Chapter 6 - The Midnight Visitor
The air inside the storage room smelled of stale cardboard and damp concrete. I pulled out my phone, turning on the flashlight beam, illuminating rows of stacked plastic totes and filing boxes.
I began pulling open boxes labeled TAXES 2018-2021, OFFICE SUPPLIES, and HOME DECOR. Nothing suspicious.
Then, tucked away behind a stack of old lawn care equipment, I spotted a heavy metal lockbox painted matte black. Unlike the cardboard boxes, this one was hidden intentionally.
I pulled it out. It was secured with a keyhole lock.
I searched around the shelf, shining my flashlight into every dark corner, until I found a tiny brass key taped to the underside of the bottom shelf.
My hands trembled as I inserted the key into the lockbox and turned it. It opened with a soft click.
Inside was a thick stack of printed documents, old medical records, and a USB drive.
I picked up the top document. It was a police report from the San Diego Police Department dated four years ago—two years before Brandon and I got married.
I scanned the text quickly, my eyes widening with every line.
Incident Report: Aggravated Assault and Domestic Disturbance. Suspect: Brandon Bennett. Victim: Sarah Jenkins.
My stomach churned. Who was Sarah Jenkins?
I flipped through the pages. Attached was a medical evaluation of the victim, detailing severe physical injuries, nervous shock, and a restraining order issued against Brandon.
Below that was a signed non-disclosure agreement and a financial settlement payout of over $200,000 paid out from an account held by... Florence Bennett.
Florence hadn't just moved to Phoenix to be close to us. She had liquidated her retirement savings to buy Sarah Jenkins' silence and keep her son out of prison.
And then, near the bottom of the stack, I found a printout of a psychological evaluation of Brandon.
The doctor’s notes were stark and terrifying: Patient exhibits extreme narcissism, violent impulse control issues, and acute auditory sensitivity to high-pitched distress sounds, often reacting with sudden, unprovoked aggression.
Auditory sensitivity to high-pitched distress sounds... like a baby crying.
A horrific realization washed over me. Brandon hadn't just been irritated by Hannah's crying. He possessed a documented history of violent outbursts triggered by high-pitched stress, a secret his mother had gone to desperate lengths to conceal.
Suddenly, a shadow fell across the concrete floor behind me.
"Looking for something, Lauren?"
May you like
I whipped around, dropping the papers.
Brandon was standing in the doorway of the storage room, blocking the exit, his eyes dark, unblinking, and entirely devoid of warmth.
