My husband’s mistress was dead. Raped and murdered. That same afternoon, my husband and I were taken to the police station. I honestly didn't know he was having an affair. If it weren't for this murder case, I might have stayed in the dark forever. To eliminate suspects, the police fingerprinted both of us and questioned our whereabouts during the time of death. The victim was Melissa Bradley, 28, an office worker. She was killed around 11 PM on the night of July 30th, 2019. Cause of death: her carotid artery was severed by a sharp object, leading to fatal blood loss. That meant today was the third day since her death. 1 Only three days had passed, so the timeline was still fresh in my mind. I clearly remembered my husband was with me the entire night, sleeping soundly beside me. Naturally, I told the police the truth. My husband and I were questioned in separate rooms. I was interviewed by a man and a woman. The man, Detective Miller, was about thirty and the deputy head of the Homicide Division. The woman, Detective Evans, was in her late twenties and strikingly beautiful. They probably saw the red rims of my eyes—a pregnant woman who had just discovered her husband’s infidelity—and worried I was on the verge of a breakdown. Their questions were gentle. Detective Evans, in particular, looked at me with kind eyes. "Mrs. Reed," she began softly, "I need you to think very carefully. Are you absolutely certain your husband never left the house on the night of the murder? Is it possible he snuck out while you were asleep?" Her question caught me off guard. I considered it for a moment. "Detective, ever since I got pregnant, I've been sleeping very heavily. I go to bed early every night. All I can say for sure is that my husband was there when I fell asleep, and he was there when I woke up." The two detectives exchanged a look. Curiosity got the better of me. "Detective, in a rape case, can't you collect DNA from the victim's body? If you suspect my husband, you could just run a test." Even as I said it, I was thinking, they were already having an affair. Why would he need to rape her? The killer can't be my husband. Detective Evans shook her head. "The killer was clever. No viable evidence was left behind. It's making the investigation... complicated." "Oh," was all I could say. She then asked how far along I was. I told her a little over four months. She smiled and glanced at my stomach. "You're showing quite a bit. It could be twins." She then offered some comforting words, reminding me that pregnant women are prone to emotional swings and that I should try not to dwell on things, to just go home and take care of myself. I was genuinely touched by her kindness. After a bit more small talk, I was allowed to leave. I thought my husband would be coming home with me, but Detective Miller informed me that they needed him for further cooperation. He couldn't leave just yet. With no other choice, I went home alone. When I got back to our apartment complex, I learned from a neighbor that several officers had been there. They had reviewed the building's security footage and asked our neighbors if they'd heard our door open or close between 9 PM and midnight on July 30th. When I asked what she’d told them, my neighbor said she hadn't heard a thing and had reported as much. Her words were a great relief. I assumed my husband would be spending the night at the station. He didn't answer his phone when I called. But to my surprise, just after I’d had dinner and gone to bed, he came home. He was as cold and distant as ever. I started to get up to heat up some food for him, but he stopped me. "Honey," I asked, "I called you earlier. Why didn't you pick up?" "The police took my phone," he said flatly. "They need to copy my chat logs and call records." The thought of all the sweet nothings he’d whispered to that woman on his phone made my stomach turn. But then I thought of the baby in my belly and forced it down. The woman was dead. What was the point of fighting over it now? But I was wrong. Just because I was willing to let it go didn't mean others were. I had just drifted off to sleep when a violent, suffocating pressure on my throat jolted me awake. My eyes flew open to see my husband, his face contorted with madness, strangling me with all his might. He was trying to kill me. 2 I struggled wildly, pushing at his unyielding arms as I choked out the words. "Na... Nathan... I'm... I'm pregnant with your child... Are you... really going to kill us both?" At the last second, my words broke through his rage. He slowly released his grip, but his hands shot to my shoulders, pinning me to the bed. His eyes were bloodshot, blazing with fury. "Laura," he roared, his voice a raw wound, "tell me the truth! Did you have Melissa killed?" His violent outburst terrified me. I shook my head frantically, stammering, "Nathan, you're... you're wrong. I would never do something like that." "Hmph. Is that so?" he sneered. "You'd better hope I don't find out it was you. Because if I do, I'll kill you with my own two hands." With one last venomous glare, my husband got out of bed and left the room. He didn't come back that night. I tossed and turned, his furious face burned into my mind. I didn't fall into a fitful sleep until the sky began to lighten. I was woken again, this time by the insistent ringing of the doorbell. After listening for a moment and realizing no one was going to answer it, I dragged myself out of bed and headed downstairs. But as I descended the staircase, the scene in the living room made me scream. My husband. Nathan. He was slumped motionless on the sofa. And on the floor at his feet was a vast, dark pool of blood. He had cut his wrists. A bloody scalpel lay discarded on the coffee table. The horrifying image sent another scream tearing from my throat. I couldn't look again. It was too gruesome. My body went limp, and I collapsed onto the floor, shaking uncontrollably. The doorbell kept ringing, growing more urgent after my screams. I wanted to answer it, but I had no strength left. All I could do was sit there on the cold floor and sob. I don't know how much time passed before the door was forced open. Detective Evans and Detective Miller rushed in, followed by two uniformed officers. They all froze at the sight of my husband. Miller immediately called for the medical examiner, while Evans rushed to my side, helping me to my feet. The ME arrived quickly. The preliminary finding was suicide, with the time of death estimated around 2 AM. It hadn't been a peaceful end. His face was twisted in a grimace, as if he'd witnessed something terrible in his final moments. Detective Miller told me that my husband was Melissa Bradley's killer. I couldn't believe it, but he said the evidence was conclusive. They had pulled the security footage from both our building and Melissa's. Though Nathan had managed to avoid the blind spots in our building, he wasn't as familiar with Melissa's complex. A camera had captured a clear shot of him there at 10 PM on the night of the murder. It seemed impossible. Miller went on to explain that they'd found text messages on Nathan's phone where he and Melissa had arranged to meet. Their initial theory was that he'd killed himself out of guilt and fear of being caught. The news was a physical blow. I sank to the floor, my body shaking like a leaf in a storm. They took my husband's body away for a full autopsy. Our home was now a crime scene, the entire living room cordoned off with yellow tape. That dark stain on the rug made my stomach churn every time I looked at it. After taking my statement, Detective Evans was deeply sympathetic. She put a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Laura," she asked in a low voice, "I see bruises on your neck. Did Nathan abuse you?" Her question reminded me of the previous night's attack. I wiped my tears and whispered, "I confronted him about the affair last night. He... he got angry and lost control." Detective Evans listened, her expression thoughtful. After a moment, she said, "The neck is a vital area. He was trying to kill you. Why didn't you call the police?" 3 Her words startled me. I took a deep breath, my hand instinctively going to my throat. "Detective, he was my husband. The father of my child." Seeing my response, she dropped the subject. As they prepared to leave, she suggested I stay at a nearby hotel if I was afraid to be in the house alone. She gave me her card and told me to call if I needed anything. I nodded and watched them go. I grew up in the countryside, and my parents were still there, miles away. Nathan's parents lived out of state. We had both found jobs here after college and bought our house together. It was a big house, over two thousand square feet. Now, it was just me. The thought was so overwhelming that I could barely breathe. I went upstairs, packed a small bag, and checked into a nearby hotel. After a small meal, I took out the bank cards I'd found in Nathan's wallet. I called the automated banking service for each one. To my shock, I discovered he had over half a million dollars in savings. I never knew his PINs. But recently, I had intentionally asked him to take me shopping for baby supplies. Each time he paid, I discreetly watched him enter his code. I gambled that, like most people, he used the same PIN for everything to avoid forgetting it. I was right. I got it on the first try. Since becoming pregnant, I'd suffered from severe morning sickness and had to quit my job as a makeup artist at a photo studio. Nathan had always been guarded about his finances, giving me a meager five hundred dollars a month for living expenses. It was a constant source of resentment for me. I put the cards away, feeling drained and exhausted. I lay down on the bed and fell asleep almost instantly, only to be plunged into a nightmare. I dreamt I was paralyzed in bed, unable to move, while Melissa Bradley and my husband, Nathan, stood over me, their faces twisted into sinister grins. Together, they reached out and wrapped their icy hands around my neck. I woke with a start, my heart pounding. It was just a dream. My throat was parched. As I reached for a glass of water, my phone, lying on the nightstand, buzzed. It was Detective Evans. A cold knot formed in my stomach. I took a deep breath before answering. She asked which hotel I was staying at, saying she had a few more questions. I gave her the name. About thirty minutes later, she arrived, this time alone. I let her into the room. She smiled politely. "Ms. Reed, your husband's death appears to be a suicide, but the autopsy revealed a significant amount of estazolam in his system. Quite a high dose, in fact. Did he suffer from any related medical conditions?" "Estazolam?" I repeated, racking my brain. "Oh, the sleeping medication. Yes, my husband had insomnia. He'd take a couple of pills when he couldn't sleep." "Is that so? Because the amount found in his system was equivalent to at least five pills, not two. How do you explain that?" At her words, I smiled. 4 It was a smile uglier than tears. With a sigh, I said, "Detective, put yourself in his shoes for a moment. Your mistress is suddenly dead, murdered in such a brutal way. Could you sleep soundly? If you already had insomnia, wouldn't you take a higher dose just to escape the torment?" My explanation left her speechless. After a moment, she looked at me with a strange, searching expression. "Ms. Reed, I expected you to be distraught and overwhelmed by your husband's death. I did not expect your first priority to be checking his bank account balances." Her words hit me like a slap. She continued, "Our background check shows that your husband's parents are still alive. Now that their only son is dead, don't you think you should inform them?" "His parents are elderly. I haven't figured out how to break the news yet. And I'm pregnant. I'll need money to raise this child. I have to plan for the future. Detective, you police certainly involve yourselves in a lot of things." My tone was sharp and unapologetic. Detective Evans seemed taken aback by the steel in my voice, so contrary to my fragile appearance. She gave an awkward laugh and apologized. Before she left, she casually mentioned something else. A security camera on the building across from our house had been malfunctioning. Due to a wiring issue, the camera had, at some point, shifted its angle and was now aimed directly at our living room window, capturing a partial view of the inside. She gave me another one of those meaningful smiles and left. Her words kept me awake all night. Sure enough, the next day, Detective Evans called again. She asked me to come down to the station, saying there was a new development in my husband's case. My heart pounding with anxiety, I went. They led me straight to an interrogation room. Once again, it was Detective Evans and Detective Miller. I sat in silence, waiting for them to speak first. Detective Miller played a video on the large screen behind him. It showed a woman in a traditional silk qipao. The image was blurry, but her face was visible. Her long, dark hair was a tangled mess, framing her face in a way that was genuinely terrifying. She looked like a ghost. In the video, she slowly descended a staircase, walked to a window, and pulled the curtains shut. Then, the screen went black. I watched, confused. Although the footage was grainy, I recognized the living room. It was ours. "Detectives," I asked, bewildered, "who is that woman? What is she doing in my house?" They exchanged a smile. "Ms. Reed," Evans said, "on the night your husband died, you were the only other person in the house. Are you telling us that woman isn't you?" "But that's not me," I said, my voice rising in anger. "It might not look like you at first," Miller chimed in. "But with some white makeup and a deliberately ghoulish look, it's not impossible." "I'm pregnant. The person in that video is not pregnant." My statement made them look at each other, unable to argue. Seeing this, Evans said decisively, "The woman in the video does bear a striking resemblance to the deceased, Melissa Bradley. But we don't believe in ghosts. Laura, would you mind letting me see your stomach?" Her request made me laugh, a bitter, angry sound. "So now you think I'm faking my pregnancy?"
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