At My Baby’s Three-Month Checkup, The Doctor Asked Me If I Could Speak With Him Privately For A Moment.

I reached the nursery door just as Brandon stepped inside.

Hannah was sobbing uncontrollably in her crib, her small face flushed crimson. Brandon reached down into the crib, his hands moving toward her.

"Brandon, stop!" I cried, grabbing his arm.

He whirled around, shoving my hand off him with alarming force. "Get a grip on yourself, Lauren! I'm her father!"

He picked Hannah up. The moment his hands lifted her off the mattress, Hannah’s crying spiked into an unbearable shriek. She writhed in his arms, her tiny legs kicking wildly, refusing to settle against his chest.

"See?" Brandon growled, his face twisted in frustration. "She’s completely out of control! What did Florence do to her today?"

"Put her down!" I demanded, stepping close and taking Hannah right out of his arms.

The instant Hannah was in my arms, her face buried against my shoulder, the intense screaming began to taper off into heavy, shuddering sobs. She clung to my shirt as if hanging on for dear life.

Brandon stared at the two of us, his chest heaving, his mouth pulled into a tight line of bitter resentment. "You're ruining her, Lauren. You're turning her against me."

"I am protecting her," I said coldly. "Leave the room, Brandon."

He stared at me for three long, agonizing seconds before scoffing and walking out, slamming the nursery door behind him so hard the picture frames on the wall rattled.

I stayed in the rocking chair for hours, holding Hannah until she finally fell into an exhausted sleep. My mind was racing. Brandon was hiding something terrible, and Florence was bound by a secret they had brought with them from California.

At midnight, after hearing Brandon's heavy footsteps retreat into the master bedroom and the sound of his loud snorts indicating he was fast asleep, I quietly got out of bed.

I slipped out of the bedroom, bare feet noiseless on the cold hardwood floor.

I headed straight for the garage.

At the far corner of the garage stood the locked storage room—a small, windowless closet that Brandon kept secured with a heavy keypad deadbolt. He had always told me it was where he kept sensitive client files and old tax records. I had never questioned it before.

I stared at the electronic keypad.

What code would he use? His birthday? Ours? Hannah’s?

I tried our anniversary: 0-6-1-4.

Red light. Invalid code.

I tried his birthday: 1-1-0-2.

Red light. Invalid code.

I took a deep breath. What about the date we moved from San Diego? The date he always insisted was the "fresh start" of our lives?

0-8-1-9.