After Wedding, Husband Found Out That His Wife Had Infected Him With 𝐇𝐈𝐕 -It Led 𝐌𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 | HO!!

PART 1 – The Honeymoon, the House, and the First Cracks

On paper, Malone Flynn had finally “made it.”

At 34, he held a respectable position as an assistant manager at Progress Financial Bank, a small but stable institution outside Los Angeles. He had a steady salary, a black Ford in the driveway, and a recently purchased two-story home in a quiet neighborhood. But the crown jewel of his new life wasn’t parked in the driveway or sitting in his bank account. It was the woman he’d just married.

Her name was Bethany.

Co-workers at the bank would later describe Malone as “glowing” when he talked about his new wife. Colleagues in the break room heard the same stories on repeat: the proposal, the wedding, and their week-long honeymoon in the Bahamas.

“Twenty-four days,” he told his colleague and close friend, Ronald Tate, one morning at the bank. “The happiest 24 days of my life.”

Ronald, older and more seasoned at the bank, sat opposite Malone’s desk that morning, grinning as his friend scrolled through honeymoon photos on his phone. In them, Bethany appears exactly as Malone described her: slender, dark-chocolate skin, high cheekbones, bright eyes, curls piled in a messy bun against the turquoise backdrop of the ocean.

“She changed outfits every day,” Malone recalled proudly. “She said she wanted to be the most beautiful woman on the beach for me. And you know what? She was.”

Two years earlier, the couple had met at a charity event sponsored by the bank. She’d been there with a friend from an advertising agency that handled some of the bank’s campaigns. An awkward, shy Malone had tried to cross the room to introduce himself and tripped, sending a tray of canapés crashing to the floor.

Bethany hadn’t laughed.

She’d helped him pick everything up.

“Don’t worry,” she told him, according to Malone’s retelling. “There are worse days. Once I spilled coffee on a client’s sketches worth several thousand dollars.”

He fell for her that night. It would be months before he worked up the nerve to ask her out, but that small kindness lodged itself in his memory.

By the time they walked down the aisle, Bethany had built a career of her own. She worked at a design studio in the city, and Malone’s friends saw them as a polished, ambitious couple on their way up. The new house, the honeymoon, the talk of children “once they got on their feet” — everything fit the picture.

Except one thing.

Bethany’s mother.

A Mother in Permanent Disapproval

From their first meeting, it was clear that Bethany’s mother, 55-year-old Shivanda Flynn, did not share Malone’s enthusiasm about the marriage.

“She looked like she was at a funeral, not a wedding,” Ronald would later recall.

Shivanda, immaculately put together in tailored dresses and flawless makeup, seemed to regard Malone as a man punching above his weight. Assistant manager or not, to her he was just “still assistant manager?” For his part, Malone tried to be respectful, calling her “Mrs. Flynn,” asking about her health, and thanking her for raising the woman he now called his wife.

He noticed, though, that whenever the subject of Bethany’s past came up, the mood shifted.

In two years of dating, Malone realized he knew surprisingly little about his wife’s life before they met. She described her childhood as “normal,” her teenage years as “nothing special,” and her early twenties in vague terms: “some jobs, some bad choices, but nothing worth talking about.”

When he pushed, she would simply kiss him, change the subject, or joke about “everyone having a past.”

It was easy to ignore — until the night he came home and heard raised voices in the kitchen.

“The Past Has a Way of Coming Back”

It was a warm evening when Malone parked his Ford in the driveway, bouquet of flowers in hand. As he approached the front door, he heard voices — not loud, but tense.

“You have to tell him, Bethany,” came the sharp, measured tone of an older woman. “The longer you wait, the worse it will be when the truth comes out.”

“Mom, please,” Bethany’s voice trembled. “That’s in the past. I’m a different person now.”

“The past has a way of coming back when you least expect it. Do you think he—”

Malone deliberately slammed the front door harder than usual, instantly silencing the conversation. When he stepped into the kitchen, he wore a bright smile, bouquet extended.

“Good evening, ladies.”

Bethany jumped to greet him. Her eyes were red, suggesting recent tears, but her smile was wide.

“Malone, darling, you didn’t say we were having guests,” she said, taking the flowers, kissing his cheek.

At the table sat Shivanda, spine straight, dress immaculate, eyes cool and appraising.

“Malone,” she said with a curt nod. “How’s work at the bank? Still assistant manager?”

“Mom,” Bethany cut in sharply. “Malone has an important job. He manages major corporate accounts.”

Dinner that night felt like walking across thin glass. Bethany tried to fill the silence with stories about new clients at the studio and her ideas for the garden. Her mother’s comments cut just deep enough to sting — questions about promotions, bigger houses, future children.

“What are your plans for the future?” she asked suddenly, eyes darting between them. “Children, careers? What do you want to achieve in the coming years?”

Malone answered honestly: they wanted kids, but first they needed stability. A promotion. More clients. Maybe a bigger place one day.

“We love this house,” Bethany said, perhaps a bit too quickly. “There’s plenty of room for us. And a child, when we’re ready.”

“Sometimes the best thing you can do,” Shivanda said, looking squarely at her daughter, “is tell the truth. Even when it hurts.”

Bethany escaped to the kitchen on the pretense of dessert. In that moment, left alone with his mother-in-law, Malone got the closest thing he’d ever get to a warning.

“You seem like a good man,” she told him quietly. “But you don’t know my daughter the way I do.”

“With all due respect, Mrs. Flynn,” he replied, equally low. “I love your daughter and accept her for who she is. Past and present.”

“That’s a noble sentiment,” she replied sharply. “It’s easy to talk about acceptance when you don’t know the whole truth.”

Later that night, after Shivanda’s car disappeared around the corner, Malone wrapped his arms around Bethany on the doorstep.

“What did she mean, Bethany?” he asked. “What truth was she talking about?”

“Nothing important,” Bethany replied too quickly. “Mom always dramatizes things. You know how parents are.”

She kissed him, pulled him inside, and the conversation died there.

But for the first time, Malone felt a crack in the foundation of his marriage — small, invisible, but undeniably there.

An Unexpected Visitor

The next day, work kept Malone late. When he finally turned back into their street at sunset, he saw something that instantly set his nerves on edge.

A man was standing at their garden gate, talking to Bethany.

She stood with her arms crossed over her chest, shoulders tight. Even from a distance, the body language said everything: defensive, cornered, anxious.

The man was about mid-30s, taller than Malone, with short dreadlocks, a thin scar across his left eyebrow, and a worn leather jacket that didn’t match the quiet suburban street. His eyes, when they flicked toward Malone, had a strange mix of charm and challenge.

“Everything okay, honey?” Malone called, walking faster.

Bethany flinched.

“Malone? I didn’t hear you pull up.”

The stranger turned, looked him up and down, then smiled — revealing a flash of gold tooth.

“So this is your husband, B?” he said. He extended his hand. “Derek. An old friend of your wife’s.”

Malone didn’t like the way he said “B.”

He didn’t like the way Derek’s eyes lingered on Bethany.

He definitely didn’t like the strength in that handshake — too firm, as if he were proving something.

“To what do we owe the visit?” Malone asked.

“Just driving by,” Derek shrugged. “Saw B in the garden, thought I’d say hello. Been what, six? Seven years?”

“Seven,” Bethany answered quietly, not meeting his eyes.

“You’re still as beautiful as ever, B,” Derek added. The nickname hung in the air like stale smoke.

Malone cut in.

“It’s late. We were about to have dinner.”

“Yes, we should go,” Bethany agreed quickly. “It was nice to see you, Derek.”

He lingered.

“Maybe we should exchange numbers. You know, for old times’ sake.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Malone said flatly. “Bethany is busy with her new life.”

The air between them grew electric.

Derek slowly put his hand back into his pocket.

“Of course, I understand,” he said, backing away. “Maybe another time.”

He winked at Bethany.

“Take care, B. And remember what we talked about.”

He turned and walked away, disappearing around the corner.

Inside, the tension followed.

“Who was that?” Malone demanded as soon as the door closed.

“I told you. An old acquaintance,” Bethany replied, hands shaking as she pulled off her gardening gloves.

“From where?”

“From my old life,” she said, turning her back to him at the sink. “Before college.”

“What old life, Bethany?” he pressed. “You’ve never told me about your past in detail.”

She shut off the water and faced him. Tears had sprung to her eyes.

“Because there’s nothing to tell,” she insisted. “I made mistakes, like everyone. I hung out with the wrong people. But I’ve changed, Malone. I’m a different person now. The person you fell in love with.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, pleading.

“Please. Let’s not talk about the past. All that matters is us. Right now.”

He wanted to push. To insist.

But love, and fear of what he might hear, stopped him.

“For the second time in as many days,” he would later admit, “I chose not to ask the next question.”

That choice would prove catastrophic.

A Fever That Wouldn’t Break

That night, Malone woke drenched in sweat.

His T-shirt clung to his back. A heavy heat pressed against his chest. His head pounded, muscles ached as if he’d spent the day lifting concrete instead of pushing paperwork.

He staggered to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. The reflection that stared back at him was alarming — bloodshot eyes, pale skin, a drawn expression.

“Must be the flu,” he told himself.

He swallowed a couple of fever reducers, crawled back into bed, and tossed restlessly until sunrise.

By morning, he looked worse.

“You’re pale,” Bethany said, placing a plate of omelet in front of him. She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. “You’re burning up. Stay home today.”

“I can’t,” Malone insisted. “I’ve got an investors’ meeting. Ronald’s counting on me.”

“Then at least take something,” she said, handing him a packet of pills from the cabinet. “And don’t overdo it.”

At the bank, things only deteriorated.

His vision blurred during the presentation. He lost his train of thought. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. Colleagues whispered. Ronald stepped in where he stumbled.

“Man, what is going on with you?” Ronald asked afterward. “You look like hell.”

“I’m fine,” Malone lied. “Just a bug.”

He wasn’t fine.

By lunchtime, standing at the photocopier, the room spun. A wave of dizziness rose up and washed the world away.

The next thing he remembered, he was on the sofa in the break room, Ronald and the office nurse leaning over him.

“You passed out,” Ronald told him. “You scared the life out of us.”

The nurse checked his temperature again.

“High fever, rash starting on his chest, weakness. He needs a hospital.”

“I’m okay,” Malone tried to insist, pushing himself up. “Just need to rest.”

Ronald didn’t budge.

“You’re not fine. I’m taking you to the ER. End of discussion.”

On the drive, Malone leaned his head against the cool window glass, watching the blur of the city. A new fear began to creep in — the rash he’d noticed on his chest earlier, the deep ache in his joints, the crushing fatigue.

“This doesn’t feel like the flu,” he thought.

At the hospital, Bethany was already there, eyes wide with worry. She clutched his hand as nurses rushed him through triage.

Blood was drawn. Vitals were taken. X-rays ordered.

Hours passed in a haze.

Through it all, Malone noticed something he couldn’t quite name in Bethany’s eyes — not just concern, but a sharper, stranger emotion.

It looked a lot like fear.

Not of losing him.

But of something being discovered.

“I’m Afraid the News Is Not Very Good”

When Dr. Quentin Moore finally sat across from Malone and Bethany in a small consultation office, the room felt unnaturally still. Rain had begun outside, tapping steadily at the window.

“Mr. Flynn,” Dr. Moore began, folding his hands on the desk. “I have the results of your tests. I’m afraid the news is not very good.”

Malone straightened in his chair.

“What’s wrong with me?”

The doctor took a breath.

“Your blood work shows the presence of the human immunodeficiency virus,” he said. “You are HIV positive.”

The words hung in the air like a physical weight.

Beside him, Bethany inhaled sharply and went very still.

“This… this has to be a mistake,” Malone stammered, gripping the armrests. “Run them again. I don’t— I’ve never—”

Dr. Moore shook his head gently.

“We ran multiple tests,” he said. “An initial immunoassay and a confirmatory Western blot. The results are conclusive. The virus is present in your blood.”

Malone felt the world tilt.

HIV.

Three letters that instantly rearranged his life into a before and after.

“How?” he whispered. “I’ve always been careful. Before Bethany, I only had two partners. We used protection. I don’t use drugs. I’ve never shared needles. I don’t understand.”

He turned to his wife.

Her face was unreadable — not hysteria, not denial. Just shock turned to a kind of frozen numbness.

“Bethany,” he said quietly, her name suddenly feeling like a question.

Dr. Moore cleared his throat.

“Mrs. Flynn,” he said, “I strongly recommend that you be tested as well. As Mr. Flynn’s spouse, you are at risk.”

Bethany nodded slowly, eyes locked on Malone.

“Yes. Of course,” she whispered. “I’ll get tested.”

The doctor continued talking — about antiretroviral therapy, CD4 counts, viral loads, how early detection was a positive factor. He explained that Malone’s cell counts suggested early-stage infection, that treatment could be effective.

Malone heard none of it.

His mind had already jumped ahead — to the only other variable in the equation.

His wife.

Later, sitting in the car with rain drumming on the roof, he finally asked the question that had been burning through him since the diagnosis.

“Was it you?” he said quietly, staring straight ahead. “Did you infect me?”

Bethany flinched.

“What? No. Of course not. How can you even think that?”

“What else am I supposed to think?” he shot back, voice rising. “I have HIV, Bethany. It didn’t appear out of nowhere. I’ve only been with you for the last two years.”

“I swear, I didn’t know,” she said, reaching for him.

He pulled his hand away.

“Maybe you didn’t want to know,” he said. “That’s not the same thing.”

Over the next days, as they waited for Bethany’s test results, their house became a tomb of unspoken fears. Physical contact stopped. Conversations shrank to logistics.

On the third day, the phone rang.

Bethany answered, listened, went pale.

“It’s the hospital,” she said. “My results are in. They’re… negative. I don’t have HIV.”

The statement detonated inside the room.

If she was negative, then where had his infection come from?

And why did he have the growing feeling that this was only the beginning of the truth?

PART 2 – The Negative Test, the Dealer, and the Mother’s Secret

When Bethany told Malone her HIV test came back negative, his first reaction was disbelief.

“Are you sure?” he demanded. “They didn’t mix up the samples? The results?”

“They double-checked,” she insisted. “I asked. It’s definitely negative.”

Malone sank onto the sofa, the room spinning for reasons that had nothing to do with fever.

It didn’t make sense.

If she was clean, then what was he supposed to believe?

“Maybe it happened before we met,” Bethany suggested weakly. “HIV can stay hidden for years, right? Maybe you got infected a long time ago.”

“I was tested before I donated blood six months before the wedding,” he shot back. “Everything was clean. I’ve never used drugs. Never had a tattoo in some back-alley shop. Haven’t had unprotected sex outside this marriage. So you tell me, Bethany — where did it come from?”

She had no answer.

Her silence, in that moment, spoke louder than anything she could have said.

When he suggested she might be lying — that perhaps she had taken something to manipulate the test or simply hadn’t gone — she recoiled as if slapped.

“How can you think that?” she cried. “I love you, Malone. I would never hide something like this on purpose.”

But the trust between them, already strained, began to fracture under the weight of every “I don’t know” and “maybe.”

Then Derek came back.

“We Have Unfinished Business”

The doorbell rang just as their argument reached a crescendo. Grateful for a brief interruption, Malone yanked the front door open.

Derek stood on the porch, leaning casually against the frame as if he were a neighbor dropping by for a beer.

“Hi, neighbor,” he said with a smirk. “Is B home?”

Rage rose up in Malone like a wave.

“Get off my property,” he said through clenched teeth. “You’re not welcome here.”

“I need to talk to B,” Derek replied, ignoring him. “It’s important. About our shared past.”

Hearing his voice, Bethany appeared in the hallway.

“Derek, I told you not to come here,” she snapped. “Please, go.”

“I can’t, B,” he said, shaking his head. “We’ve got unfinished business. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

To Malone, it sounded like a threat.

To Derek and Bethany, it was a reference to a world Malone still didn’t know existed.

Without another word, Malone walked into the garage and grabbed the closest thing that could pass as a weapon: a baseball bat Ronald had given him for his birthday.

When he came back, bat in hand, Derek’s expression shifted for the first time — the easy smile tightening at the corners.

“I said get out,” Malone repeated, lifting the bat. “Or I call the police.”

Derek raised his hands as if to calm things.

“Relax, man. I just wanted to talk to B. That’s all.”

“My wife,” Malone corrected coldly. “Her name is Bethany. And she has nothing to discuss with you.”

Derek glanced at her.

“So you didn’t tell him?” he sneered. “I wonder what your husband would think if he knew what you used to be, B. What you still are — no matter how respectable you pretend to be now.”

“Five seconds,” Malone said. “Five. Four. Three—”

“Okay, okay. I’m leaving,” Derek said, backing down the walkway. “But this isn’t over, B. You know I always get what’s mine.”

He disappeared down the street.

Inside, adrenaline still surging, Malone threw the bat against the wall.

“Who is he, Bethany?” he demanded. “And don’t tell me he’s just an old acquaintance.”

She sagged against the wall, as if her legs might give out.

“It’s… complicated,” she managed. “He’s from my old life. The one I told you I didn’t want to talk about.”

“I’m done with half-truths,” Malone said. “I want the whole story. All of it.”

Her phone rang.

She glanced at the screen.

“It’s the studio,” she said. “I have to answer. It’s about a client.”

“In the middle of this?” he exploded.

“It’s my job,” Bethany said, voice suddenly hard. “We’ll talk when I get back. I promise.”

She left before he could stop her.

It was becoming a pattern: when the questions got too close, she vanished.

The Park Bench and the Bombshell

The next morning, Bethany left early, leaving a note about “urgent work.” Malone found himself alone in a house that no longer felt like home.

The walls seemed to hold secrets he couldn’t pry loose.

He went for a walk to clear his head.

At the park near their neighborhood — a place where families walked dogs and kids fed ducks — he sat on a bench and stared at the water.

HIV.
A marriage built on what now felt like lies.
A wife who seemed to be slipping through his fingers.

He didn’t notice someone sit down at the far end of the bench until she spoke.

“I thought I might find you here,” said a familiar voice.

It was Bethany’s mother.

“Mrs. Flynn,” he said, startled. “What are you doing here?”

“Bethany called me last night,” she replied, lighting a cigarette. “She said you were having… problems.”

“‘Problems’ is an understatement,” Malone muttered. “I have HIV, Mrs. Flynn. And your daughter is hiding something from me.”

For a long moment, she said nothing, watching the ducks glide across the pond.

“I warned her,” she said finally. “I told her the truth always comes out. Always. But Bethany has never believed that applies to her.”

“What truth?” Malone asked. The question came out sharper than he intended. “Who is Derek? What is this ‘old life’ everyone keeps hinting at?”

Shivanda took a slow drag, then exhaled.

“Her dealer,” she said calmly. “Or, more precisely, her former dealer. And her former pimp.”

The words didn’t make sense at first, like a sentence in a language he didn’t speak.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me,” she replied. “Bethany was a heroin addict, Malone. From the age of sixteen to twenty-three. To pay for her habit, she did things respectable people don’t talk about.”

He shook his head.

“No. That’s impossible. Bethany? She went to college. She has a career. Friends. She’s—”

“All of that came after rehab,” Shivanda cut in. “I spent a fortune to drag her out of the hole she dug herself into. Rehab, therapy, moving to a new city, getting her into design school. I did everything I could to give her a second life.”

His mind jumped ahead.

“If she was using injection drugs…” he began slowly.

“Exactly,” her mother said. “You don’t need me to connect the dots. You and I both know exactly where you likely got HIV.”

“But her test was negative,” Malone said, clinging to the one solid thing he thought he still had.

“So she told you,” Shivanda replied. “And you believed her? Malone, if there’s one thing my daughter excels at, it’s lying. She has been deceiving me for years. Do you really think she would hesitate to lie to you about a lab result?”

It was, from an evidentiary standpoint, hearsay.

From an emotional standpoint, it was a wrecking ball.

“Why didn’t she tell me?” he asked, voice cracking. “Why hide all of this? I would have understood.”

“Would you?” her mother asked quietly. “Would you have married a former addict who lived on the street, who sold herself to pay for dope, who may very well be HIV positive and too afraid to find out?”

He had no answer.

“She was afraid,” Shivanda continued. “Afraid of losing you, of losing this neat little life she’s built. That doesn’t excuse what she’s done to you. It only explains it.”

She stood up, crushing the cigarette under her heel.

“I love my daughter,” she added. “But I am done watching her destroy other people’s lives. Including yours.”

As she walked away, she turned and asked him one last question.

“What are you going to do now, Malone?”

He stared at the water.

“I don’t know,” he said.

But by 4:00 p.m., he had made at least one decision.

He wasn’t going to wait for Bethany to bring him the truth.

He was going to go and take it.

The Confrontation

The design studio where Bethany worked was located in a trendy, converted factory building — exposed brick, high ceilings, minimalist furniture. Malone rarely visited. That day, he marched straight through the front entrance.

He spotted her immediately.

She stood at a large table, bent over a spread of sketches. She looked every bit the part of a polished creative professional: black dress, neat bun, focused expression.

For a moment, looking at her in that environment, it was hard to reconcile her mother’s words with the woman in front of him.

Until she looked up and saw him.

“Malone?” she said, startled. “What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk,” he said. The tone left no room for argument.

“Now?” She glanced around at her coworkers watching them. “I have a deadline. I can’t just—”

“Now,” he repeated.

Something in his face shut down any further protest.

Outside, they walked in tense silence for several blocks. Finally, she spoke first.

“You talked to my mother,” she said flatly.

“Yes.”

“And she told you everything.”

“She told me that you were a heroin addict from sixteen to twenty-three,” he said. “That Derek was your dealer and your pimp. That she put you in rehab and paid to move you here. That you’ve been lying to me about who you are since the day we met.”

Bethany’s jaw clenched.

“She had no right,” she burst out. “That’s my past. My life. I should have decided when and how to tell you.”

“Were you ever going to tell me?” he asked. “Or were you planning to keep this up forever? Just smile and hope the truth never showed up?”

“I wasn’t lying,” Bethany protested. “I just didn’t tell you everything.”

“That’s the definition of lying, Bethany,” he snapped. “You hid the most important part of your life from the man you married. You hid that you shot up for years. That you prostituted yourself. That the man showing up at our gate was your old pimp. And you hid that you might be carrying a virus that could kill me.”

They turned down a narrow alley they had often used as a shortcut home. Today, it felt like a corridor closing in.

“You wouldn’t have married me if you knew,” she said quietly. “No man wants a wife with a past like mine.”

“It’s not just that,” he replied. “I am HIV positive, Bethany. Do you understand what that means? And I believe you knew there was a risk — and married me anyway.”

“I didn’t know for sure,” she insisted. “I was afraid to get tested. I felt fine. I convinced myself it was behind me.”

“And your ‘negative test’?” he asked. “Was that behind you too?”

She dropped her gaze.

“I lied,” she whispered. “I didn’t take the test. I couldn’t. I was scared of the answer.”

The admission hit him like a physical blow.

“So you knew,” he said slowly. “You knew you might be positive. You knew you could infect me. And you married me anyway. You shared a bed with me anyway. You talked about having children anyway.”

“I hoped it would be okay,” she said, tears streaming. “I thought maybe… maybe I’d gotten lucky.”

“Well, you didn’t,” he replied. “I’m sick. And you probably are too. But your lie — your comfort — was more important than my life.”

She reached for him.

“We can fix this,” she pleaded. “We can start over. I will get tested. I’ll be with you at every appointment. I’ll take care of you. We can still be happy.”

“Happy?” he repeated, voice rising. “Do you understand what my life looks like now? Years of medication. Side effects. Doctors. Constant fear of infections. No children. Whispering behind my back if anyone ever finds out. And every time I swallow a pill, I’ll think of you.”

She sobbed.

“I’m sorry, Malone. Please. I love you.”

“And Derek?” he asked. “Do you love him? Is that who you go to when you need money?”

She hesitated — just a fraction of a second.

But it was enough.

“He’s blackmailing me,” she admitted. “He threatened to tell you everything if I didn’t give him cash. I didn’t know what to do. I panicked.”

“You could have told me the truth,” he said. “You could have let me protect you instead of letting him walk back into our lives.”

Now, standing in a deserted alley, two lives that had once seemed perfect on Instagram were crumbling in real time.

“What now?” she asked, voice shaking. “You know everything. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just know you betrayed me in the worst possible way.”

And in that moment, something in Malone snapped.

PART 3 – The Alley Murder and the Body in the Sewer

The argument had grown hotter, louder, voices bouncing off brick walls on either side.

“You ruined my life,” Malone shouted. “All my dreams, everything I worked for. You did that.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Bethany sobbed. “I just wanted a normal life. A house. A husband. A career. After everything I went through, was that so wrong?”

“It was wrong to lie,” he replied. “It was wrong to risk my life because you were too afraid to face your own past.”

He looked around, mind racing and unfocused, searching for some physical outlet for the rage boiling through him.

That was when he saw it.

A rock, roughly the size of a fist, lying near an overflowing trash can.

Later, he would say he didn’t remember picking it up. Only that one moment he was shouting with empty hands, and the next his palm was wrapped around rough stone.

“Malone,” Bethany said, eyes suddenly wide. “Calm down. Please. You’re scaring me.”

“You say you love me,” he spat. “But you don’t even know who I am. And I never knew who you were. Not really.”

She tried to slip past him, to run toward the street.

He grabbed her arm.

“Let me go,” she screamed. “You’re hurting me!”

Neighbors would later tell investigators they heard raised voices but assumed it was just another argument on a back street. No one thought to look out a window.

No one saw Bethany’s back hit the wall.

No one saw Malone raise his hand.

“You ruined my life!” he shouted.

The rock came down.

Blood appeared on her forehead, bright against her dark skin. She crumpled to her knees, hands instinctively reaching up to shield her face.

“Malone…” she whispered, dazed. “Why? I loved you.”

The words only stoked the fury blazing in him.

He brought the rock down again.

And again.

And again.

By the time the red haze in his vision cleared, Bethany lay motionless on the asphalt, blood haloing her head, streaked across the wall, seeping into the cracks in the concrete.

Her eyes stared up at the sky.

She didn’t blink.

“Bethany?” he choked, dropping the rock.

He knelt beside her, pressing his fingers to her neck, then to her wrist.

Nothing.

The woman he had chased through airports and across beaches, the woman he had promised to grow old with, was dead.

And he had killed her.

Panic and a Manhole

Panic took over.

He wasn’t thinking like a banker anymore, or a husband, or even a rational man. He was thinking like someone who had just crossed an irreversible line.

Prison.
Newspapers.
Whispers at the bank.
“What kind of man kills his wife?”

His eyes darted around the alley.

No cameras visible. No pedestrians. No witnesses.

Just trash cans.

Graffiti.

And a manhole cover.

He stumbled to the round iron plate and tried to lift it. It was heavier than it looked. On the third attempt, adrenaline giving him strength he didn’t know he had, he managed to shove it aside.

A dark hole yawned below, the stink of stagnant water rising up.

He went back to Bethany.

She felt lighter than he remembered — as if life itself had been part of her weight and now it was gone.

He dragged her across the concrete, leaving a smear of blood behind, her limbs limp and unnatural.

At the edge of the opening, he hesitated.

Then he pushed.

There was a dull splash.

Silence.

Malone slid the manhole cover back into place, fingers slipping on the slick metal.

He looked around, breathing hard.

Blood stains dotted the ground near the wall.

He took off his jacket and used it like a rag, scrubbing frantically at the worst of the stains. It didn’t erase everything, but it blurred the story enough that a casual passerby might not notice.

Finally, he threw the bloodied jacket into a trash can — the same one where he dumped the rock.

Then he walked.

He did not run.

He walked out of the alley, down the block, around the corner — just another man on his way somewhere.

Inside, he was falling.

He would later tell investigators that everything after that felt like a dream. His mind split in two — one part insisting this wasn’t happening, another calculating how long he might have before someone noticed Bethany missing.

He had become, in a matter of minutes, what he had only ever seen on the news: a husband who murdered his wife in a fit of rage.

And like many of those husbands, his next instinct was not to confess.

It was to hide.

PART 4 – Discovery, Investigation, and a Motive Written in Blood

For a few hours, Bethany’s absence could be explained away.

She often worked late at the studio. It wasn’t strange for her colleagues to see her leave with clients, or for Malone to assume she’d be home after dark.

But this time, she didn’t come home.

She didn’t answer her phone.

She didn’t text.

Malone, sitting alone in their quiet kitchen, watched the clock tick past 8:00 p.m., then 10:00 p.m. At midnight, he told himself she was cooling off, staying with a friend.

He did not call the police.

The next day, it didn’t matter.

The Body in the Sewer

A city maintenance crew was dispatched the following morning to clear a reported blockage in the sewer line several blocks from the Flynns’ street.

When workers pried open a manhole and lowered a light, they saw something pale and unnatural floating in the murky water.

They called 911.

Detectives from the LAPD’s homicide division arrived on scene. Among them was a veteran investigator accustomed to terrible discoveries. Even so, the sight that greeted them when the body was pulled up shook him.

The victim was an adult female, African American, mid-twenties to early thirties. She had severe head trauma, consistent with multiple blows from a blunt object. Her face was swollen, disfigured, but identifiable. Her dress was mostly intact.

Later, fingerprints and dental records would confirm what some already suspected.

The victim was 29-year-old Bethany Flynn.

By afternoon, officers were knocking on the front door of the house she shared with her husband.

“Have You Seen Your Wife Today, Mr. Flynn?”

When Malone opened the door and found two detectives on his porch, he tried to look surprised.

“Mr. Flynn?” one asked, flashing a badge. “We’re from LAPD. Have you seen your wife today?”

“I… no,” he said. “She stayed late at the studio last night. I thought she’d gone to a friend’s. Is everything okay?”

The lie came too easily.

Inside, his stomach churned.

“I’m afraid there’s been an incident,” the detective said. “We found a body this morning that we believe may be your wife’s. We’ll need you to come down to the station to help with identification and answer some questions.”

At the precinct, the formal identification was quick and brutal. Malone nodded numbly when shown photos, then retched in a hallway trash can.

Back in an interview room, detectives began to piece together the timeline.

“We understand your wife worked at a design studio downtown,” one investigator said. “Did she leave from there last night?”

“I don’t know,” Malone said. “We met near her work. We talked. Then she said she had to go back in. I went home.”

It wasn’t the whole truth.

But homicide detectives are trained to hear what’s missing as much as what’s said.

“Any problems in the marriage?” they asked. “Arguments? Financial issues? Other relationships?”

He denied everything.

“No affairs. No money trouble. We were happy,” he insisted. “We just got married. Why would I hurt her?”

But as they dug deeper, the picture of the “happy newlyweds” began to crumble.

Coworkers at the studio mentioned stress, tension, an argument with her husband outside the building the previous day. A barista nearby recalled seeing them leave together, both visibly upset.

At the bank, Ronald revealed more.

“Malone’s been sick,” he told detectives. “He collapsed here last week. I took him to the hospital. He found out he was HIV positive. He was devastated.”

Doctors confirmed the diagnosis. They confirmed that he was in the early stages of infection.

The link between that medical bombshell and Bethany’s death became a central line of inquiry.

The HIV Motive

When detectives asked Bethany’s mother about possible suspects, she didn’t mince words.

“Look at the husband,” she said. “She lied to him about who she was. About what she’d done. He found out he was HIV positive days before she vanished. You do the math.”

She also told investigators what she had told Malone: about Bethany’s past addiction, her relationship with Derek, and her likely risk of infection.

If true, it would give Malone a powerful, deeply emotional motive.

“Husband, recently diagnosed with HIV, believes his wife infected him and lied about it, then she turns up beaten to death and dumped in a sewer,” one detective summarized. “That doesn’t sound like a random act.”

They began to reconstruct the last known hours of Bethany’s life.

Security cameras near the studio showed Bethany leaving with Malone. Cameras farther down the street caught them turning into a side alley.

No footage showed her emerging.

That alley became the secondary crime scene.

Forensic teams found faint traces of blood near a wall, partially wiped but still detectable with luminol. A trash can a short distance away held a bloodstained rock and a jacket tagged with Malone’s dry-cleaning label.

It wasn’t enough by itself.

But combined with the timeline, the motive, and the physical evidence, a picture began to form.

The Interrogation

When detectives called Malone back in, the tone had shifted.

Gone was the soft approach used with a grieving spouse. In its place was a more direct, controlled conversation.

“We’ve reviewed surveillance footage from near your wife’s workplace,” one detective began. “It shows you and Bethany leaving together yesterday and turning into an alley. Cameras further down the block never show her coming out.”

Malone’s hands tightened on the table.

“I told you,” he said. “We argued. She went back to work. I walked home another way.”

“In that alley,” the detective continued, “we found traces of blood. We also found your jacket in a trash can. And a rock with blood on it. Lab testing is underway.”

Silence stretched across the table.

“You were diagnosed with HIV less than a week ago,” the other detective added quietly. “Your wife lied to you about her test. Your mother-in-law says she hid a drug addiction and a risky past from you. That’s a lot to absorb. Did you confront her about it?”

“Yes,” Malone said finally. “I did.”

“Did she admit she might have infected you?”

“She admitted she never got tested,” he snapped. “She married me knowing she could be positive. She lied to my face.”

“What happened then?” the detective asked. “In that alley.”

He stared at the table.

“We argued,” he said. “I told her she ruined my life. She cried. She said she loved me. I… lost it. I picked up a rock. I didn’t mean to… I just… I wasn’t thinking.”

“And then?” the detective pressed.

“Then she was on the ground,” he whispered. “She wasn’t moving. There was so much blood. I panicked.”

“Why didn’t you call 911?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I knew what it would look like. I knew I’d go to prison. I wasn’t ready to face that.”

“So you tried to hide what you’d done,” the detective concluded. “You dragged her to a manhole. You dumped your wife’s body into the sewer.”

Tears finally spilled over.

“I loved her,” he insisted. “I know it doesn’t sound like it. But I did. She lied to me. She put my life at risk. She took away my future. I just… snapped.”

It was a confession.

Not to cold-blooded, premeditated murder — but to a killing fuelled by betrayal, fear, and rage.

Prosecutors would later call it “a deadly combination of secrets and impulsive violence.”

The Trial and the Fallout

At trial, the prosecution laid out a stark narrative.

They described how Malone, newly married and seemingly happy, discovered he was HIV positive. They detailed his wife’s hidden past, her failure to test, her lies about a negative result. They walked the jury through the confrontation in the alley, the blunt force trauma, and the disposal of her body in the sewer.

His own words, recorded during interrogation, became the backbone of their case.

The defense countered with a different frame: a man pushed to his breaking point by deception and a life-altering diagnosis, who lost control in a single, catastrophic moment.

They emphasized his lack of criminal history, the spontaneous nature of the violence, and his deep shock.

In the end, the jury rejected the idea that this was calculated, first-degree murder. But they also refused to see it as an accident.

Malone Flynn was convicted of second-degree murder and abuse of a corpse.

At sentencing, the judge addressed him directly.

“You were betrayed,” the judge said. “You were lied to about matters that go to the heart of trust in a marriage. That pain is real. But it does not, and cannot, justify what you did. You had choices. You chose violence. You chose concealment. And now you must live with the consequences of both.”

He received a lengthy prison term — one that would almost certainly last longer than his health might allow, given his HIV status.

From a moral standpoint, the case left the community divided.

Some saw Malone as a monster — a man who killed his wife and tried to dispose of her like trash.

Others saw him as a broken human being whose worst act was born from a mix of love, betrayal, fear, and illness.

Everyone agreed on one thing:

This was a tragedy built, layer by layer, on secrecy.

The Lesson in the Ruins

True crime cases often leave behind more questions than answers. In this one, the questions cut close to home for anyone who has ever hidden a painful truth from a partner.

What if Bethany had told Malone everything before the wedding?
What if she had gotten tested years earlier?
What if Malone had walked away instead of walking into that alley?

The law dealt with what happened after the fact.

But the real fault lines in this story began long before the rock, the sewer, or the interrogation.

They began with silence.

A silent addiction.
A silent fear of HIV.
A silent mother watching her daughter construct a new life on top of buried lies.