The holidays had hardly passed when sirens pierced the silence outside a peaceful Wilmington home. Inside, first responders found Linda Stevenson lying lifeless in her living room. The calendar still stated December, but for her family, the new year had already shattered.
Linda, 64, was a granny who was passionate about the Eagles and confidently and carefully managed a modest business. But she died in what detectives have described as a violent domestic incident. The man who is now charged with killing her? Her spouse, William “Bill” Stevenson—once known to history aficionados as Jill Biden’s first husband.
Like a chilly wind blowing across the Christina River, word of Bill Stevenson’s arrest spread throughout Delaware. At 77, the once-charismatic club owner who created the Stone Balloon music venue finds himself accused for first-degree murder. In a situation that seems both bizarre and terribly realistic, he is currently being detained without bail while he awaits trial.
| Name | William “Bill” Stevenson |
|---|---|
| Notable Role | Jill Biden’s ex-husband (1970–1975) |
| Occupation | Former nightclub owner (Stone Balloon, DE) |
| Recent Event | Charged with first-degree murder (2026) |
| Current Status | Held without bail at Delaware state prison |
| Credible Source | NBC News – Stevenson charged |
In recent years, Stevenson had briefly re-entered the public’s eye with interviews during Joe Biden’s presidential run. He spoke candidly—some might say bitterly—about his divorce from Jill and their intertwined origins. But those headlines have now been overtaken by a far grimmer narrative.
I recall when his interview aired in 2020. He stated he wasn’t hunting retribution, simply setting the record straight. Even still, his voice had an odd edge to it, as if he were revisiting old scars that were still aching under the skin. He spoke of Linda, calling her the love of his life. It’s hard today not to hear that through a sharper lens.
For many, Stevenson had been relegated to a historical footnote. A guy previously associated to a rising political dynasty, now a phantom of a vanished period. He developed a legacy as a local impresario, hosting Bruce Springsteen before the stadium tours and pouring drinks for Delaware’s political class. He lived large, but gradually pulled back from the spotlight. Until now.
Police have not yet released the full details of Linda’s death. But they acknowledged the probe took weeks and entailed considerable forensic work. The decision to charge him wasn’t made lightly. The grand jury’s indictment shows a level of evidence that suggests this was no accident.
Linda was a loving grandmother, a committed friend, and a proud businesswoman, according to her obituary. But there was no mention of her husband. That omission, shockingly deliberate, hinted at the real story unfolding behind closed doors.
In the context of domestic abuse, this case throws a long shadow. Advocates in Delaware are already pushing for stronger preventative services, especially for elderly women—an often overlooked category when it comes to abuse. Linda’s situation is one of many that never reach the news. They conclude in stillness.
What makes this scenario particularly disturbing is the proximity to power. Not just because of Jill Biden, but because Stevenson once sat close to decision-makers, smiling across fundraisers and campaign posters. It serves as a terrifying reminder that privilege does not shield someone from collapse when they are involved in something so deeply terrible.
However, this is not a political narrative. It has nothing to do with Jill Biden. This is about Linda.
She lived in the quiet kind of way that leaves behind important echoes. Her children adored her. Her friends characterized her as deeply kind. Her death, now enveloped in legal proceedings and national news, deserves dignity beyond the controversy.
As Stevenson prepares for his legal defense, concerns remain. Will he talk again? Will the media treat this with the gravity it warrants, or reduce it to a tabloid footnote? It is hoped that accountability and remembrance continue to be the major priorities.
The court will reveal the facts in the upcoming weeks. But for Linda’s family, the impact is already irrevocable. Her absence lingers in the empty seat at the dinner table, the unreturned phone call, the unread birthday card.
I remember a spike in tales of domestic violence during the pandemic—stress spilling out behind closed doors. Experts warned about emotional isolation, financial control, and escalations unobserved by neighbors or even loved ones. That lesson now reverberate in Wilmington’s courtrooms.
By prosecuting cases like this carefully, authorities show that no person, no matter how old or once-prominent, is beyond accountability. It is an extremely painful way to remind people that justice can still be served, even if it is too late to save a life.
Stevenson’s past—riddled with fame, reinvention, and personal drama—no longer defines this time. What counts now is clarity, justice, and honoring Linda’s memory with more than simply candlelight vigils or soundbites.
Her name ought to be mentioned without reference to anyone else’s legacy.
Only Linda. incredibly adored. Silenced too soon.
