Done scrubbing every inch of my body, I step out and stand naked in the middle of the bathroom. The cool air sweeps across my body, awakening goose bumps.
As I pull on my fluffy robe, I bring a hand to my belly and shiver. I haven’t felt the baby move in a while. The last time I felt it kick was when I drank a glass of water at dinner, a couple of hours ago. It’s normally quite active. Maybe there’s nothing to worry about, but I’ll still go and see the OB-GYN as soon as she opens. I might be turned away, but I will not forgive myself if I don’t try and something happens to my baby.
Back in the bedroom, I remember lying next to my husband just two nights ago, when we were unaware of the horrors that awaited us. I can’t sleep in the bed, so I grab a few sheets and a pillow from the linen closet and take them with me to the living room, where I make myself comfortable on the sofa bed that Alex and I bought two months ago.
I blink away the sting in my eyes. I’m fed up with crying. The stress is not good for the baby. I have to learn to manage it.
After a few deep breaths for courage, I pick up the remote. The last thing I want to do is watch my husband’s name being dragged through the mud on the news, but I can’t bury my head in the sand. I need to know what’s being saidabout him.
A couple of flicks of the remote and I come across a program focused on the murder and Alex’s role in it.
How did this happen? How did we go from a quiet peaceful life to being thrown into the jaws of the media?
I wish I could pick up the phone and call Alex. Not being able to speak to him hurts like hell. I’m so used to him telling me what to do in complicated situations.
I glare at the screen with tears in my eyes and force myself to listen to what the female reporter has to say.
“New evidence has been found in the case of the Brittney McLaren’s rape and murder. According to the Aston police department, a half-naked photo of the victim was found on Alex Watson’s laptop.” The reporter pauses to let the words sink in. “It’s unclear whether the victim was deceased or alive in the photograph. Police have claimed several other pieces of evidence have been found that they are not sharing with the public at this time. We will keep you informed as the story unfolds.”
Rape and murder. Alex’s laptop. A photo of the victim.
The words hit my ears in fragments and repeat themselves in my head. Another news reporter appears on the screen, but his words are a blur through the rush in my ears.
Alex had a photo of the dead girl on his computer? Why? How?
I don’t want to believe it.
The only explanation to all of this is that he might have been set up. It happens.
It’s easier for the locals to blame him than one of their own.
I stand and pace the room, but I can barely stay upright, so I use the wall for support.
There has to be an explanation. Sooner or later, it will all come out in the open. Alex will be set free. He will be present at our baby’s birth. We will raise our child together.
It wouldn’t be the first time that someone has been framed for a murder they did not commit. I’m choosing to believe that my husband is innocent, and someone is trying to damage his reputation and get him locked away.
But why would anyone do that? What did he ever do to them? He was always kind to the locals and often volunteered in the community. Last Christmas, we went to the Wooden Spoon Soup Kitchen together and served meals to the poor. Why would anyone want to hurt someone like that?
To distract myself from what I heard on the news, I sit back down to read my emails on my phone.
Aside from a bunch of junk mail, I don’t see much. I’m about to close it when I spot an email from a familiar address—Delores’.
I hesitate before opening it. When I do, a sob forms in my throat.
Hi Viola,
I’m sorry that I have to do this in writing. With everything that’s going on, I have to ask you to not come back to the salon at all.
I valued you as an employee, but I’m pretty sure you understand why I have to do this.
Take care of yourself and the baby.
Delores
I’m not surprised to receive her email, but it does hurt that she didn’t tell me in person or even over the phone. After the new evidence, I can understand that it would be hard for her to believe Alex is innocent.
I’m about to drop the phone, but instead, I open the web browser and type Brittney McLaren’s name into the search bar. Lots of articles pop up along with an image of Brittney in her blue and white cheerleading uniform, her hair in pigtails tied with powder blue ribbons with white polka dots on them.
