This is being investigated as a domestic violence incident. Her husband, Steven Bowen, is in our custody.

Police alleged that this man killed his wife, the vice mayor, and slept in the same home in the overnight hours. He is now under arrest and being held here at the Broward County Jail without bond.

About a dozen miles away in Plantation, cell phone video shows law enforcement swarming an apartment complex where sources tell Local 10 they caught up with the vice mayor’s husband and took him into custody.

“We just heard a big bang and I said, ‘Oh my god, is that gunshots?’ We looked out the window and SWAT cars, cop cars, everything just everywhere. Guns drawn.”

Steven and Nancy had been married for just several years, even posting photos of themselves in happier times.

“Nancy, I loved you. You’re my big sister. I was always happy to see you at all the events we went to together. I just saw you this past Saturday. Didn’t think that would be the last time I got to talk to you.”

That was Commissioner Joshua Simmons. And that right there tells you more about who Nancy was than anything else in this story.

“Good evening, Coral Springs. I am your vice mayor, Nancy Mate Bowen. But before I begin my remarks, I would like to acknowledge my parents who are in the audience this evening, Miss Lyn and Marley Mate. I am the leader that I am today because they instilled some amazing core values in me and my brothers and sister.”

This is the story of Nancy Mate Bowen, vice mayor of Coral Springs, Florida. Thirty-eight years old. The first Black and Haitian-American woman ever elected to the Coral Springs City Commission. And hours away from the biggest announcement of her career.

On the morning of April 1st, 2026, she was inside her own home. Gone.

“She was found dead at her home Wednesday morning by Coral Springs police, who went for a wellness check. Her husband, forty-year-old Steven Bowen, was taken into custody.”

Before we get to that morning, you need to know who Nancy Mate Bowen was—because there was a lot more to her than a title.

Nancy Mate Bowen was a first-generation American. Her parents, Miss Lyn and Marley Mate, came from Haiti and built a life in South Florida. Florida A&M for undergrad, then Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health for her master’s degree in environmental health sciences. That is the foundation she built before she ran for politics.

Those degrees went straight to work. Before she was thirty years old, Nancy had already interned at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. She had worked in the office of former U.S. Senator Bill Nelson. And then she walked into the Obama White House as an intern. A first-generation American moving through some of the most powerful rooms in the country.

She came back home and got to work at the ground level. Haiti relief efforts. Environmental programs for young people. Community engagement in Tamarac. Broward County government work.

In 2017, she ran for the Broward County Soil and Water Conservation District. It is not a glamorous position. Most people could not tell you what it does. Nancy ran for it anyway—and she won.

Then in 2020, she made history. Nancy Mate Bowen ran for the Coral Springs City Commission, a city of one hundred thirty-four thousand people, and she won. She became the first Black and Haitian-American woman ever elected to that body in the city’s entire history. Nobody had done it before her.

Four years later, in 2024, she ran again. This time, she won unopposed. In a city of one hundred thirty-four thousand people, nobody challenged her. Four years in, and not a single person stepped up to run against her.

She served on ten community boards simultaneously. She led Coral Springs on environmental sustainability. She pushed to establish a sustainable department within the city. She joined international organizations dedicated to environmental issues. She fought for reproductive rights and healthcare access.

She was the kind of commissioner who read the fine print. Local water policy, conservation issues—the details that do not make headlines but affect people’s daily lives. Just days before April 1st, 2026, she hosted an Easter egg hunt for children in Coral Springs. That is how close to the end this was.

She served as Florida Caribbean Vote director for the Kamala Harris presidential campaign in 2024, organizing and mobilizing one of the most politically significant diaspora communities in the entire state of Florida. She was vice chair of Haitian-American voter engagement for the Florida Democratic Party. She had recently been hired as program manager for Miami-Dade’s Climate Ready Tech Hub, a federally funded office focused on climate resilience and private sector innovation.

Here she is in her own words on why she ran:

“I ran for office because I believe representation matters. Our communities deserve leaders who reflect their lived experiences and who will fight to make government more accountable, transparent, and fair. For me, good governance means putting people first—listening, engaging, and making decisions that serve the public, not politics.”

“I’m also deeply passionate about protecting our environment. Growing up in Florida, I’ve seen firsthand the impacts of flooding, rising costs, and climate change on families. I ran to ensure we have resilient solutions that safeguard our health, our homes, and our future. At the heart of it all, I stepped up to serve so every voice is heard, every family has opportunity, and our communities thrive for generations to come.”

That was her in her own words.

In the weeks before April 1st, she had quietly begun telling people she was ready for the next step. Not the city commission. Not the county. Congress.

The announcement was set for April 2nd, 2026. April 2nd never came for her.

And the man who was supposed to be beside her through all of it—Steven Bowen—is the reason why. This man watched her build all of this. He was there for every step of it. And allegedly, he could not take it anymore.

The question is: how long had that been going on? And why did nobody around them see it?

Steven Bowen, forty years old, reportedly of Jamaican descent. By profession, he was the chief operating officer of Men of St. Luke, a religious and fraternal nonprofit organization based in Broward County. Faith-based. Community-oriented. That was the image.

He and Nancy had been married for approximately two years. From the outside, this couple looked like they were moving forward together. They traveled. They attended events. Posted photos—smiling, hugging, dressed up, dancing at public functions. Nancy posted about him warmly, marking their second anniversary.

She chose a specific photo for that post. She chose a photo taken right in front of the Coral Springs City Seal at City Hall—the place that represented everything she had worked for. Her caption read: “Three years of building, dreaming, and loving each other through everything. Happy anniversary, Steven Bowen.”

She was proud of that marriage. Proud of him.

People who worked alongside her every day said the news came as a complete shock. Nothing they knew about this couple suggested anything was wrong.

Steven Bowen was the COO of a small nonprofit that, before April 1st, 2026, almost nobody outside of Broward County had heard of. Nancy was the vice mayor. Historic. Celebrated. Her name was in headlines. She was on campaign stages. She was in rooms with senators and community leaders from across the state. She was, by every public measure, ascending.

And the congressional announcement scheduled for the very next morning was about to take that even further.

According to people close to Nancy, Steven allegedly could not accept that. They say he was fed up with being in the background while she was in the spotlight. That her success was something he allegedly resented deeply. According to people around her, he allegedly feared she would leave—that her success would take her somewhere he could not follow.

“A lot of professional women who are experiencing domestic violence keep their private life very hidden because of repercussions for their career advancement.”

No official motive has been confirmed by law enforcement.

In the days leading up to April 1st, Nancy was everywhere. Florida Democratic Party Chair Nikki Fried said she had hugged Nancy at the party’s leadership summit just days before. Florida Congressman Jared Moskowitz said on X that he was just with her Saturday, describing her as a fighter for her community. He confirmed that Mate Bowen was going to announce her run for Congress.

Tamarac Vice Mayor Marlon Bolton said, “She always wants to excel. But not just excel—she wanted to make sure that any job that she had, she wanted to help people. And so she thought that Congress would have done that for her.”

And through all of this, Nancy was grieving. In December, she lost her younger brother, Donovan.

“This is only the latest blow for her family. In December, her younger brother—Donovan—took his own life. His family blames his experience of surviving the mass shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School as the catalyst for his own mental health challenges.”

“There are no words that can truly capture the depth of this loss or the pain this organization and community are now dealing with.”

Sky 10 flew high over a significant crime scene in Coral Springs—a home circled in police tape inside a gated residential community. Here, officers found the body of Nancy Mate Bowen, the vice mayor of the city.

Nikki Fried, the chair for the Florida Democratic Party, said: “Nancy was my friend and a friend to everyone who has ever believed that democracy was worth fighting for. The world is less bright without her in it.”

Her light—gone forever to the ones who knew her the most, her family. They said in a statement: “While many knew her as a leader and advocate, we knew her as a sister, a daughter, and a friend whose warmth and laughter filled every room. Her legacy will live on, not only in the policies she helped shape, but in the countless lives she touched.”

“She’s probably one of the most sincere public safety servants that I have met, not just over the last seven years but throughout my entire lifetime. She had so much light and so much hope and just the desire to serve her community—that’s really what she put front and center.”

“Someone who was really committed and believed in what this community could be—that’s how Nancy moved. She showed up for every fight.”

“Nancy is one of those people that just never stopped smiling. She was so focused on serving her community and being a role model for others that despite that heavy loss, she never slowed down.”

That was especially true on issues she cared about: the environment, reproductive rights, and healthcare. She was also known in Coral Springs for digging into the details of policy, especially when it comes to local water and conservation issues.

“Mr. Bowen, good morning, sir.”

The forty-year-old appeared before a judge today on charges of premeditated murder and tampering with physical evidence. An arrest report says cops performing a welfare check at the home found Nancy’s body—wrapped in blankets and black garbage bags in the bed of the second-floor master bedroom.

“Would anybody else from the public like to be heard?”

The vice mayor was noticeably absent from Wednesday’s city commission meeting, which raised alarm bells among her colleagues.

“Initially, I just thought maybe there was just issues trying to deal with work and whatnot. And so we led the meeting.”

Investigators believe that Bowen also visited this home in Lauderdale Lakes after the shooting to drop off a rifle to an unsuspecting uncle and to allegedly make a startling admission. Bowen explained that he shot Nancy three times with a shotgun the previous night and then slept downstairs—and that Nancy was rolled up in a comforter with a garbage bag around her feet.

When asked why, Steven Bowen said that he couldn’t take it anymore.

Her husband now charged with her murder—as we learned the shocking admission that he apparently made about a possible motive. That person who he allegedly confessed to then went to police. That person telling police that the suspect allegedly told him that he shot and killed his wife because he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Mr. Bowen, good morning, sir. You’re charged with one count first-degree premeditated murder. You’re also charged with one count tampering with or fabricating physical evidence.”

No bond for forty-year-old Steven Bowen, who faced a Broward County judge Thursday, a day after his wife, Coral Springs Vice Mayor Nancy Mate Bowen, was found dead inside their home.

“The court does find probable cause for the charges.”

Police said after text messages were made to her husband by the commission manager as to where she may be, investigators said Bowen responded, “Texted her, she’s not picking up. Where is she? Her car is not at home.”

Investigators said Bowen confessed to his uncle that he shot his wife because he couldn’t take it anymore. His uncle went to investigators, who then made their way inside of the vice mayor’s home. It was there she was found—wrapped in a blanket and trash bags after being shot.

“Earlier today, April 1st, 2026, we initiated an investigation into the well-being of Vice Mayor Nancy Mate Bowen at approximately 10:00 a.m. this morning. The investigation, through investigative techniques, we arrived at her residence at the around the 800 block of Northwest 127th Avenue. Once at the residence, we did locate the body of a deceased Black female that we identified as Vice Mayor Nancy Mate Bowen.”

“This is being investigated as a domestic violence incident. Her husband, Steven Bowen, is in our custody. There are no additional suspects at this time, and there are no immediate threats to anyone in the public. I want to say thank you to Broward Sheriff’s Office, Fort Lauderdale PD, and Plantation PD for their assistance in this investigation so far.”

At that point, Commissioner Joshua Simmons stepped to the podium. His voice cracked. His hands trembled. But he did not look away.

“Good afternoon, everyone or evening. Usually I love speaking at press conferences and talking to reporters. But this is not one of those days.”

“Nancy was our colleague. That was our battle buddy. She had such a good heart. She truly cared about people. Even when people were saying some of the most horrible things about her and us, she still cared. Rolled up her sleeves. Went to every event that she could go to because she truly cared about people and making sure people had a relationship with their elected officials.”

“And for anyone that knows me, they know that I can tend to be a little like an attack dog. And I was very protective of her. I would not let people mistreat her or talk to her any kind of way just because she decided to serve the people. So my heart is extremely heavy. My soul is heavy. My heart is broken.”

“We just normal people. And to have to go home and deal with things—that’s what we do. We come back out every single day and we work for the people. Our commission is incomplete. Our commission is incomplete. And we know that time is going to move and time is going to do its thing. But for us that are in this city, at city hall, that have been touched or impacted by Vice Mayor Nancy Mate Bowen, that is a loss that is going to take a lot of time to deal with.”

He turned to the media. “To the media, thank you for being here. But I am going to ask you one simple request: do not turn this into a circus. Do not barrage our office trying to get answers. You have been given instructions. Please follow them. We are truly grieving right now. Our city will come together as we always do.”

Then he spoke directly to Nancy. “Nancy, I loved you. You’re my big sister. I was always happy to see you at all the events we went to together. I just saw you this past Saturday. Didn’t think that would be the last time I got to talk to you.”

“So all I’ll say to everyone here: go home, hug your loved ones, tell them you love them, be close to them. I am praying for her family, who’s dealing with yet another unimaginable tragedy. So please keep them in your prayers as well.”

City Manager Catherine Given stepped forward next. Her voice was steady, but her eyes were red.

“To say today is a very dark day for us in Coral Springs is an understatement. There are no words that can truly capture the depth of this loss or the pain this organization and community are now dealing with as a result of this senseless tragedy. What’s worse is the tremendous grief that her family must endure. And if you knew Nancy, her family was everything.”

“Vice Mayor Mate gave us so much of herself to our city. She wasn’t just a leader. She was the light in every room that she entered. She was a steady voice in difficult times, a compassionate soul who lifted others up, and a friend to so many. Our hearts are truly broken.”

“We know this brings shock and sorrow, and we are taking the necessary steps as city employees to be with those that are affected. We have our behavioral health access program for our employees for our healing. As we do this together, we ask the community to grieve with us. We are one family, one organization, one community, and we come together at these times. Please hold each other close as we mourn.”

“In closing, I want to say that we’re going to keep her light even in the darkest of days like today. We’re here for one another. We’re here for our community. Thank you.”

The press conference ended. The cameras turned off. But the questions remained.

How could a man who stood beside a rising political star—who attended her events, smiled in her photos, shared her table at banquets—allegedly end her life hours before she was set to announce a run for Congress? What was it about her success that he could not tolerate? And why did no one see the signs?

Nancy’s parents, Miss Lyn and Marley Mate, had come from Haiti with nothing. They had built a life. They had raised a daughter who would go on to intern in the Obama White House and become the first Black Haitian-American woman elected to the Coral Springs City Commission. They had watched her ascend. They had watched her grieve the loss of her younger brother, Donovan, who had taken his own life in December.

And now, they were watching her be buried.

Commissioner Simmons had said it best: “Our commission is incomplete.” But the commission was not the only thing that was incomplete. Nancy’s life was incomplete. Her announcement never came. Her congressional campaign never launched. Her dreams of representing her community on a national stage ended in a bedroom on the second floor of her own home.

She had posted about Steven warmly. She had chosen that photo—the one in front of the City Seal—to mark their anniversary. She had written, “Three years of building, dreaming, and loving each other through everything.”

She was building. She was dreaming. She was loving.

And he could not take it anymore.

The words echoed through the investigation: “He couldn’t take it anymore.” That was what Steven Bowen allegedly told his uncle. That was what investigators wrote in their reports. That was the motive—as thin as it was, as insufficient as it felt.

He couldn’t take her success. He couldn’t take the spotlight being on her. He couldn’t take the fact that she was ascending while he was standing still. And so he ended her.

The rifle was dropped off at an uncle’s house—an unsuspecting man who had no idea what he was being asked to hold. The body was wrapped in blankets and garbage bags. The house was cleaned. The story was prepared. Steven Bowen went to sleep downstairs while his wife lay dead in the master bedroom above him.

When the commission manager texted him asking where she was, he lied. “Texted her, she’s not picking up. Where is she? Her car is not at home.”

He played the part of the worried husband. He texted back. He answered questions. He pretended.

But the uncle went to the police. The story unraveled. And by the time officers forced their way into the home, all that was left was a body, a weapon, and a confession.

Nancy’s colleagues at the Florida Democratic Party planned a vigil. Her sorority sisters organized a memorial. Her constituents flooded social media with photos and tributes—pictures of her at city events, at environmental rallies, at the Easter egg hunt just days before.

One photo circulated more than the others. It was Nancy at a campaign event, laughing, her head thrown back, her smile wide and genuine. The kind of smile that made you want to smile too. The kind of smile that reminded everyone why they had voted for her, believed in her, trusted her.

She was thirty-eight years old. She had just been hired as program manager for Miami-Dade’s Climate Ready Tech Hub. She was vice mayor of Coral Springs. She was a first-generation American who had made it further than anyone in her family could have dreamed.

And on April 1st, 2026, she became a statistic. Another woman killed by her partner. Another domestic violence case that ended in tragedy. Another family left to pick up the pieces.

The Coral Springs City Commission meeting the next night was held with an empty chair. No resolution was passed. No proclamation was read. They simply sat in silence for a moment, looked at the seat where Nancy should have been, and tried to figure out how to continue.

Commissioner Simmons spoke for all of them when he said, “We just normal people. We come back out every single day and we work for the people.”

But that day, coming back was harder than any of them had expected.

Nancy’s parents issued a statement through the city. It read: “While many knew her as a leader and advocate, we knew her as a sister, a daughter, and a friend whose warmth and laughter filled every room. Her legacy will live on, not only in the policies she helped shape, but in the countless lives she touched.”

The investigation continues. Steven Bowen sits in the Broward County Jail without bond, charged with first-degree premeditated murder and tampering with physical evidence. His attorney has not commented on the allegations. The uncle who turned him in is being hailed as a hero by some and condemned as a traitor by others.

But none of that matters to Nancy. She is gone.

And April 2nd, 2026—the day she was supposed to announce her run for Congress—came and went without her. The announcement was never made. The campaign never began. The dreams that she had worked so hard to build ended not in a victory speech, but in a body bag.

Nikki Fried hugged Nancy just days before. She said the world was less bright without her. She was right.

Jared Moskowitz had been with her on Saturday. He said she was a fighter for her community. He was right too.

But none of it brought her back. The light that Nancy carried—the one that made her smile so wide, the one that made her care so deeply—was extinguished by the man who promised to love her.

And the question that will haunt Coral Springs for years is not “what happened?” but “why didn’t we see it coming?”

The answer, as always, is that domestic violence hides in plain sight. It hides behind smiles. Behind photos of happy couples. Behind the image of a successful woman and her supportive husband. It hides until it is too late.

Nancy’s brother Donovan had taken his own life just months before. His family blamed his experience surviving the mass shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School—the trauma that never left him, the wounds that never healed. The Mate family had already lost one child to violence.

Now they had lost another.

“Her light was gone forever to the ones who knew her the most—her family.”

Commissioner Simmons ended his remarks with a plea that felt more like a prayer: “Go home, hug your loved ones, tell them you love them, be close to them.”

Because you never know when the last time you see someone will actually be the last time. Because the person who seems happiest might be hiding the deepest pain. Because the marriage that looks perfect from the outside might be crumbling on the inside.

Nancy loved her community. She loved her family. She loved the work.

And somewhere in that love, she forgot to protect herself. Or maybe she thought she didn’t need to. Maybe she thought that the man who stood beside her, who smiled in her photos, who attended her events, could never be the one to end her.

She was wrong.

And Coral Springs will never be the same.

The flags at City Hall were lowered to half-staff. The chair in the commission chamber was left empty. The announcement that was supposed to change everything was never made.

Steven Bowen is in custody.

Nancy Mate Bowen is gone.

And the question remains: how many more women have to die before we start taking domestic violence seriously? How many more successful, brilliant, accomplished women have to lose their lives to partners who cannot tolerate their success? How many more families have to bury their daughters before something changes?

The answer, right now, is as many as it takes. Because nothing changes.

And Nancy’s light—like the lights of so many women before her—has been extinguished.

“We’re going to keep her light even in the darkest of days like today,” the city manager said.

But keeping a light alive is not the same as bringing it back. And no amount of vigils, no number of scholarships, no memorials will ever replace the woman who should be sitting in that chair, announcing her run for Congress, and continuing to fight for her community.

She was hours away.

And now she is gone.