“Mrs. Watson, thank you for your time. If something else comes to you, please give me a call.” Officer Scofield hands me a business card. I drop it onto the coffee table and watch them exit our home.
Only when they’re gone do I allow myself to be weak.
When I’m done crying, my entire upper body is damp. I’m shaking as I move to the window. The police car has disappeared, but outside is a flurry of activity.
Neighbors and other locals have gathered together. Some are holding signs, the wordmurdererscrawled on most of them in red paint, ink, or lipstick. I can’t tell. Even though they don’t break down the front door to come and get me, each shouted and written word cuts deep.
With the windows shut, I don’t hear much, but I can see their lips moving. I can read their gestures.
I want to get out. I need to drive to the police station, to demand to speak to Alex, but I can’t. I’m afraid of what the crowd would do to me if I dare exit the house. What baffles me is that the cops saw them standing out there and they did nothing.
I guess they’re biased. They have been in this town longer than we have. They believe Alex killed one of their own. They want revenge just like those people outside.
I drop the curtain and fall to my knees in front of the couch to pray.
From a young age, my mother taught me to pray whenever I found myself in a situation that was out of my hands. But I’ve never prayed this hard before or cried this much. I need God to help me prove that my husband is innocent. I pray that with everything going on, I will not lose my child when I have come so close to the end.
I’m pretty sure it will get worse before it gets better, if it ever does.
I need to tell Alex that I believe him, even though the whole town seems to be against him.
This is not only his war. It’s ours.
Chapter 4
I’m inside a bathtub full of water when hot pain blooms in the center of my belly and warms my entire core. It’s a pain I’m familiar with, an unwanted guest who has appeared out of the blue many times over the years.
The day I lost our first baby, I knew I wanted another, not to replace it, but to feel whole again.
Overcome with fear that I might lose this one, I cradle my stomach, my entire body locked with tension and dread.
My throat tightens when the pain intensifies. It feels like someone is wringing my insides.
The sound of my scream shakes me awake.
Relieved that it was just a nightmare, I wipe the sweat off my face and exhale.
I dream about losing the baby at least once per week. Usually, I ignore them and go on with my day. This time I feel a dull ache in the lower part of my belly. I can’t tell whether it’s real or imagined.
Ignoring it, I run my tongue along my teeth and almost gag at the bitter tang in my mouth. Then I turn my body to face the window.
The sky is blushing, but it’s too early. A glance at the clock above the mantel confirms it.
It will be hard to get back to sleep again. Instead of trying, I switch on the lamp on the side table next to the couch.
I don’t remember switching off the light last night. I don’t remember falling asleep either.
The one thing I do remember is that I was not ready to sleep in our bedroom, knowing Alex wouldn’t be there to warm up his side of the bed.
I sit up and listen to the thudding of my heart. The only other sound is the hum of the fridge in the kitchen a few steps away.
I don’t hear the shouts. I don’t hear the screams, the anger, the pain of the protesters gathered outside our house.
They must be gone.
When I fell asleep, they were still out there, determined to make me pay for marrying a man they believe is responsible for taking a life.
A groan slips from my lips as I drag myself to my feet, my knees creaking.
