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 Unable to do anything else, I went home alone.
the investigation.
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.
