I’ve learned the hard way that when you first get pregnant, you have the liberty to make wishes. When you miscarry even once, you’ll take what you can get.
He weaves his fingers over his knee. “What if it’s a girl? Imagine if she was found murdered and buried in the woods when she got to high school.”
I clench my teeth and close my eyes, trying to stop images of Brittney from permeating my mind. I haven’t seen her face in death, but horrible pictures of what it might look like haunted me all night.
“Wouldn’t you want the person responsible to pay for the crime? Wouldn’t you want justice?”
“Of course I would.” I stifle the sob in my throat. “Officer, you’re wasting your time with the wrong man instead of looking for the person who commited the crime. That person is not my husband. He’s not a murderer.”
“How about a rapist?” He raises an eyebrow. “Brittney was also brutally raped before being strangled to death. She was found naked in that shallow grave.”
Blood drains from my face.
It’s the first time I’m hearing of it. I have not switched on the TV since the moment I saw my husband being arrested. I couldn’t bring myself to. I didn’t want to hear what everyone was saying about him. I didn’t want to hear the hate and the ugliness aimed at us. It was easier to stay in the dark, to wait and allow things to correct themselves.
“Did you know about the rape, Mrs. Watson?” he asks.
“No,” I murmur. “But what I do know is that my husband—”
“Did he like his job at Aston High?”
I know where he wants to go with his questioning. It’s all a trap.
I rise to my feet and back away from the couch. I only stop when I reach the window and turn my back on him.
I wrap my arms around my body, trying to protect my baby from the poison that’s surrounding me. I hardly slept all night. And it’s hard for me to keep any food in. I hate that this situation is not just affecting me, but my unborn child as well.
After giving myself a moment to calm down, I face him again. “My husband is not a rapist. And he’s not a murderer. He didn’t do the things you’re accusing him of.” I clear my throat. “He’s an easy target. We’re new in this town. It’s easier to convict a newcomer than one of the locals here.”
“But Mrs. Watson, there’s evidence that points to your husband being the one who did it.”
“And what evidence is that exactly?”
“It’s classified information.” He gets to his feet and takes a few steps toward me. I shrink back, but it doesn’t deter him. “I’m sure you understand the enormity of this case. Help us find justice for the grieving family of that innocent girl.”
“By telling you my husband is guilty when he is not?”
I tip my head back and look up at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of footfalls on the second floor as the officers that had accompanied him search our home.
I had hoped that coming to Aston would be a new beginning for both of us. As usual, after the last miscarriage and my struggle with depression, Alex thought it would be a good idea to start over somewhere else.
The past five years, we’ve lived in four different towns and cities, on the run from the pain. Before moving to Aston, we were in Denver.
Now here we are, and we’ve run into more agony than we can handle. We never thought we would be walking into an open flame.
“I’m going to ask you again, Mrs. Watson. Where was your husband between 6 and 8 p.m. on January 14, the day Brittney McLaren went missing?”
“Where did he say he was? I’m sure you talked to him.”
The officer rubs his beard in frustration. “What he said or didn’t say doesn’t matter right now. We want to hear your side of the story.”
“Fine.” I cross my arms. “My husband was here, with me.”
The truth is, I can’t remember if Alex was home. He had to have been, though. When he’s not working, he is home, living the life of a loving husband and father-to-be.
Sometimes he meets up with Jeffrey, but never during the week.
The officer nods. Relief pours out of me when I catch sight of his colleagues coming down the stairs, but it’s only momentary. They’re carrying things, possessions that they will break before using the broken shards to tear our lives apart.
