Chapter 2 · Framed for My Wife's Miscarriage

The interrogation room at the police station was so bright.

It was so bright that there was nowhere to hide.

The officer asked me what time I left home last night, what time I got to the office, and why I didn't go back home.

I went through his questions one at a time.

At 7:30 last night, Claire said she wanted crab ravioli from that place on Southside.

When I brought them back, she complained about the seafood smell and told me to get rid of it.

At 8:40, I got a call from my supervisor. The project needed some last-minute changes, so I had to go back to the office and work overtime.

At 2 a.m., I fell asleep on the conference room sofa.

At 6 a.m., I was woken up by a call from my mother-in-law.

The officer looked up.

"How are things between you and your wife?" he asked.

I clutched the paper cup in my hands.

The hot water warmed my palm, but my fingertips never felt it, they stayed cold.

"Not good," I replied.

The officer paused, his pen hovering over the paper.

I added, "But I never hurt her."

Seven months ago, Claire found out she was pregnant. The doctor said her placenta was low, so she had to be extra careful during the first three months.

I switched out all the slippers for non-slip ones, moved the coffee table out of the living room, and even installed grab bars in the bathroom myself.

By the fifth month, she started complaining whenever I got close to her.

First, she said my snoring was too loud, then she claimed I was rolling over onto her in bed.

So I ended up sleeping in the study.

I thought it was just pregnancy mood swings, and if I toughed it out, things would get better.

The officer asked, "After you started sleeping in separate rooms, did you two have any intimate relations?"

I shook my head.

"No," I said, my voice low. "She didn't want to, and honestly, I couldn't bring myself to push her."

Another officer slid the hospital's preliminary report across the table.

"But the medical exam shows there was evidence of intimate relations not long before the incident," he said.

Those words on the page were like ice.

I stared at the word "fresh" and felt sick to my stomach.

"That wasn't mine," I said.

The interrogation room went quiet.

The officer looked at me.

"You sure about that?" he pressed.

I looked up.

"I'm sure," I said.

By the time I left the police station, it was already dark outside.

I called my supervisor to see if I could pull up last night's security logs and surveillance footage.

He went silent for a few seconds.

"Adam, it's not that I don't want to help you, but we've had a data leak recently. For surveillance footage, we have to follow the official process," he said.

"My wife had a miscarriage, and now everyone's blaming me for it," I said.

There was a sigh on the other end.

"Don't worry, I'll ask the admin department for you," he said.

After I hung up, my phone blew up with messages.

In the family group chat, Linda posted a long message.

Linda wrote: [My daughter's life is nothing but misery. She married a guy who acts all innocent in public, but behind closed doors he's a total bastard. She lost her baby at seven months, and Claire is still lying in a hospital bed.

The whole family chat was just filled with relatives tearing into me.

One relative wrote: [Men like him belong behind bars.]

Another relative wrote: [Divorce him. Give Claire the house and the car.]

Someone else wrote: [I always thought he was too quiet, turns out he was hiding something all along.]

I scrolled up and saw that Claire hadn't said a single word.

Her profile picture was still that photo I took of her at the beach.

Back then, she was wearing a white dress, looking over her shoulder with a bright smile, telling me she wanted to name our future child Little Adam.

My phone buzzed again.

Linda messaged me privately.

Linda wrote: [Bring the house deed to the hospital tomorrow morning.]

I replied: [What do you mean?]

She quickly sent a voice message.

I tapped it, and Linda's voice was so shrill it made my ears ring.

"You made Claire lose her baby, so you need to sign the house over to her. And you better pay her 167,000 dollars for her recovery. If you have any conscience left, don't wait for the cops to drag you away," Linda snapped.

I stared at the screen.

The down payment for that house came from my parents selling their old house back in their hometown.

After we got married, I was the one paying the mortgage, while Claire saved all her paycheck, saying a woman should have her own sense of security.

I never made a fuss about it.

Now, before our baby's even cold, they're already after the house.

The phone screen dimmed, and in its dark reflection, I could see the bruised side of my face.

Then the hospital called.

The nurse said Claire was awake now, and they needed someone from the family to bring the hospital deposit.

I rushed back to the hospital, only to find a long line at the payment window.

When I swiped my card, a message popped up: [Insufficient funds.]

I froze for a second, then checked my bank records.

The 27,000 dollars I'd set aside for Claire's maternity expenses last month had been transferred out in three separate transactions.

The payee's note was just two words.

"Old Friend."

The cashier tapped on the window.

"Sir, will you be paying?" she asked.

Someone behind me started to grumble.

I pulled out my credit card and covered the deposit.

I headed back to the hospital room with the receipt in hand, only to find the door half-open.

Linda lowered her voice, but the spite still seeped through.

"Claire, don't go soft on him. If you just keep insisting it was him, he'll have to walk away with nothing," she said.

Claire's voice came from the hospital bed, barely above a whisper.

"Mom, please, just stop," she said.

Linda snapped, "You're still taking his side? Or did you already forget who it was that rushed you to the hospital last night?"

My hand froze in midair, just about to push the door open.

The room went dead silent.

The door creaked open a little more, caught by a draft.

Claire saw me, and her face went even paler than the hospital sheets.

Her phone lit up on the pillow next to her, and a message popped up on the screen.

The message read: [Claire, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come to see you.]

Chapter 2

The interrogation room at the police station was so bright.

It was so bright that there was nowhere to hide.

The officer asked me what time I left home last night, what time I got to the office, and why I didn't go back home.

I went through his questions one at a time.

At 7:30 last night, Claire said she wanted crab ravioli from that place on Southside.

When I brought them back, she complained about the seafood smell and told me to get rid of it.

At 8:40, I got a call from my supervisor. The project needed some last-minute changes, so I had to go back to the office and work overtime.

At 2 a.m., I fell asleep on the conference room sofa.

At 6 a.m., I was woken up by a call from my mother-in-law.

The officer looked up.

"How are things between you and your wife?" he asked.

I clutched the paper cup in my hands.

The hot water warmed my palm, but my fingertips never felt it, they stayed cold.

"Not good," I replied.

The officer paused, his pen hovering over the paper.

I added, "But I never hurt her."

Seven months ago, Claire found out she was pregnant. The doctor said her placenta was low, so she had to be extra careful during the first three months.

I switched out all the slippers for non-slip ones, moved the coffee table out of the living room, and even installed grab bars in the bathroom myself.

By the fifth month, she started complaining whenever I got close to her.

First, she said my snoring was too loud, then she claimed I was rolling over onto her in bed.

So I ended up sleeping in the study.

I thought it was just pregnancy mood swings, and if I toughed it out, things would get better.

The officer asked, "After you started sleeping in separate rooms, did you two have any intimate relations?"

I shook my head.

"No," I said, my voice low. "She didn't want to, and honestly, I couldn't bring myself to push her."

Another officer slid the hospital's preliminary report across the table.

"But the medical exam shows there was evidence of intimate relations not long before the incident," he said.

Those words on the page were like ice.

I stared at the word "fresh" and felt sick to my stomach.

"That wasn't mine," I said.

The interrogation room went quiet.

The officer looked at me.

"You sure about that?" he pressed.

I looked up.

"I'm sure," I said.

By the time I left the police station, it was already dark outside.

I called my supervisor to see if I could pull up last night's security logs and surveillance footage.

He went silent for a few seconds.

"Adam, it's not that I don't want to help you, but we've had a data leak recently. For surveillance footage, we have to follow the official process," he said.

"My wife had a miscarriage, and now everyone's blaming me for it," I said.

There was a sigh on the other end.

"Don't worry, I'll ask the admin department for you," he said.

After I hung up, my phone blew up with messages.

In the family group chat, Linda posted a long message.

The whole family chat was just filled with relatives tearing into me.

One relative wrote: [Men like him belong behind bars.]

Another relative wrote: [Divorce him. Give Claire the house and the car.]

Someone else wrote: [I always thought he was too quiet, turns out he was hiding something all along.]

I scrolled up and saw that Claire hadn't said a single word.

Her profile picture was still that photo I took of her at the beach.

Back then, she was wearing a white dress, looking over her shoulder with a bright smile, telling me she wanted to name our future child Little Adam.

My phone buzzed again.

Linda messaged me privately.

Linda wrote: [Bring the house deed to the hospital tomorrow morning.]

I replied: [What do you mean?]

She quickly sent a voice message.

I tapped it, and Linda's voice was so shrill it made my ears ring.

I stared at the screen.

The down payment for that house came from my parents selling their old house back in their hometown.

After we got married, I was the one paying the mortgage, while Claire saved all her paycheck, saying a woman should have her own sense of security.

I never made a fuss about it.

Now, before our baby's even cold, they're already after the house.

The phone screen dimmed, and in its dark reflection, I could see the bruised side of my face.

Then the hospital called.

The nurse said Claire was awake now, and they needed someone from the family to bring the hospital deposit.

I rushed back to the hospital, only to find a long line at the payment window.

When I swiped my card, a message popped up: [Insufficient funds.]

I froze for a second, then checked my bank records.

The 27,000 dollars I'd set aside for Claire's maternity expenses last month had been transferred out in three separate transactions.

The payee's note was just two words.

"Old Friend."

The cashier tapped on the window.

"Sir, will you be paying?" she asked.

Someone behind me started to grumble.

I pulled out my credit card and covered the deposit.

I headed back to the hospital room with the receipt in hand, only to find the door half-open.

Linda lowered her voice, but the spite still seeped through.

"Claire, don't go soft on him. If you just keep insisting it was him, he'll have to walk away with nothing," she said.

Claire's voice came from the hospital bed, barely above a whisper.

"Mom, please, just stop," she said.

Linda snapped, "You're still taking his side? Or did you already forget who it was that rushed you to the hospital last night?"

My hand froze in midair, just about to push the door open.

The room went dead silent.

The door creaked open a little more, caught by a draft.

Claire saw me, and her face went even paler than the hospital sheets.

Her phone lit up on the pillow next to her, and a message popped up on the screen.

The message read: [Claire, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come to see you.]