The police ordered Howard to undergo a DNA test. They said they'd have the results in a few days, so when I didn't hear anything, I convinced myself I'd let my imagination run away with me. Three weeks later, my mother called. "Oh, my God. What have you gotten yourself involved in, Joy?" she asked frantically. Howard was the Ether Rapist, she said. The DNA was a match; he was all over the news. I forced my crushing devastation inward — my son was home, and I had to get him to school. I dropped him off, then drove around aimlessly for hours, sobbing. My head swam with anger and confusion as I replayed moments from our marriage. Every time we'd had sex, he'd closed his eyes. It always bothered me, and when I once asked what he was thinking about, he flirtatiously said I didn't want to know. Now I wondered if he'd been reliving the awful things he'd done to those girls. I felt revolted, and I couldn't believe I'd been so duped. But worst of all had been the judgmental tone of my mother's voice on the phone. If she blamed me for not seeing the truth, how would my friends and neighbors react? A wave of shame crashed over me as I thought about how other people would see me now. A banquet for my son's football team was just a few days away. I shuddered at the prospect of facing the other parents.