Chapter 6 - The Nightmare In The Baby Monitor
Two months before the trial, we got the final piece of evidence. The lab had finished restoring the audio from the baby monitor — the one on the microSD card, the one Allison had hidden in Mr. Floppy. It was damaged, parts of it garbled by static, but the techs had cleaned it up enough that every word was clear.
Detective Martinez, Benjamin, Tyler, and I sat in the DA’s conference room, the lights dimmed, and listened.
The recording started at 1:47 a.m. Chloe was snoring softly in the background, the sound of her stuffed rabbit rubbing against the sheets. Then, from downstairs, a crash. A glass breaking. Allison’s voice, sharp and scared: “Derek? What are you doing? Get out of my office!”
Derek’s voice, slurred — he’d been drinking: “Where the hell is the file, Allison? I know you hid it. Hand it over, and I won’t hurt the kid.”
Allison laughed, bitter and sharp: “You think I’d ever leave anything where you could find it? You’re dumber than you look. The cops are already on their way. I called them ten minutes ago. You and Vanessa and your dad are all going to jail for the rest of your lives.”
A woman’s voice — Vanessa — cold and amused: “Cops? Oh, honey. We paid them off. Remember? They’re not coming. Now, be a good girl and give us the files, and this will be over fast. If you don’t… well, Chloe’s such a light sleeper. It would be a shame if she woke up and saw something she shouldn’t.”
Allison screamed then — a sharp, tearing sound that made me cover my mouth to keep from crying out. The sound of a scuffle, furniture scraping across the floor, Derek grunting. “You think you’re so tough? You think you can run this whole thing without me? I made you, Allison! You were nothing before I married you! A poor little girl with a dream and a broken family! I gave you everything!”
“You stole everything!” Allison gasped. “You stole my money, you stole my life, you tried to steal my daughter! Get off me! Get —”
Her words cut off with a sickening crack. The sound of a body tumbling down stairs, one thud after another, until it hit the bottom with a final, heavy thump. Silence for a minute. Then Vanessa’s voice, bright and cheerful, like she was commenting on the weather: “Well. That was easier than I thought. Harold? You can come in now. We’ve got cleanup to do.”
A man’s voice — deep, gravelly, Harold Lawson: “Did you get the files?”
Derek, breathing hard: “Not yet. But she said she hid ‘em where only her mom would find it. We’ll search the house tomorrow. No one’s gonna suspect a thing. We tell the cops she was up late working, tripped on the stairs. Miller’s already on his way to make sure the scene stays ‘clean.’”
Vanessa laughed: “And the bracelet? Can I have it now? The one with the diamonds? I saw it in her jewelry box. I want to wear it to the funeral. I want her mom to see it. I want her to know I won.”
Harold’s voice, annoyed: “Fine. Take the bracelet. But remember — no mistakes. One slip, and we all go down. Derek, you call 911 in an hour. Cry a lot. Make it convincing. Vanessa, you go home, get in bed, set your alarm for 7 a.m. You were at the office all night. You have receipts. You have witnesses. No one can prove you were here. Understand?”
A chorus of “yeses.” Then the sound of feet on the stairs, coming closer to Chloe’s room. I froze, my hand tightening around Tyler’s. The doorknob turned. A shadow fell across the room. Derek’s voice, soft and fake-sweet: “Goodnight, Chloe. You’re gonna be with Daddy soon. Everything’s gonna be perfect.”
The door closed. The recording ended.
No one spoke for a long time. Detective Martinez was the first to break the silence, his voice rough: “That’s it. That’s the smoking gun. We’ve got all three of them — Derek, Vanessa, Harold — in their own words, admitting to murder, admitting to the cover-up, admitting to the plan to take Chloe. The jury won’t need anything else. This is a conviction. Guaranteed.”
I stood up, my legs shaking, and walked to the window. Outside, the Texas sun was setting, painting the sky pink and orange, the same colors Allison had used in her favorite design for the children’s hospital. I thought of her, alone that night, scared but brave, knowing they were coming for her, still finding the strength to hide the evidence, to protect Chloe, to make sure they didn’t get away with it.
I thought of Chloe, only four years old, asleep in the next room while her mother was being murdered downstairs, completely unaware of how close she’d come to being raised by the people who’d killed her.
“Can I have a copy?” I said, turning back to Martinez. “For Chloe. For when she’s older. So she knows exactly how brave her mom was.”
He nodded. “Of course. We’ll make you a redacted copy — leave out the worst parts, until she’s old enough to handle it.”
That night, I sat on Chloe’s bed and watched her sleep. Mr. Floppy was tucked under her arm, her hair spread out across the pillow, a small smile on her face like she was having a good dream. I brushed the hair off her forehead and whispered: “You’re safe now, bug. No one’s ever gonna hurt you again. Mommy made sure of it.”
A week later, the prosecution offered Vanessa a deal: testify against Derek and Harold, plead guilty to manslaughter and conspiracy, and get 15 years with the possibility of parole in 10. If she refused, they’d charge her with first-degree murder, and she’d get life without parole.
She took it.
The day she signed the plea deal, her lawyer released a statement to the press: “Ms. Torres deeply regrets her role in this tragedy. She was manipulated and controlled by Derek and Harold Lawson, and she takes full responsibility for her actions. She hopes that by testifying, she can help bring some measure of peace to Mrs. Cole and Chloe.”
I didn’t believe a word of it. But I didn’t care. As long as she was behind bars, as long as she never got near Chloe again, she could say whatever she wanted.
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The trial was set to begin in three weeks. The whole country was watching. CNN, Fox News, MSNBC — all of them were sending teams to Austin to cover it. It was being called the “trial of the decade,” the “real-life Gone Girl,” the “sunflower murder case.”
I didn’t care about the cameras, or the headlines, or what anyone thought of me. I only cared about one thing: making sure Derek and Harold spent the rest of their lives in a cell, with nothing but time to think about what they’d done. And making sure Chloe grew up knowing how much her mother loved her — enough to outsmart three monsters, even from the grave.
