Chapter 9
The monitor in my ICU room wasn't supposed to be on. The victim advocate, Karen, had wheeled it in on a cart and kept her hand on the power button while she looked at me.
"They're going to interview him now," she said. "You don't have to watch. But the detective asked if you wanted to. Through the closed feed. He can't see you. He can't hear you."
My throat was still raw from the tube they'd removed the day before. I nodded. My voice came out thin.
" I want to see what he says."
She pressed play. The screen showed a small gray room with a metal table. My husband sat in a chair that was bolted to the floor. He wore the same suit jacket from the church, but without the tie. His hair was neat. He had his hands folded like he was waiting for a meeting to start.
Detective Reyes sat across from him. She set a manila folder on the table and didn't open it right away.
On the screen, my husband smiled at her. It was the same smile he'd used in the dressing suite.
Karen muted the sound for a second and looked at me. "You can stop this anytime. Squeeze my hand."
I held the plastic rail of the bed. " I'm okay."
Reyes unmuted. I heard her voice clear through the small speaker.
"We have your wife's toxicology back," Reyes said. She opened the folder. She slid a single sheet across. "Benzodiazepine and an opioid. Dose consistent with incapacitation, not a calming aid. We also have the ER photos of the puncture wound. Side of neck, just under the ear. And the photos from the church dressing suite. Wipe marks on the mirror, cap on the floor."
My husband glanced at the paper and pushed it back slightly.
"She asked me to help her," he said. "She was panicking before the ceremony. She couldn't breathe. She asked for something to calm down. I had something from an old prescription. I was trying to help."
Reyes didn't move. "What did you give her?"
"A sedative. Just a little. To take the edge off."
"You told the pastor and the wedding coordinator she fainted from nerves and you called 911 after she didn't wake up in the dressing room," Reyes said. "But the evidence shows she was injected from behind, while she was seated. The lab says the injection site had bruising consistent with restraint. Did she ask you to do that?"
He let out a breath and shook his head. "You're making this sound worse than it was. She was hysterical. I didn't know what else to do. I thought a small shot would help her get through the vows."
In my room, the heart monitor ticked faster. Karen looked at the numbers, then at me.
"He's changing it already," I whispered.
On the screen, Reyes flipped to another page.
"Let's talk about planning," she said. "We have your phone with a warrant. Search history from the last ten days. 'How long does midazolam keep someone under.' 'How to make an injection look like fainting.' And a call to your life insurance agent three days before the wedding to confirm the policy and the beneficiary change. That went through the day before the ceremony."
My husband's hands unfolded. He put one flat on the table.
"Anyone planning a wedding looks up medical stuff," he said. "She had anxiety. I was worried about her. And the insurance is standard. My financial advisor told me to update it before the marriage. It's responsible."
"Your search was at 1:14 a.m.," Reyes said. "And you cleared your browser history afterward. Did your advisor tell you to do that?"
He didn't answer for three seconds. The camera caught the small tic in his jaw.
"I was trying to help her nerves," he repeated. "I wouldn't hurt her. Ask her. She'll tell you I wouldn't hurt her."
Reyes closed the folder. "She did tell us. She said you injected her before the altar. She asked us not to call you from the morgue."
My husband looked up at the corner of the room, as if he could find a camera there.
"Can I see her?" he asked. "Let me talk to her. This is a misunderstanding between husband and wife. She'll understand if I explain."
Reyes stood. She walked to the door and knocked once. Karen reached over and paused the feed. The screen froze on his face, half-turned toward the door.
Karen turned to me. "He requested a bedside meeting. You have the right to say no. If you say no, I put it on record and he is not allowed contact. Do you want to say anything to that request?"
My mouth was dry. I had spent two days thinking about the weight of his hand on my shoulder in that dressing suite, the cold pinch in my neck, the veil slipping as I slid forward. I thought about the steel table and the blue phone case sitting silent on the tray.
I made myself speak slowly so the words would be clear for the record.
" I don't want him near me. I don't want a meeting. I want no contact. Put that on record."
Karen nodded. She pressed the intercom button on the side of the cart. "Detective Reyes, victim declines any meeting and asserts no-contact request on the record."
Through the speaker, I heard Reyes relay it in the interview room. "Your wife has declined a meeting and has asserted a no-contact request. That will be documented."
On the frozen screen, my husband's mouth tightened. He said something after that, but Karen had already muted it. She didn't unmute it again.
She turned the monitor off. The red light on the cart blinked and went dark.
"He shifted his story twice on camera," she said quietly. "From 'she asked' to 'I helped her nerves.' And he couldn't explain the searches or the insurance. That's all recorded. The prosecutor gets that tonight."
I stared at the blank screen. My hand was still on the rail. My breathing evened out.
May you like
"No contact," I said again, and this time it wasn't just for the record.
Karen wrote it on her form and had me sign with a shaking hand. The ink bled a little where my palm rested.
