing up in such an environment, it wasn't surprising that Neal would develop aggressive tendencies.
Neal's sister, despite her injuries, was able to tell us what happened.
"After school, I wanted to play on the swings with my friend," she said, tears welling in her eyes. "Neal came and said I had to go home immediately. He pulled me really hard. I hit my head, but he wouldn't stop."
"That's because you didn't listen," Ruben interjected harshly. "If you had just gone with him—"
"Dad, he hurt me!" Aline cried. "He was finally being good for a while. Why did he turn back into a monster?"
Neal's mother put a protective arm around her daughter. "We'll make sure Neal never hurts you again, sweetheart."
---
"Can we speak privately?" I asked Ruben.
Outside in the smoking area, Ruben lit a cigarette with shaking hands. "Look, my son has mental problems. I'll get him the help he needs."
"What did you do to him?" I asked directly.
Ruben's eyes widened. "What? Nothing! Some kids are just born bad. It's not how we raised him."
"Jacob said Neal disappeared for over two months. Where was he during that time?" I stated flatly.
"No, he wasn't gone. He was home with us."
"Whatever this 'reformation' is, it clearly didn't last," I continued pressing.
"No, he's much better than before!" Ruben blurted out. "At least he's not getting worse—" He stopped abruptly, realizing his mistake.
The color drained from his face as he realized I knew something. "Has this happened to the other kids too? Are they all... reverting?" His voice suddenly became desperate.
Michael stepped closer. "Mr. Ramos, it's time you told us exactly what happened to Neal."
Ruben leaned against the wall, his foot nervously tapping against the floor. His fingers trembled slightly as he lit another cigarette.
Ruben's eyes darted between Michael and me. His shoulders slumped.
"I... I don't know what they did to him exactly," he finally admitted. "All I know is that when he came back, he was the good son I always wanted. For a while, anyway."
Michael leaned forward. "I need you to tell us everything, from the beginning."
Ruben took a deep drag of his cigarette, then exhaled slowly. As he began to speak, his hands became steadier.
"It started about three months ago. Neal got into a fight at school—beat up another kid pretty bad. Not the first time, either. I was at my wit's end, you know?"
His eyes focused on some distant point. I recognized that dissociative gaze—he was mentally revisiting the past.
"Then this man approached me in our apartment lobby one evening. Middle-aged guy, glasses, very professional looking. Said he'd been observing Neal and could help. Said they had a program for troubled teens—completely free."
"And you just... agreed?" Michael asked.
"You don't understand how desperate I was," Ruben shot back. "He said they could make Neal behave, make him focus on school, stop the fighting. It sounded like a miracle."
"What happened next?" I prompted, keeping my voice neutral despite the alarm bells ringing in my head.
"I signed some liability waiver—basically saying I wouldn't hold them responsible for anything. Two days later, two men came to collect Neal. Younger guys, probably in their thirties. They said the program would take about two months."
"And you let them take your son without knowing who they were or where they were taking him?" I couldn't keep the incredulity from my voice. As a profiler, I'd seen plenty of bad parenting, but this level of negligence shocked even me.
Ruben's face hardened. "Easy to judge when you're not in my shoes. Two months later, they brought him back. And he was... different. Quiet. Respectful. Doing his homework without being asked. No more fights."
"But it didn't last," Michael observed.
"No," Ruben sighed. "About a month later, he started slipping back. Getting angry again, defiant. When I asked what happened during those two months, he'd just get this blank look on his face, like he couldn't remember."
I clenched my jaw, feeling a surge of anger. "Did you try to contact these people again?"
"They never left any contact information. The guy said if the effect wore off, it meant Neal was 'fundamentally flawed.' His exact words." Ruben shook his head. "A kid like him... he's just beyond help."
My temper flared, heat rising in my chest. "A kid like him? He's your son, not a defective product you can return!"
"Hey!" Ruben straightened, defensive anger in his eyes. "If your kid was a problem child constantly getting into trouble, constantly making your life hell, maybe you'd understand my position!"
"We wouldn't let our child get to that point," I snapped back, leaning forward. "And we certainly wouldn't hand them over to strangers!"
Ruben let out a bitter laugh. "That's what people without kids always say. Some children are just born bad seeds. Nothing you can do about it."
Michael intervened before I could respond, probably sensing I was about to lose it completely. "Mr. Ramos, we need more information about these men. Names? Organization? Business cards?"
"Nothing," Ruben said, deflating. "The agreement was on their tablet—they took it with them after I signed. No business cards, no organization name."
"You must have asked where they were taking him," Michael pressed.
"They said it was confidential—part of their treatment protocol. I figured it was some reality show production company with a youth intervention program, trying to keep their methods secret."
Michael frowned slightly. "So you know nothing about them?"
Ruben looked away. "Look, I was desperate, okay? When you're drowning, you don't question the rope someone throws you."
"Did you take Neal to a doctor after he returned?" I asked, trying to maintain professional composure.
"Yeah, I'm not completely irresponsible," Ruben muttered. "Nothing physically wrong with him—no drugs in his system, no signs of abuse. Just that blank look sometimes, like he was somewhere else."