I was happy my husband died, but I couldn’t admit it, otherwise people might resume saying I killed him. The world, especially the South, labels all types of women. Smart types and dumb types and nurturing types and cold types. For about any situation, there is a type of woman who does or doesn’t fit. Some women lack the grit to swat a fly, while more hysterical types are fully capable of shooting their husbands. Apparently, I fall into the second group.
In the eighteen months following the murder, I sat down with three separate camera crews to forever document my life’s most trying moments. The first aired on American News Channel, a cut-and-dried case depiction featuring forensic evidence and law enforcement input. No one had to ask me questions. I told producers what they needed to know via Skype. The second program aired on Crime Station, a network dedicated to broadcasting all things murder. It was more salacious due to the reenactments.
The third program was a formal interview with Vanessa Hardgrave, an in-your-face victims’ rights advocate who speaks about murder investigations with an almost orgasmic lilt. Soon after the murder, she publicly vilified me, describing my provided timeline as too convenient. Until police made an arrest. I received a phone call a few weeks later from her producers requesting an appearance. They made it clear the segment would focus on the injustice of being wrongly accused.
All the episodes were recorded on my DVR. I spent most mornings wrestling my memories into submission, the good ones and the bad. But, as always, boredom crept in, and I decided to rewatch the interviews. Sometimes I needed a reminder that the hardest part of my life was almost over. The Hardgrave interview was my favorite; it provided the platform to tell Vanessa—and the world—my side of the story.
I prepared an omelet and poured a mimosa before returning to the living room and clicking on the television.
“Tonight, on Vanessa Hardgrave Investigates,” the announcer beamed, “we venture to Whitaker, Tennessee for an exclusive interview with Olivia Miller. Her husband, Dane Miller, was found dead inside their home on July 14, 2018. Investigators initially considered her the prime suspect in her husband’s brutal death. We will hear, for the first time, about the painful reality she has lived since the murder.”
I fast-forwarded through the opening credits and the inessential introduction Vanessa gives before each show. Jumping out from the blur was my face, patient and calm. I wore a tan pantsuit; Eddy, my lawyer, said it conveyed literal and figurative neutrality. My hair was shorter then, a lighter shade of brunette than it is now. Even though I was in my thirties, the contouring around my features made it hard to tell. I appeared well bred and civilized, a stark contrast to the woman hiding in her living room and drinking alone.
On the screen, I sat across from the weathered interviewer. Vanessa wore a yellow turtleneck and a coral hue stained her lips. She was styled to appear vibrant and approachable. In person, she was neither. I pressed play.
“Let’s discuss how life changed in the days after you found your husband dead,” she said. Vanessa’s voice was annoyingly northern. Vowels stretched thin and consonants overly emphasized. I remembered, when the cameras weren’t rolling, her voice sounded much less unique. “When did you first realize the police viewed you as a suspect?”
The camera panned to me.
“Almost immediately. The spouse is always placed under suspicion. Finding the body made the target on my back larger.” I appeared confident, my legs crossed and my posture upright. The camera returned to Vanessa, her pixie hairstyle sprayed stiff against her temples.
“Did you feel unfairly targeted?” she asked.
“Not right away. Police walked me through all the procedures. They kept my clothing for DNA analysis and brought me to the station for a formal interview. Of course, I was pretty shaken up. It was stressful, but I wanted to help with the investigation.”
“When did the tables turn?”
“A few days after Dane was… after the event, questions took a more accusatory tone. The detectives had issues with my alibi.” On screen, I flinched before calmly returning my hands to my lap.
“Where had you been earlier in the night?”
“I was with my ex-husband, Frank,” I answered.
Vanessa had wanted a detailed timeline, but Eddy refused to let me speak further. Their tense argument lasted several minutes, but viewers would never know because the exchange was edited out.
“Frank Grier?” Vanessa asked, as though she wasn’t already aware of the details.
“Yes.” I stared back at her. My eyes lost their brightness as I realized the interview was turning into another interrogation.
“Other than your alibi, what issues posed a concern for police?” she asked.
“They were interested in the state of my marriage. Dane and I had been having problems.”
Alone in my living room, I considered how bizarre it was to reveal such personal details to a stranger. Details I might not even share with a friend, if I had any.
“What types of problems?” The woman had no shame. With each question she kept the same, steady gaze.
“Typical disagreements. But we were on track to repairing our marriage.” That was a lie.
“Did you have financial issues?” she asked, twirling a pen between her long fingers.
“There were financial stressors, yes.”
For the first time on camera, she looked down at her notes. “Because you were married, you were entitled to his life insurance policy. Correct?”
“Yes, I received a substantial amount.” I wiggled in my seat, both on camera and presently on my sofa. I got uncomfortable when people presented me with motives for why I must have wanted Dane dead. Like they were trying to convince me I did it.
“According to his policy, you received high six figures,” Vanessa said.
“Yes. Substantial.” My annoyance with this line of questioning showed.
I laughed watching the moment play back, chomped another morsel of melted cheese and egg.
“I assume this was another reason the police grew suspicious,” she continued, adopting a condemnatory voice.
“Yes, Vanessa, it was.”
We took a short break in the interview. Vanessa believed I was being too confrontational. She thought I needed to mellow my reactions, which meant a lot coming from her. As the interview progressed, I sensed Vanessa had a vendetta. She wanted to use her journalistic muscle to grill the former prime suspect, probably to spike ratings. She’d cornered me in front of a camera, but she got the narrative wrong. This was my opportunity to tell my story, my truth. Or at least the most flattering version of the truth. Again, what I recalled as several heated interruptions appeared as a seamless second on the screen.
“Life insurance and the imminent dissolution of your marriage weren’t the only reasons police were interested in you. Let’s talk about your other issues,” she began with a hint of professional vengeance.
Let’s not, I thought and pressed fast-forward. I didn’t stop until I saw Rowe. A grainy mugshot floated closer into the camera’s frame. Blond hair and blue eyes. Attractive, even, except his youth was visibly withering away. Editing made the picture look dangerous and worn.
I pressed play.
“Tell us when you first heard the name Marcus Rowe,” Vanessa said.
“My lawyer and I were scheduled for yet another conversation with detectives when I received the phone call. I was told our meeting would be postponed because police had come across a new person of interest. Marcus Rowe. They already had him at the station.”
On camera, I immediately appeared relieved. We had finally shifted the focus of the interview away from me and toward the person responsible.
“Must have been quite a surprise,” Vanessa said, raising her eyebrows.
“It was a relief. After almost three months of being under suspicion, there was a new name in the mix.” For the first time during the interview, I smiled sincerely.
“And you had never heard the name before?”
“Never.”
Vanessa’s voiceover kicked in, narrating a photo collage featuring Rowe:
“Marcus Rowe, a lifelong Whitaker resident, had multiple run-ins with law enforcement on his record. Crimes included trespassing and theft. At the time of Dane Miller’s murder, Rowe was estranged from his family, addicted to opioids and homeless.
“In October 2018, Rowe was linked to several robberies across downtown Whitaker. During a routine search, police found suspicious items in Rowe’s possession. He was carrying Mr. Miller’s wallet and credit cards. This immediately piqued investigators’ interests.”
A middle-aged man entered the frame. Portly and bald, he wore an ill-fitting suit. The name on the bottom of the screen read Detective Lester Wooley. Someone I’d encountered far too many times in the past eighteen months. I could almost smell the stale coffee on his breath when he spoke.
“Even though he was in his early twenties, Marcus Rowe had a long criminal history. The items in Mr. Rowe’s possession provided a direct link to the crime. We asked him where he found the wallet,” Wooley said.
“What was his response?” asked Vanessa.
“First, he claimed to have found it in a dumpster by Blue Ridge Mall, a good twenty minutes away from the crime scene. Then he said he stole the wallet from another homeless man he met downtown. When we pressed him to provide a name, he could not.”
“What did his change in stories tell you?”
“He was lying.” Wooley stared straight ahead, as unamused by Vanessa as I was.
Rowe’s mugshot flashed across the screen again. Vanessa’s voice read, “Detectives questioned Rowe for hours and uncovered several other inconsistencies. Eventually, Rowe gave them what they needed.”
The camera went back to Vanessa interviewing Wooley. Her expression was all shock and surprise. Fakery at its best. “He confessed?” she asked.
“He did,” Wooley replied. “He admitted to breaking into Mr. Miller’s condo, as he had several homes in the area. He was not expecting anyone to be there. Rowe panicked. Using Mr. Miller’s own weapon, he fired two shots at the victim. Killing him.”
“You must have been thrilled to get a confession?” Vanessa asked.
“It was important to find justice for Dane Miller,” Wooley said, without much enthusiasm. “His family deserved it. He deserved it.”
I rolled my eyes. Dane had no family. Only me.
“What about the gun?” she continued.
“Rowe admitted to tossing the gun in a nearby lake,” Wooley said. “Dive teams were unable to recover the weapon.”
A black screen broke in, words written in bold:
Marcus Rowe later recanted his confession. His court date is set for January 2020. All individuals are considered innocent until proven guilty.
I pressed pause, staring at the sentences. Like previous statements, the words revealed a partial truth. The trial date was accurate, and only a month away. It explained why Dane’s memory had weighed heavily in recent weeks, disrupting my sleep and tempting me to drink earlier in the day. Vanessa Hardgrave was merely a dress rehearsal; Eddy and I had spent months practicing for my debut performance in court.
Until proven guilty bothered me the most. I desperately needed Rowe to be convicted if I ever wanted to close this chapter of my life. Staring at innocent too long quickened my pulse. I had no particular reason to consider Rowe blameless, but I couldn’t ignore the public campaigns professing his innocence.
Your average Crime Station viewer might watch a program at night, forgetting the minutiae by morning. Some viewers become obsessed, creating alternate theories and sharing their findings online with the masses. Sherlock Holmes wannabes posting to Reddit boards and armchair detective websites. I’d even stumbled across a few blogs with threads specifically dedicated to Dane’s case. Those contributors didn’t say nice things about me. I used to devour every word, but eventually stopped. I could skip over television segments with the press of a button. Once I started reading, it became difficult to breeze past the parts I didn’t like.
I pressed play and Vanessa reappeared inside the studio with me.
“How did it feel to learn police had made an arrest?” Vanessa asked.
“It was a big shock,” I said, looking genuinely reassured. “After everything: losing Dane, finding the body, being named a suspect… it was all over. They found the guy.”
“Of course,” Vanessa started again, “this event had lasting repercussions. Losing your husband wasn’t the end of your suffering. Tell us about the impact this crime had on your family.”
My stomach churned. I turned off the television, practically ran to the kitchen for another drink. The clock read half past three. The combination of bad memories and my inability to work made day drinking a viable option during the week. While participating in the television interviews provided an opportunity to polish my tarnished image, there were also financial incentives. Between those paychecks and Dane’s life insurance policy, I’d barely worked in the past eighteen months. At least Dane did something right when he was alive.
After the murder, I tried to continue my photography business. Freelance opportunities didn’t arise nearly enough. A bored housewife would stumble upon my website and decide to book a session. Usually a maternity or couples shoot. Upon meeting, some clients recognized my face from the papers. Rowe’s arrest didn’t completely erase the hesitancy people felt around me; this produced awkward expressions in the photos I took and zero return customers. By following a moderate monthly budget, I could get by without actively working for the foreseeable future. After the trial, I hoped the scandal would quiet enough for me to restart my career.
My phone vibrated, interrupting my defeatist ponderings. I looked at the screen. Farrah. I needed to meet with her eventually, but watching the interview left me drained. I silenced the call. The phone buzzed again a few seconds later and I answered.
“I’m at your front door, buttercup,” said the raspy voice on the other end.
I slumped to the door, drink in hand. Her shadow bobbed behind the curtained screen. I admired her persistence.
“Catching you off guard?” she asked when I opened the door.
“What do you mean?”
“Clearly you had no interest in answering my first call.”
“I silenced it by mistake,” I said, darting my eyes away from her.
She groaned. Her stare traveled from the pajamas on my body to the drink in my hand. “Early in the day for drinking, eh? And I’m guessing it’s not your first.” She smirked. “Aren’t you going to offer me one?”
She wiggled past me, a large handbag in tow. Her naturally pale skin was made darker with bronzer. Her strands were black at the roots and painfully dry at the ends. Confidence blazed her trail. She was Dane’s only friend who stayed in contact after what happened.
People wouldn’t stay away in the days following Dane’s murder. Everyone wanted a piece of the story, a piece of me. As suspicion around me increased, however, attitudes changed. The phone rarely rang, save the occasional anonymous caller shouting “Murderer” into the receiver. Former friends saw me outside the condo and looked on with disdain. No one wanted to be associated with the big, bad husband-killer. Farrah was never one of those friends. She continued to call, and when I wouldn’t answer, she dropped by.
“How have things been? You know I get worried when we go too long without speaking.” My kitchen was mostly white and gray, with a large island in the middle and four barstools surrounding it. She sprawled across two seats, kicking up her feet. Wherever Farrah went, she owned the place.
“Nothing new to report,” I said, pouring her a drink. “And you? What stories do you have to tell?”
“I’ve got to share my latest predicament,” she said, and started rambling about a patron who came into the bar last week.
Farrah worked at Fahrenheit’s, one of those joints that had been around since the drinking age was still eighteen. I met her there through Dane. Her life was so colorful, I could never fully retain all her experiences. She never married, although she’d been close a few times. Bullet dodged, Farrah would say (before Dane died, of course). Even though she was approaching fifty, Farrah savored being single.
“I worry about you, chickadee. I hate picturing you cooped up in this place alone.” Her eyes scanned the living area and stopped on the black sofa in the room’s center. I read her mind. That’s where it happened. That’s where she found him. She tried not to look shaken, but it got to her every time. She tilted one chair until it stood on two legs. “You miss him, don’t you?”
“Sometimes,” I lied.
Farrah never knew how bad things had become between Dane and me. She never knew I was afraid of him. She preferred to envision the happy couple she first met. Despite her aversion to marriage, Farrah played a hopeless romantic when it came to the lives of others. She paused, considering what to say next.
“You never stop loving a person, no matter how long they’re gone,” she said.
I smiled back. I could never tell her how things really were. How I really felt. There were far more pure forms of love in this world. I had experienced them.
When she seemed satisfied I wasn’t on the verge of losing my mind or offing myself, Farrah left. Once the sun set, I did, too. I was more comfortable interacting with the world at night, when there were fewer eyes on me and fewer whispers. Part of my self-induced punishment included staying indoors during the day, but eventually I needed to roam and shake off my loneliness. My night needed to start.
Whitaker isn’t your typical Tennessee town. It’s bigger than Knoxville, smaller than Nashville. The perfect mix of old and new, hip and country. Visitors come for the rock climbing, only a twenty-minute drive from the city center. Locals applaud that our diners offer more than biscuits and gravy to eat. I’ve never lived anywhere else, besides the outskirts where I grew up. People there are poor and bitter. Like your typical Tennessee town.
Each sector of Whitaker used to have its own style. The health nuts jogging by the river, college students dominating the center, the Old Money millionaires funding their passion projects from atop Tellit Mountain. Families remained in suburbia, unless a festival or holiday lured them to the city streets.
Within the past decade, two major corporations opened Whitaker branches. Hundreds of relocated workers followed, their own cultures and expectations in tow. Thank goodness, otherwise I’d be stuck looking at the same faces, eating the same fried food and listening to the same twangy music. Now when you walk the streets of downtown, the people are as diverse as the businesses. My favorite nail salon was replaced by a sushi restaurant. Across the street a tobacco store transitioned into yet another coffee shop.
Downtown remained in a state of constant change, but Chili’s wasn’t going anywhere. I pushed past the crowded entryway and sat at the bar. Drinking in the early evening seemed more acceptable when accompanied by dinner.
By the time my appetizer arrived, I’d already locked eyes with another lone diner a few seats over. My relationships had suffered since Dane’s death, but not my sex life. My main reason for leaving the condo was to seek companionship, even better if that involved getting laid. It had been over a week since my last hookup, so when the stranger looked at me again, I smiled invitingly. He took the seat next to mine and introduced himself.
“I’m Brock,” he said. He looked young, possibly younger than me. He was tall and slim with thick brown hair, which dangled just above his eyebrows. “What’s your name?”
“Kelsey,” I lied. Dead husbands are a buzzkill, so I preemptively limited any potential familiarity with the case. If someone took the chance to speak with me, it was likely because they didn’t know my past, and I wanted to keep it that way.
“Can I get you another drink, Kelsey?” He was excited for an in. He motioned the bartender near and ordered two more bourbons. He scanned the packed dining area. My eyes followed his.
“Thanks for the booze,” I said. I downed the shot, loving the burn as it hit my throat.
“Where else is there to go around here?” he asked.
“A few places. Depending on what you’re after. Not from Tennessee, I take it?”
“Florida. I get sent this way for work on occasion. You from here?” Instead of throwing back his drink, he took a small sip.
“Born and raised just outside of Whitaker.” I didn’t care enough to ask about his occupation.
Brock shared his experiences in Whitaker to date, which only partially occupied my attention. His looks, on the other hand, held my full interest. Every few sentences, he’d brush the strands of his shaggy hair away from his face. I pictured how he might look in my bed, how he might feel pressed against my body. By the time I’d finished dinner and several more drinks, I’d decided to have a go with the garrulous stranger.
“Wanna head back to my place?” I asked, slowly raising the glass to my lips. “You can talk more there.”
“Sure,” he said, sounding both eager and hesitant. He was noticeably less drunk than I was. He grabbed his coat and a stack of notebooks that had been seated on the empty chair next to his.
We bumped into a family exiting the restaurant. The mother gave me a disapproving stare. She could probably smell the booze. I returned the dirty look. A little late for a school night, I thought. Brock stumbled close behind me, his hands nervously tucked inside his pockets as we waited for an Uber. I hoped to loosen him up by giving him a playful nudge and lost my balance.
Between the clumsiness and the laughter, I barely noticed the trio of onlookers closing in, trying to get my attention.
“Olivia,” said the man.
It was Frank, standing beside me on the sidewalk. His face morphed into disappointment as he registered my public drunkenness. Julie, his new wife, was with him, her politeness cloaking embarrassment.
I saw Jake and my heart broke.
“Hi, Mamma,” Jake said. “What are you doing here?”
Frank stood with his hands on our son’s shoulders. Fuming.
Suburbia surrounded Whitaker like a pack of beasts inching closer to its life source. Pick a scenic view (lake or mountains) and a location (accessibility to the mall or golf course), and you had two dozen subdivisions jangling keys.
Frank and I bought our three-bedroom, three-bathroom home on Smithwood Avenue shortly after Jake’s first birthday. We traded cramped, downtown cohabitation for residential, starter home bliss. Adulting at its finest. It should have taken years to afford the place. Frank’s real estate connections helped, and we moved into an enviable Whitaker neighborhood far before our time.
The past year had ushered in many changes. Before we got married, Frank had worked as a real estate agent. His career had evolved from selling homes to improving them. Too many HGTV shows sparked his inspiration. At first, I thought he was being overly ambitious. Frank was right, though. Many Whitaker subdivisions had deteriorated in recent years. Downtown became the desired destination for the influx of worldly hipsters, pushing families and the less-entitled toward the outskirts. Affordable homes were needed. Frank bought his first foreclosure after Jake’s birth and recruited his own construction crew to renovate. While his parents could always serve as a safety net should the business fail, Frank hungered for his own success.
My career had also changed. Before Jake was born, I worked as an assistant to Holland McGraw, a high-end wedding photographer in Whitaker. Landing a position with her was like hitting it big on a $5 scratch off. Holland loved hiring country bumpkins like me because she believed it justified her shrill attitude. I left her tyrannical agency during my second trimester, hoping I’d earned enough credentials to start my own photography business by the time Jake got out of diapers. Until then, I was a full-time wife and mother.
Being home with Jake was exactly as I’d imagined it would be, equal parts blissful and terrifying. I grew up in the era when parent evolved from a noun into a verb. Mamma had tried with me, but no one would say she excelled at childrearing. She modeled what life choices to avoid, ushering me from one toxic situation to the next.
Her cancer diagnosis was the most permanent aspect of my childhood. The doctors made it clear: there was no running away from this. I loved her, sure. But she was a miserable person. The most responsible thing she’d done was invest in a meager life insurance policy on my behalf. It provided the necessary expenses for my move to Whitaker, twenty minutes on the highway and a world away from the life I’d known. I married Frank, a Tellit Mountain boy with deep pockets and a good heart. And now it was my turn to give mothering a try. I just didn’t want to mess it up.
As a family, we eased into our new routine. I wrestled with Jake during the day while Frank logged long shifts at the flip house. In the evenings, we’d stretch out the hours between dinner and bed by sitting on our front porch, admiring our new surroundings. Frank nursed a drink while Jake crawled in the grass. I enjoyed spying on our neighbors, glimpsing a preview of what our own future might hold.
The neighbors to our left were my favorite family to observe. The mother, with her bright eyes and red hair, was hard to miss. Only one kid had her coloring: a boy, who looked to be around six. The baby, a girl, had tight blonde curls like the father. Their evening walks were predictable; I presumed a final effort to release the children’s energy before bedtime. They’d wave when they passed, both coming and going. They looked genuinely happy. Frank and I would spy, hypothesize about them and their lives, then we’d carry Jake back inside the house and put him to bed.
“This can’t be true,” I said, my soapy feet pointing toward Frank’s chest at the opposite end of our tub. After a busy week unpacking boxes, we celebrated home ownership with a shared soak in our Jacuzzi bath while Jake slept in his new crib.
“What can’t be true?” he asked.
“This house. Jake. You,” I mused. “I’m afraid any day now I’m going to wake up.”
“Wake up to find out the ugly truth about me? Yeah, I worry about that, too.”
We both laughed because there could never be anything ugly about Frank. He supervised our world with meticulous calm. He made sure we never went too many days without a date night, even after the baby arrived. He protected me in a way I had been raised to believe could not exist, and he still took time to rub my sudsy feet.
“You know what I think you are missing?” he asked.
“Tell me,” I said, concerned by what he might say next.
“You need friends.”
Frank was raised in Whitaker, attended private schools, and came from a family with enough money to solidify any long-term friendships.. . .
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