I scroll to the bottom of the screen, counting the articles. There are seven in total, all going on about how my husband is a monster and a cold-blooded murderer.
I thought I could read them to find out more information, but I’m not brave enough yet. I’ll do it in the morning. I bookmark them for easier access later, then I switch off the light.
I sit in the dark room on the couch bed, rocking back and forth with my arms around my body.
That’s the punishment for your disobedience.
It’s my mother’s voice inside my head. She said those words to me many times when I was a child. Every time I disobeyed and something bad happened, she told me God was punishing me.
This time, I almost believe her.
What if Alex and I never recover from this ordeal? Even if they let him out, what if things never return to normal? It won’t be easy to pick up the pieces and carry on. Alex might never recover from the shame of being branded a murderer.
Are we already broken but just don’t know it yet?
Chapter 9
The baby kicked a few times early this morning, but it was so light I almost didn’t feel it. I waited for it to kick again, but nothing more happened. It’s close to ten o’clock and I’m still waiting.
Something is wrong. In the past, I always sensed the loss before it happened, before I started to bleed, before I lost yet another baby.
I decide to drop by my OB-GYN without an appointment since they refused to give me one over the phone.
I pick a wrinkled Pink Lady apple from the fruit bowl. I’m raising it to my lips when a sense of unease sweeps through me, like someone is out there watching me.
As I’m thinking this, something falls outside the kitchen window.
Adrenaline pumping, I approach the window above the sink and peer outside. A reporter with a messy bun is trying to hide unsuccessfully in the bushes. Her red pullover is fully visible in the bright morning sun.
The protesters were bad enough. The press is worse. Whatever I say or do could end up in the papers.
I’ve always hated being the center of attention, good or bad.
With the handle of my bag in one hand and my apple in the other, I know I have to make a decision. The most important thing to me right now, aside from Alex, is my baby. If I don’t go to the doctor, something horrible could happen to my child and it will be too late.
I cannot allow the reporters out there to stand in my way.
With gritted teeth, I go and open the front door.
As though I have given them permission to come out of hiding and bombard me with questions, two reporters, one of them the woman with the bun, appear and shove microphones in my face.
“Mrs. Watson, how does it feel to be the wife of a murderer and rapist?”
The question hits me hard. I stumble back, my arm around my belly.
The skin on my cheeks prickles with heat when a cameraman and another greasy-haired male reporter approach, ready to film my expression for the world to see.
From across the street, curtains are being pushed aside and doors are opened. My neighbors are gathering together in the street, to witness my embarrassment.
“I... I...” My voice drifts off, and with my rising anxiety, I can feel myself start to stammer.
Growing up, my stammer had made school a torturous experience and had infuriated my mother, who thought I was somehow doing it on purpose.
When Alex appeared in my life, he showed me that I’m worthy of love just as I am. He’d been teased his whole childhood because of his weight. We both understood what it was like to be outcasts because of the way we looked and sounded. Over the years, we helped one another heal as he lost weight and I learned therapeutic techniques to get around my speech problem.
Now Alex is not here to save me or to keep me calm, and I can feel the monster from my childhood breathing down my neck.
What if after all these years the stammering returns? The reporters will probably think I’m nervous because I know Alex committed the crimes he’s being accused of.
