Killer Daughter Think’s She Got Away, Doesn’t Know Mom Survived

The Fracture: A Chronicle of Christina Adams 💔

The morning of September 16th began not with a scream, but with the metallic, frantic ring of a 911 dispatcher’s phone. It was a little after 8:00 a.m. in Ocala, Florida, and the caller, an older man whose voice was a ragged tremor of shock and pain, could barely piece the words together. His daughter, he gasped, had stabbed him. Then, a horrific afterthought, she had gone after his wife, too, and she was “not doing well.”

Officers arriving at the scene found a horrifying tableau of violence. Richard Langanger, a respected 74-year-old veteran and pilot, and his wife, were being loaded into ambulances, their lives bleeding away onto the floor of their own home. Richard, fading fast, managed to squeeze out one final, crucial detail: the perpetrator was his daughter, Christina Adams, and she drove a silver Ford Taurus. That simple description, broadcast over the police radio, was the lifeline they needed.

In the ensuing chaos, the primary suspect was named: Christina Adams, 30 years old, who lived in a separate hangar on the property with her wife and child. A name, a car, and the grim reality that a father, in what amounted to a dying declaration, had accused his own flesh and blood. Time was the enemy.

The Interrogation: A Web of Lies and Sociopathy

It didn’t take long for police to find the silver Taurus on the road. The traffic stop was swift and tactical. Behind the wheel was Christina, her wife beside her. As officers secured her, a bizarre scene unfolded. Christina, seated in the police car, leaned toward her open window and spoke softly to her wife: “I love you. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” When asked what was happening, she claimed genuine ignorance. “I don’t know what the hell is happening,” she insisted, a line the detective swiftly dismissed.

At the station, the interview began gently. Christina recounted a mundane morning: up at 5 a.m., playing with cats, watching a movie, learning Valyrian on Duolingo—a detail so odd it almost humanized her. Then came the first inconsistency: the laundry routine. She claimed she put in a load of laundry and returned to sit at the house before going to Publix with her wife, anxious not to leave wet clothes to “stink.”

The timeline began to crumble around a single, absurd object: a melting bag of ice. Her wife had supposedly purchased ice at a racetrack and then left it in the car before they went shopping at Publix. When questioned about this, Christina became vague. She couldn’t recall whether the ice was brought inside or left in the car, a minute detail she struggled to remember just hours later. The detective seized on the inherent contradiction—why leave a melting bag of ice in the car only to jump in and immediately drive back to the house to switch laundry?

The excuses mounted. She backtracked on going to Publix, then suddenly recalled they did go. She mentioned cleaning the day before with bleach, then corrected herself: “Very not. No. Not yesterday.” Her voice began to stutter. The detective knew he had her.

Then, Christina Adams stopped pretending. She delivered a line that halted the room: “I… I’m a sociopath.” She claimed a “mild case” and that “under extreme stress and emotion, other forces control the actions.” This was not an apology; it was a complex, self-serving explanation, a shield to deflect responsibility.

The Motive: Unwanted and Unloved

The detective did not engage with the psychobabble. Instead, he steered toward the real motive, the simmering resentment that had finally boiled over.

Christina’s long-standing criminal record—theft and drug charges since 2009—was part of the friction, but the immediate catalyst was a brutal act of familial displacement. Her father, a man with a comfortable life and nine children, wanted her out. One of her brothers, who had a job and income, needed a place to stay, and that place was Christina’s hangar home.

“He wanted me to move so that another one of my brothers… can stay there,” she stated bitterly. She felt pushed aside and unwanted. She pleaded with her father for help, telling him she would be homeless, that she had no money for a job or support. His response, she said, was a repeated, callous rejection: “It’s not my problem.” Her mother, while appearing sad, offered no defense or help. The message was clear: no one in that house was going to fight for her.

The conversation that set the stage happened back in early August. Her father, with shocking casualness, dropped the bomb: “I need you to be out of the house in six weeks.” No dialogue, no discussion, just a decree. The family had plenty of rooms, yet the parents refused to wall off a space or engage in a meaningful discussion. They had made up their minds. Christina felt unwelcome, unwanted, and very, very angry.

The Real Timeline: Dressing for Murder

The final trigger came the night before the attack. Christina had been dodging her father’s calls. In response, Richard crossed a line. He went to her home, entered her space, and left a handwritten note under the door. Christina described it as an outrageous violation. The note, which thanked her “for being an adult and talking to me” (which she hadn’t), ended with the deadline she dreaded: “You need to be out by work.”

The following morning, September 16th, Christina called her mother about the laundry. Her mother mentioned that her father wanted to talk. The pressure was suffocating. Christina decided to go to the main house. She found her mother on the couch and her father out on his walk.

But then, the final, chilling details began to surface. Christina had claimed to be in shorts and a t-shirt when she put in her first load of laundry. Now, under pressure, she faltered.

“I don’t know if I went back and changed. I put on long dark pants and a jacket.”

And then, the single most damning piece of physical evidence: “There gloves?”

The detective pressed the point. Gloves in the Florida heat. Long sleeves, dark pants, covered from neck to toe. Christina Adams had not reacted in a moment of madness; she had suited up. She came dressed for the violence. The attack was not impulsive; it was brewing for six weeks and executed in a pre-meditated uniform.

The Confession: A Sociopath’s Blackish-Reddish Blur

The fog in Christina’s memory began to thin, replaced by a “blackish reddish like mixture,” as she described the blackout rage.

The detective gently led her back to the moment. Her father returned from his walk and found her. She apologized, explaining she was busy the day before and hadn’t meant to ignore him. “But it didn’t matter,” she said. Her apology was useless. Richard was firm: she was out tomorrow.

“I don’t really remember what happened after that,” she mumbled. But the detective pushed, asking her to describe the object she felt in her hand. “Something like circular. were flat. The hard,” she replied.

Then, the floodgates opened. She retrieved a knife she kept for “self-defense” and a small taser pen.

The Father: He was sitting at his computer. She came up behind him and shocked him with the taser. As he jolted and turned, she struck him twice with the knife, cutting his arm.

The Mother: The commotion brought her mother rushing in, asking, “What are you doing?” Christina, reacting out of fear of what she’d done, stabbed her mother in the chest.

The Final Blows: What Christina omitted was crucial: after stabbing her mother, she turned back to her father and struck again, this time aiming for his chest. He would suffer seven wounds in total.

The Aftermath: Washing Away the Evidence

Christina’s plan was not to panic, but to clean. Her post-attack routine was one of calculated evidence suppression.

She stripped the long dark pants, jacket, and gloves and tossed them into the clothes washer.

She placed the knife, which she planned to put in bleach, into the dishwasher.

She put the knife, wrapped in a chair bag, into her car with bags of ice.

The taser pen was left on her bed.

When asked if she had planned this, she insisted, “Just today,” claiming the plan came together in minutes because her father “just didn’t care… It’s like why did you even have me if you don’t want me?”

Finally, the detective sought to clarify the true scope of the plan.

“So, was it your intention to only kill your father and not your mother? Or was your intention that even though she didn’t necessarily put everything on you like your father was, she didn’t stand up for you enough. So, you were just going to have to to both of them.”

Christina’s response was chillingly clear: “Yes. So, the plan was for both of them.” Her mother had been placed on the list simply because she was passively complicit in the emotional abuse—she “let it all happen.”

The Reckoning: Two Life Terms

The interrogation ended with a grim update: both parents were still alive. Christina Adams was initially charged with two counts of attempted murder.

Two days later, the news came that changed everything. Christina’s mother survived after surgery. But her father, Richard Langanger, did not. The respected veteran who gave everything for his family died from his injuries, killed by the daughter he had rejected. The charges were upgraded: one count of murder and one count of attempted murder.

Three years later, 33-year-old Christina Adams stood before a courtroom. The jury found her guilty of first-degree murder and attempted first-degree murder. The sentence was swift and absolute: two life terms, no parole.

Christina’s final alibi, that she went straight to Publix with her wife after the attack like nothing happened, only to be caught hours later, sealed her fate. Her wife, unaware of the horror, walked the aisles with her, buying groceries. Christina Adams is now permanently out of her family’s house, her new address a Florida state prison, where the mask of the heartbroken sociopath is her only companion. The perfect family shattered, the truth laid bare: the most profound fractures often run between a parent and a child.