My husband’s lover was found dead, brutally murdered. That afternoon, both he and I were brought to the police station. I hadn’t known about his affair; if not for the murder, I might never have found out. The Central Police Station collected our fingerprints and asked us to account for our whereabouts during the time of Melanie Reed’s death. She was 28, an office employee, killed around 11 p.m. on July 30, 2019. The cause of death was blood loss from a severed carotid artery, inflicted by a sharp object. Today marked the third day since Melanie’s death. Content It had only been three days, so I recalled the timeframe clearly. I was certain my husband had been with me that night, sleeping soundly beside me. I told them the truth without hesitation. The officers at the Central Police Station questioned us separately. I was interviewed by a man and a woman. The man, Detective Mark Callahan, was about thirty and the deputy head of the major crimes unit. The woman, Detective Hannah Shaw, appeared to be in her late twenties and was strikingly attractive. Perhaps they saw I was visibly upset, especially as a pregnant woman who’d just learned of her husband’s infidelity, and wanted to tread lightly. Detective Shaw, especially, asked me questions with a gentleness in her gaze. “Mrs. Langston,” she began, “can you try to remember if your husband left the house that night? Could he have possibly gone out while you were asleep?” Caught off guard, I paused before answering, “Detective Shaw, since I’ve been pregnant, I’ve been sleeping very deeply and go to bed early. I can only say that my husband was there both before I fell asleep and after I woke up.” Detective Shaw and Detective Callahan exchanged a look. Curiosity got the better of me, so I asked, “Detective Shaw, can’t DNA be collected from the victim? If you suspect my husband, shouldn’t you test him for it?” Though I said this calmly, I was seething inside. They’d been lovers; why would he have needed to assault her? The killer couldn’t possibly be my husband. Detective Shaw shook her head. “The perpetrator was careful and didn’t leave any viable evidence. It makes this case a bit complicated.” I nodded in understanding. Then she asked me how far along I was, and I told her a little over four months. She glanced at my belly, noting that it looked large and suggesting I might be carrying twins. She reminded me that pregnant women are prone to emotional swings and encouraged me to try to stay calm. I appreciated her words, and after a few more polite exchanges, I left the station. I thought my husband would be coming home with me, but Detective Callahan told me he’d need to stay to assist with the investigation. Unable to do anything else, I went home alone. When I got back to Maplewood Apartments, a neighbor told me the police had shown up in force, checked the security footage, and questioned the neighbors. They’d asked if anyone had heard our door open between 9 p.m. and early morning on July 30. I asked what my neighbor had told them, and she said she hadn’t heard anything. I felt reassured hearing that. Since I assumed my husband would be staying the night at the station, I tried calling him. He didn’t answer, so I ate dinner and went to bed. But just as I started to drift off, he came home. As usual, he was distant. I offered to reheat some food for him, but he waved me off. “Honey,” I asked, “why didn’t you pick up when I called earlier?” He replied that the police had confiscated his phone to copy his text and call logs. Just thinking about his messages with that woman made my stomach turn, but for the sake of our unborn child, I pushed it aside. After all, the woman was dead—what was the point of dwelling on it? But I was wrong. Just because I didn’t care didn’t mean he didn’t. Shortly after I fell asleep, I felt a strong pressure around my throat, jolting me awake. My husband was strangling me with a look of pure rage, his grip tightening as if he intended to kill me.
I struggled, gasping, trying to plead with him, “H-honey… I’m pregnant with your child… do you… do you really want to end two lives?” At those words, he slowly released me, though his hands dug into my shoulders as he leaned in, his bloodshot eyes filled with fury. “Jessica, was it you? Did you hire someone to kill Melanie?” His fury terrified me, and I stammered, “Honey, you… you’ve got it all wrong. I wouldn’t have the nerve.” “Really? You’d better hope it wasn’t you, or I’ll personally see to it that you pay.” With that, he glared at me with a chilling hatred, climbed out of bed, and stormed out of the room. He didn’t come back to our bedroom that night, leaving me lying awake, haunted by the look in his eyes. It wasn’t until dawn that I drifted into a fitful sleep. I woke to the doorbell ringing. After a moment, realizing no one was answering, I groggily went downstairs to open it. But as I came down the stairs, I froze. There, slumped on the couch, was my husband, completely still. A pool of blood lay beneath him, and on the coffee table, a bloodied surgical scalpel. I let out a scream. I couldn’t look a second time—the sight was too horrifying. My body felt weak and I collapsed to the floor, trembling. The doorbell rang on, even more urgently after hearing my scream. I wanted to get up and answer it, but I couldn’t move, paralyzed by shock. All I could do was sit there, sobbing uncontrollably. I didn’t know how much time had passed before the door was forced open. Detective Shaw and Detective Callahan entered, followed by two officers in uniform. When they saw my husband, they were visibly startled. Detective Callahan called for the coroner immediately, while Detective Shaw gently lifted me off the floor as I continued crying. The coroner arrived quickly, concluding that my husband’s death was a suicide, occurring around two in the morning. His expression seemed tortured, as if he’d experienced something terrifying in his final moments. Detective Callahan told me that my husband was the one who’d killed Melanie Reed. I didn’t believe it, but he said the evidence was solid. He explained that the police had reviewed footage from both Maplewood Apartments and Melanie’s complex. While my husband had avoided our building’s security cameras, he’d been unfamiliar with her building, and at 10 p.m. on the night of her murder, he’d been caught on one of their cameras. I was in disbelief, but Detective Callahan went on to explain that they’d found messages between my husband and Melanie on his phone, where they’d arranged to meet up that night. They concluded that my husband had likely killed her and taken his own life out of guilt. I felt numb, slumping to the ground, my body shaking uncontrollably. The police took my husband’s body away for further examination, and my home was marked off as a crime scene. The blood on the floor made me feel sick to my core. After taking my statement, Detective Shaw placed a comforting hand on my shoulder and asked quietly, “Jessica, I see you have bruises on your neck. Did Steven… hurt you?” Her question brought last night’s events rushing back. Wiping away tears, I admitted, “Last night, I confronted him about the affair, and he… lost control.” Detective Shaw looked thoughtful, hesitating before saying, “The neck is a vulnerable area. It seems like he was trying to hurt you badly. Why didn’t you report it?”
Her words took me by surprise. I took a deep breath, clutching my neck. “Detective Shaw, he was my husband. And he was the father of my child.” Seeing my reaction, Detective Shaw didn’t press further. As they were leaving, she suggested I stay at a nearby hotel if I felt unsafe at home and assured me I could reach out to her if I needed anything. I nodded, watching them go. Coming from a small town like Charleston, South Carolina, I had no one nearby—my family was far away. My husband’s family, too, lived a state over. We’d settled here after college, bought this big house, but now it was just me here alone. The thought filled me with a strange sorrow. I packed a few clothes and went to the nearest hotel, The Crescent. After a quick meal, I took out my husband’s bank cards. I called the bank’s hotline, and after checking the balances, I discovered he had over half a million dollars saved. I didn’t know his bank PIN, but recently, I’d gone to the store with him to shop for baby things, and while he paid, I’d memorized his payment code. Guessing he used the same password for all his accounts, I tried it once—and it worked. Since becoming pregnant, I’d had severe morning sickness and had quit my job as a makeup artist. My husband had always been stingy with money, giving me only three thousand a month, which barely covered my living expenses. With the bank cards secured, I felt exhausted and fell asleep on the bed, where I drifted into a nightmare. I dreamt that I was paralyzed, lying in bed as Melanie and my husband, Steven, stared at me with twisted smiles, reaching out to strangle me together. I jolted awake, parched and shaken, reaching for a glass of water. That’s when my phone rang. Seeing it was Detective Shaw, my heart skipped a beat. Taking a deep breath, I answered. She asked which hotel I was staying at, saying there was something more she needed to discuss with me. I gave her the hotel’s name, and she arrived about half an hour later, alone this time. I invited her in, and Detective Shaw smiled as she asked, “Mrs. Langston, although your husband’s death appears to be a suicide, the autopsy showed a high dose of diazepam in his system. Was he using it to treat a condition?” “Diazepam?” I paused, thinking, and replied, “That’s a sleeping aid, right? He had insomnia. Sometimes he’d take a couple of tablets if he couldn’t sleep.” “Is that so? Because the dose in his system was more than two pills—closer to five. What do you make of that?” Detective Shaw’s words made me laugh.
My laugh sounded more like crying. With a sigh, I said, “Detective Shaw, if you were in my husband’s place and your lover suddenly died like that, could you sleep? And if you couldn’t sleep, wouldn’t you take a higher dose than usual?” Detective Shaw was silent for a moment, her gaze intense. Finally, she replied, “Mrs. Langston, with your husband just having passed, I thought you’d be lost in grief. I didn’t expect you to check his account balances so quickly.” Her words caught me off guard, and she continued, “We found that your husband’s parents are still alive, and they’ve just lost their only son. Have you thought about notifying them?” “They’re elderly,” I said, with no attempt to mask my annoyance. “I haven’t figured out what to say yet. I’m expecting a child, and I have to think about the future, Detective. You all seem awfully nosy.” My tone was sharp, surprising her. For a moment, she looked taken aback, as if she hadn’t expected me to have any bite. She forced a slight smile and muttered an apology. Before leaving, she shared one last detail, saying a security camera across the street had recently been realigned due to wiring issues. It now pointed toward my living room, capturing part of what went on inside. She gave me a knowing smile before she left. Her words left me sleepless and anxious that night. As expected, she called the next day, asking me to come down to the police station. They’d uncovered something new in my husband’s death. Heart pounding, I went in, escorted straight to the interrogation room, where Detective Shaw and Detective Callahan awaited me. I sat quietly, waiting for them to start. Detective Callahan turned on a screen, playing a video of a woman in a long dress. The footage was blurry, her face obscured by wild, messy hair. She looked like a ghost as she moved slowly down a staircase, stepped to a window, and pulled the curtain closed. Then the screen went dark. I squinted at the screen, recognizing my living room, but feeling deeply confused. “Detective Shaw, Detective Callahan,” I asked, “Who is that woman? And what was she doing in my house?” The two detectives exchanged a look and smiled. Detective Shaw said, “Mrs. Langston, on the night of your husband’s death, only you and he were at home. Are you saying this wasn’t you?” “It wasn’t me!” I said, feeling my anger rise. Detective Callahan replied calmly, “Couldn’t you have painted your face, done some makeup to look like a ghost?” “I’m pregnant,” I retorted. “There’s no way that was me.” My response left them momentarily speechless. Detective Shaw then added decisively, “The woman in the video certainly resembles Melanie Reed, but we don’t believe in ghosts, Mrs. Langston. Would you mind if I checked your stomach?” Her question made me laugh bitterly. “So, you’re accusing me of faking a pregnancy?”
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