Chapter 4 - Florence’s Locked Room
Before we left for California, Florence asked me to return to the house.
“There is something you need to see.”
I did not trust her.
But Agent Price came with me.
Florence led us to the guest bedroom where she had lived since Hannah’s birth.
She removed a framed landscape from the wall.
Behind it was a small safe.
Inside were letters, flash drives, photographs, and a second phone.
“You kept all this in my house?”
“I needed insurance.”
“Against whom?”
“My husband. Then my son.”
The letters came from Dean.
Some were fifteen years old.
They described secret meetings, money transfers, and promises to reunite the family.
More recent messages discussed Project Lullaby, Asteron’s infant-monitoring program.
Dean believed the device could predict dangerous breathing events by analyzing stress patterns and biological markers.
The technology sounded promising.
The method was not.
Instead of conducting properly supervised trials, Dean recruited employees with newborns and offered bonuses.
When participation numbers remained low, he began using devices on infants whose parents had not fully consented.
Brandon gave him access to Hannah.
“Why?” I asked Florence.
“Dean promised Brandon equity in the company.”
Money.
Legacy.
Approval.
Brandon had spent his life trying to earn love from a father who abandoned him.
Dean offered him a future and called it family.
“What was your role?”
“I watched Hannah.”
“You helped attach the sensor.”
“Twice.”
“You changed her clothes.”
“Yes.”
“You hid the sleeper.”
“Yes.”
Each answer made me hate her more.
Then I saw a photograph at the bottom of the safe.
Florence held Hannah while Dean stood beside them.
The date stamp was from three weeks earlier.
Dean had been inside my home.
“You let him near her.”
Florence began crying.
“He wanted to see his granddaughter.”
“He wanted a test subject.”
“I know that now.”
“You knew he was wanted.”
“He said the investigation ended.”
“Did you ever verify anything he told you?”
“No.”
I turned away.
Florence’s guilt was not dramatic.
It was ordinary.
She wanted her husband back.
She wanted her son happy.
She wanted to believe no one she loved was dangerous.
So she accepted each lie required to preserve that belief.
Agent Price examined the second phone.
A recent message from Dean contained coordinates.
The location matched St. Catherine’s.
Another message read:
Caroline’s archive may include the original failure code. The child’s response confirms hereditary sensitivity.
I read it twice.
“Hereditary?”
Dean believed Hannah reacted strongly because she inherited something from me.
Or from my mother.
“What failure code?” I asked.
Agent Price shook her head.
“We need the archive.”
My aunt remembered that Caroline suffered severe migraines around certain electronic tones.
So did I.
As a child, I became nauseated near old televisions and alarm systems.
I had never considered it significant.
Hannah’s reaction to the calibration tone may have been stronger because of a similar auditory sensitivity.
Dean was using her response to prove a biological pattern.
He did not see a frightened baby.
He saw validation.
Florence handed me a flash drive.
“Brandon gave me this two nights ago.”
“What is on it?”
“He said if anything went wrong, I should give it to someone outside the company.”
“Why not give it to me?”
“He thought you would panic.”
I almost laughed.
Men often described women as panicking when they meant refusing.
Agent Price opened the drive on an isolated computer.
It contained internal Asteron reports.
Several infant participants experienced elevated stress, feeding problems, sleep disruption, and abnormal breathing during calibration.
One hospital withdrew.
Dean continued testing privately.
A video file showed a six-month-old boy screaming while the device activated.
A technician asked to stop.
Dean refused.
Brandon stood in the background.
He watched.
He did not intervene.
Then another file appeared.
It was recorded inside our nursery.
Hannah was six weeks old.
Dean attached the sensor while Florence held her.
Brandon adjusted the recorder.
I was asleep in the next room.
My husband had invited a fugitive into our daughter’s nursery while I recovered from childbirth.
I could not watch the entire video.
Agent Price closed it.
“We have enough for warrants and federal charges.”
“Not enough to find her.”
The final folder was encrypted.
A password prompt appeared.
Florence tried birthdays.
Wedding dates.
Company names.
Nothing worked.
Then I noticed the password hint.
The song she sang before she betrayed us.
My mother used to sing “Blue Moon” when I could not sleep.
I entered BLUEMOON.
The folder opened.
Inside was a map of St. Catherine’s.
The old church sat above a basement laboratory built after the property sale.
The plans showed two exits.
One through the chapel.
Another through a drainage tunnel leading toward desert washlands.
Dean had prepared an escape route.
We drove west with federal agents and Arizona police coordinating with California authorities.
I sat beside Agent Price.
Florence remained in Phoenix under questioning.
During the drive, I received a voice message from Brandon.
His voice was low.
“Lauren, Dad isn’t telling me everything. Hannah has a fever. I told him we need a hospital, but he says the test has to happen first.”
My chest tightened.
In the background, Hannah cried weakly.
“I’m sorry,” Brandon continued. “I thought this would secure our future. I thought the device was safe. I need you to know I never wanted her hurt.”
Then Dean’s voice shouted.
The recording ended.
Brandon was finally afraid.
Not enough to make him innocent.
Perhaps enough to make him useful.
I sent a message.
Take her and run through the drainage tunnel. I know where you are.
The message showed delivered.
No reply came.
An hour later, the laboratory detected something in Hannah’s sleeper.
Not a drug.
A concentrated adhesive solvent.
The amount was small, but prolonged skin exposure could cause irritation and fever.
Dean might interpret the fever as experimental response.
My baby was becoming sick because he refused to stop.
The sun had nearly set when St. Catherine’s appeared in the distance.
Its blue doors were still there.
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Every light inside was on.
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