Chapter 27 Sara Batcher
Sara Batcher
“Sara was sleeping with her yoga instructor. Everyone in the neighborhood knew it. Have you seen the guy? I don’t blame her; I’d kill someone for a chance with him.”
The detectives introduced themselves to Sara in the driveway and formally invited her to the police station for questioning. Invited. That was how they worded it.
Even with all the madness surrounding David’s disappearance, even with the insurance company’s rigorous investigation, Sara had never been officially questioned as a suspect.
Apparently, a dead body changed that. Now David wasn’t just a missing person—he was a homicide victim, a distinction that seemed to infect every single aspect of this situation.
She drove herself to the station. On the way, she called Ian McKenna, her attorney of over fifteen years, and her father’s best friend.
Ian—who was retired, save a few favors for old friends—was on the pickleball court and gasped into the phone that he would meet her at the station in twenty minutes, and to not say a word until he arrived.
She had been to the station before. When David had disappeared, her initial calls to the police had barely raised an eyebrow, so she had come in person and filed a report.
Back then, it had been a quiet afternoon with a sleepy receptionist, who passed her off to an officer, who all but rolled his eyes as he filled out the form.
It wasn’t until David’s assistant also called the cops, concerned because he hadn’t shown up all week, and then they found his car at the condo and no activity on his bank accounts . . .
Three weeks—that was how long it had taken before the police stopped treating Sara like she was a hysterical housewife and started to actually look into her husband’s disappearance.
Three weeks, and by then, it was too late. Most CCTV footage was overwritten, eyewitness memories were fuzzy, dates askew.
They say the first forty-eight hours are the most important. Sara had barely gotten in within the first forty-eight days.
This time, when she walked into the station, it was packed and humming with activity.
There was a full waiting room, the previously bored receptionist replaced with a haggard-looking one.
Sara signed in at the front and took a seat in between a homeless veteran and a bearded man reading a sci-fi book.
She had barely settled in, her phone in hand, on level three of a shelf-organizing game, when her name was called.
Apparently, suspects get pushed to the front of the line.
She followed another officer down a hall and into a small room that looked straight out of every detective movie. Overhead fluorescent. Empty table, chairs on either side.
There were two detectives seated, and they rose at her entrance.
She smiled and they smiled, and if there were fangs present, it wasn’t clear who was hiding them.