Chapter 5 The Rose Instruments

# Chapter 5: The Rose Instruments

The doorbell chimed precisely at 10:17 AM. Andrea froze at the kitchen counter, coffee cup suspended halfway to her lips. No one was expected—Carl had left an hour earlier for a meeting with the wedding planner, and Leland's housekeeper wasn't due until tomorrow.

She approached the door cautiously, peering through the peephole. The hallway appeared empty. Another chime, more insistent this time. Andrea opened the door a crack, security chain still engaged.

On the threshold lay a bouquet of white roses, at least two dozen, arranged in an elegant crystal vase. No delivery person in sight. Andrea closed the door, removed the chain, and retrieved the flowers, quickly scanning the hallway before retreating back inside.

The roses were flawless—each bloom identical, as if manufactured rather than grown. No card accompanied them. Andrea placed the vase on the dining table, her fingers lightly touching the velvet petals. Who would send anonymous flowers three days before her wedding? The most obvious answer—Carl—seemed unlikely. His gifts were always accompanied by carefully composed notes, his gestures meticulously documented.

As she leaned closer to inhale their fragrance, something glinted among the tightly clustered petals of the centermost rose. Andrea parted the delicate white layers to reveal a small brass key, no larger than her thumbnail, tied to the stem with transparent thread.

She removed it carefully, examining its antique design. It wasn't a modern key—not for any lock in the penthouse. The teeth were ornate, suggesting a cabinet or jewelry box rather than a door. Andrea slipped it into her pocket, mind racing. Someone wanted her to find something, unlock something. But what? And why the secrecy?

The mystery of the roses occupied her thoughts throughout the morning as she finalized wedding details, always conscious of the key's weight in her pocket. By early afternoon, dark clouds had gathered over Boston, and rain began to tap against the penthouse windows. Andrea watched the storm approach, mentally calculating how long before Carl returned. The rehearsal dinner was tomorrow, the wedding in three days. Her window for discovery—and escape—was rapidly closing.

At 3:42 PM, her phone chimed with a text from Carl: "Meeting running long. Won't be back until dinner. Don't wait up. Love you."

The message was perfectly crafted in Leland's texting style—abbreviated but affectionate, with the exact number of x's and o's he would have included. Andrea responded appropriately, then set her phone aside, heart racing with unexpected opportunity.

Barely five minutes later, as if orchestrated by some unseen hand, the lights flickered once, twice, then died completely. The penthouse fell into premature twilight, rain-filtered afternoon light providing the only illumination. Even the emergency hallway lights remained dark—a building-wide outage, not just their unit.

Andrea moved quickly, retrieving a flashlight from the kitchen drawer. This might be her only chance to explore without fear of Carl's return. But where to begin? What lock would the mysterious key fit?

The most obvious location—the basement laboratory—required a modern key that Carl kept with him at all times. Her gaze drifted upward, toward the ceiling. Since discovering the basement's secrets, she had wondered about the locked door at the end of the hallway, ostensibly a storage room but never opened in her presence. Unlike the basement, it had an old-fashioned keyhole—potentially compatible with the antique key.

The door was located past the master bedroom, in a section of the penthouse Andrea rarely visited. As she approached, flashlight beam illuminating the narrow hallway, she noticed something odd—a thin line of light visible beneath the door. Whatever lay beyond had its own power source, independent of the building's main supply.

Her fingers trembling slightly, Andrea inserted the key into the lock. It slid in perfectly, turning with a soft click. The door swung open to reveal a narrow staircase leading upward. Motion-activated lights illuminated each step as she began her ascent.

The staircase opened into what must have been the penthouse's attic space, though it had been converted into something else entirely. Unlike the clinical atmosphere of the basement laboratory, this room had the feel of a private study or sanctuary. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with medical texts and journals. A large desk dominated one corner, its surface organized with military precision.

Most striking, however, was the wall directly opposite the stairs—covered entirely with medical imaging scans, charts, and photographs. Andrea approached slowly, flashlight beam playing across the display. MRIs, CT scans, and X-rays were arranged in chronological order, all labeled with Leland's name and various dates. The most recent was from six months ago—around the time he had proposed.

Beside these clinical images hung more personal photographs—Leland in a hospital bed, growing progressively thinner in each shot. In the final image, dated three months ago, he appeared skeletal, his once-handsome face hollow with suffering. Carl sat beside him in this photo, the brothers' hands clasped between them, an intimate moment of shared pain.

Andrea's gaze shifted to the desk, where a thick medical file lay open. She lifted it carefully, flashlight illuminating pages of test results, doctor's notes, and consultation summaries. Though much of the terminology was beyond her understanding, certain phrases stood out with terrible clarity: "Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis," "rapid progression," "terminal prognosis," "six to eight months life expectancy."

The diagnosis date was ten months ago—two months before Leland had proposed to her.

Attached to the file was a handwritten note in Leland's distinctive script, addressed to Carl:

"When the time comes, remember our agreement. She must never know how bad it became at the end. Let her remember me as I was, not as this disease made me. The ring is yours to give when appropriate. Take care of her, brother. But let her choose freely."

Andrea sank into the desk chair, the implications overwhelming her. Leland had been dying when he proposed, had known he wouldn't live to see their wedding. Had the body in the basement been him after all? Had he truly asked Carl to "take care of her" after his death? But if so, why the elaborate deception? Why not simply tell her the truth?

As these questions swirled in her mind, Andrea noticed a laptop on the desk, its power light blinking in sleep mode. She opened it, and the screen illuminated instantly, requesting no password—unusual for the security-conscious Montgomery brothers.

The desktop contained a single folder labeled with today's date. Inside was a video file, created just hours ago. With growing unease, Andrea clicked to play it.

The screen showed the interior of St. Catherine's Cathedral, where her wedding was scheduled to take place. The pews were decorated with white roses, the altar arrayed with candles not yet lit. In the frame, a solitary figure moved methodically among the decorations—Carl, dressed in black, carefully positioning what appeared to be small devices among the flower arrangements.

Andrea leaned closer, squinting at the screen. The devices were cylindrical, no larger than lipstick tubes, with tiny LED indicators. Carl placed them strategically throughout the cathedral, concentrating especially on the altar area where the ceremony would take place. After positioning each device, he consulted a diagram, checked something on his phone, and moved to the next location.

The video had been recorded from a security camera, its timestamp indicating this had occurred just yesterday afternoon—while Carl had claimed to be meeting with the caterer. But what was he installing? Some kind of recording devices? Lights?

Andrea opened another file in the folder—a technical schematic labeled "Rose Petal Release Mechanism with Integrated Audio." The diagram showed the same cylindrical devices, designed to create a theatrical effect: at a remote signal, they would release thousands of preserved rose petals from hidden compartments in the ceiling while simultaneously playing the recorded sound of an explosion.

A wedding surprise—dramatic and romantic on the surface, but serving another purpose entirely. The "explosion" would create momentary chaos and confusion, during which, according to a detailed timeline also saved on the laptop, Carl planned to separate Andrea from the guests and bring her to the cathedral's underground chamber.

Where, according to the final document in the folder, the frozen body of Leland awaited its "reunion" with the bride.

Andrea closed the laptop, her mind reeling. The pieces were beginning to align into a coherent, if horrifying, picture. Leland had been diagnosed with ALS, a terminal condition with no cure. Rather than subject Andrea to the role of caretaker and widow, he had apparently made some arrangement with his brother—though the exact nature of that arrangement remained unclear.

Had Leland asked Carl to take his place? To marry Andrea in his stead? The idea seemed impossible, yet the evidence before her suggested some version of this insanity. The note indicated Leland wanted Carl to "take care of her," but had he intended this grotesque deception?

A sudden noise from below—the apartment door opening—shattered her contemplation. Carl had returned early.

Andrea quickly closed the medical file, shut down the laptop, and moved toward the stairs. As she reached the doorway, her flashlight beam swept across one final detail she had overlooked: a small refrigerator in the corner, its digital display showing internal temperature well below freezing. Unlike the basement freezer, this unit had a glass door, revealing its contents—dozens of vials labeled with Leland's name and various dates, containing what appeared to be blood and tissue samples.

Preservation for what purpose? Medical research? Or something more sinister?

She had no time to investigate further. Andrea descended the stairs silently, closed and locked the attic door, and had just pocketed the key when Carl's voice called out from the living room.

"Andrea? Are you home? The power's out in the whole building."

"In the bedroom," she called back, hurrying down the hallway. "Just looking for candles."

Carl appeared at the bedroom doorway, his silhouette backlit by the flashlight he carried. "No need—the emergency generator should kick in any minute. Are you all right? You sound breathless."

"Fine," Andrea said, forcing a smile. "Just startled by the outage. I wasn't expecting you back so early."

"The meeting finished sooner than anticipated." Carl moved closer, his flashlight illuminating her face. "You look flushed. Are you feeling well?"

"Just wedding nerves," Andrea replied, turning away to hide her expression. "So much to remember, to coordinate."

"Don't worry," Carl said, his voice softening in perfect imitation of Leland's reassuring tone. "Everything has been arranged. The ceremony will be unforgettable."

The double meaning in his words sent a chill down Andrea's spine. As if on cue, the lights flickered back to life, the penthouse's systems humming as power was restored.

"There we are," Carl said, placing his flashlight on the dresser. "Crisis averted." He moved to the window, watching the continuing rainfall. "Strange weather for June, isn't it? Almost like the heavens themselves are preparing for our special day."

Andrea observed his reflection in the window glass—the profile so similar to Leland's, yet fundamentally different in ways she could now identify. The key felt heavy in her pocket, its presence a reminder of what she had discovered and what remained hidden.

"I received roses today," she said, watching for his reaction. "White ones. No card."

Carl turned, his expression carefully neutral. "How odd. A secret admirer, perhaps? Rather poor timing, considering."

"Perhaps." Andrea maintained eye contact, searching for any hint that he knew about the key, about her discovery. "They're quite beautiful. I put them in the dining room."

"I'll have a look," Carl said, moving past her toward the door. "But first, I've brought dinner. I thought we might have a quiet evening in, just the two of us. The calm before the storm of wedding festivities."

As he left the room, Andrea released the breath she'd been holding. The roses hadn't been from him—which meant someone else was involved, someone who wanted her to discover the truth. But who? And why now, so close to the wedding?

On the nightstand, her phone lit up with a text message from an unknown number: "Tomorrow, 3PM, St. Catherine's crypt. Come alone if you want answers. L."

L. Leland? Impossible. Yet after what she'd seen today, Andrea no longer knew what was possible and what wasn't. One thing was certain—tomorrow would bring her closer to the truth, for better or worse.

In the dining room, she found Carl examining the roses, his expression unreadable. "Lovely arrangement," he commented, fingering a petal. "Though I prefer red myself. White seems so... cold."

"I've always loved white roses," Andrea said, the lie coming easily now. "They'll match our wedding flowers perfectly."

"Yes," Carl agreed, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Perfect symmetry. That's what we've always aimed for, isn't it?"

As he turned away to unpack the dinner he'd brought, Andrea noticed a small detail she'd missed before—a splash of red on his shirt cuff, hastily wiped but not completely removed.

Blood? Or merely red wine from his meeting? Either way, the clock was ticking. Tomorrow she would meet the mysterious sender at St. Catherine's, and finally learn what had truly happened to Leland Montgomery.