Chapter 1

Prologue

 

Milwaukee, Wisconsin

June 2015

 

Let me tell your story, and let’s make it a happy ending.

My name is Samantha Wilson and telling other people’s stories isn’t just what I do—it’s my passion. I’ve met many inspirational young women who have survived some of the worst cases of domestic violence. They still shine and become a beacon for others. Their strength is inspiring. They don’t want to be seen as victims or allow it to be what defines them. For me, it is always an honor to tell their stories.

There was a time when I had no voice and I felt alone. Being a writer allows me to be the voice of those who haven’t found theirs yet. It also allows me to bring awareness to a sickening crisis that plagues our society on many levels. Too many young women are affected by this evil, often hidden in our communities’ underlying layers. As a writer, I aim to expose these layers and help end this hell on earth for so many young women. I want them to know they’re not alone.

I came to Milwaukee to work on an investigative story with my former colleague. Brian asked me to join him because of my previous work with young women who were victims of domestic violence. It seems the story is about a fake rehab center that is part of something bigger. It may be a major trafficking operation, with hundreds of girls of all ages. Brian and I will meet on Monday to go over the details.

Chapter One

 

The Assignment

Before arriving in Wisconsin, I found a quaint little house in Shorewood, a small suburb north of Milwaukee. It was a perfect place for me to stay. The house was located a mile east of Lake Michigan and a few miles west of the Milwaukee River. It reminded me of a place that was once my happy space. My grandparents’ home had been on the shore, about an hour north of Shorewood, and was full of warmth and happy childhood memories, unlike the others I tried to forget. The ones that came from the hell I left long ago.

The first day was rainy and a perfect day to stay inside. Bella seemed to agree and slept most of the day away at my feet. She was my traveling buddy and loyal companion, a heeler mix I had adopted a few months earlier. There were days when her persistence was what got me out the door and away from my laptop for some exercise. I walked out onto the small deck and could smell the beach in the air. Summer in Wisconsin is the best time of the year. It was odd being back in the area. I hadn’t been back since my grandfather’s funeral. At first, I wasn’t going to take the assignment because I had vowed never to return. My grandparents were the only reason I ever went back, and they were both gone. The rest of my family hated me after an incident that took so much from me. There were a lot of memories I never wanted to recall, but the assignment was an important story, so I went anyway.

I walked back into the house, and Bella came running up to me. She was ready for our walk. As we strolled along the riverside, the squirrels chatted and frolicked around us as if trying to provoke Bella. She paid no attention to them as she pranced down the path beside me. Our daily walks were always enjoyable and a great way to reboot.

As another walker approached, she struggled with her little Pomeranian, who appeared to want a piece of Bella. I smiled at her, and we both laughed.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Good morning,” she replied.

The parks were well maintained, and the flower beds were flawless, with great layouts of beautiful blooms. People were walking through with their family or their dogs.

I sat on a bench to take in the park and the beautiful morning—the surrounding flower beds filled with red monarda, daylilies, lilies, phlox, and sedums. As I took in the fragrance, it reminded me of early mornings with my grandma as she weeded her flower beds. Especially the sweet scent of the phlox, her favorite flower.

Small ponds at the bottom of the hill had colorful fish of orange and yellow, with lily pads and waterlilies. I heard the river behind me as the water splashed against rocks on its path between the banks that held it in. I could’ve stayed in this spot forever, taking in the surrounding beauty. But I had things to do, and Bella was letting me know she was ready to go, too.

 

†

 

Monday morning, Brian and I met at a coffee shop in Shorewood. We sat at a table across from each other, laptops in front of us. He started to tell me about the rehab center.

“So, what we know so far is that the director has no formal education or licensing. The therapist is the same; as it turns out, she’s his girlfriend. They run an extensive sex trafficking ring out of rehab and group homes.”

“Damn, how do they pull that off? And for how long?” I asked.

“They believe it started as a legitimate rehab program when it opened in 1995. It appears the current director took over in 2003, which is around the time the sex trafficking began. This goes much deeper, and there are a lot of girls involved.”

“How young are we talking?” I asked.

“Twelve years old is the youngest, from my understanding.”

I gasped. “Oh my God, that is horrible. When will the authorities get those girls out of there?”

“They’ve been investigating for months now and had undercover agents working in the homes and rehab center. They’re getting ready to bust it open. But they haven’t moved in yet because they need to have all appropriate warrants in hand to do so.”

“How much longer will these girls have to live in this hell?”

“Not long. The people working on this are pushing it through as fast as possible,” he said.

“I certainly hope so. There is no hell like the hell they are in right now.”

“How do you feel about staying a while?”

“I’m here for as long as it takes. I hope they will act swiftly for those girls,” I said.

It hurt my soul to think of those young women living in that situation.

“So tell me, what is my role?” I asked Brian.

“A young woman came in as a Jane Doe at a Milwaukee hospital a few weeks ago. She was in bad shape and unconscious but later identified as one of the girls from the group homes operated by the same people from the rehab center. She woke up a few days ago, afraid to talk to anyone.”

“Can’t blame her,” I said.

I closed my laptop. Brian was giving me this look like he wanted to ask me something.

“What is it, Brian? Just ask me already.”

“Would you interview her?”  he asked.

“What makes you think she’ll trust me or even want to talk to me?”

“Because, Sammie, you have this way with people, a kindness that just makes people feel comfortable.”

“I don’t know about all that, Brian, but I’ll try. I’m not going to promise anything. I’ll meet with her, and we can go from there. I’m not going to push her to talk to me.”

“Of course. Just do that thing you do, Sammie.” He smiled at me.

I rolled my eyes at him. “Where can I meet Jane Doe?”

“I’ll text you with that information and keep you updated on what’s happening with the rehab center and homes.

“Thank you, Brian. I’ll keep you updated, too.”

 

†

 

The following morning, I headed to the hospital. Despite Brian’s confidence in me, I wasn’t sure showing up in a scared young woman’s room was the best way to try and connect with her. I’ve interviewed many girls who have been through hell, but their parents or a loved one was with them. The girl known as Jane Doe was alone and scared, so I wanted to talk to the only person I knew she had a connection with at that time.

I scheduled a meeting with Jane Doe’s case manager, who had been with her from the day she was admitted. She would be restricted by HIPPA regulations from sharing information with me, I understood that, but I wanted to see what the best approach would be to meet with the young lady. Whose name I’d learned was Lexi.