Chapter 46 Andrea Kendal
Andrea Kendal
“The park where Roxanne was attacked? I used to run on that same trail. But I never ran that late in the day. It was just too dangerous, too empty in the late afternoon. All it would take is one psychopath hiding in the bushes, and I could have ended up like her.”
Andrea pulled into the driveway and stopped, taking a moment to look at the beauty that was their home.
The brick Tudor had ivy that covered the east wall, the greenery creeping across the red brick like a blanket pulled up to someone’s chin.
The oil lanterns on either side of the front door were lit, casting a warm light across the entry.
Most of the interior lights on the first level were on, and through the open curtains, she could see the beautiful rich interiors.
So different from the home she had grown up in.
While it had been the biggest house on the block, it was also the darkest. Kids didn’t come over to play, not at her house.
Every window of the home had an electronic reader that would send out a notification if opened, but the notifications were never needed.
As a child, she’d known her place. Her room had been both her prison and her sanctuary, and she had never looked out the windows and rarely ventured outside the door.
As a teenager, while her friends were sneaking out to meet boys or planning trips to the mall or going to Malibu, she had been curled up in the soft chair in the corner of her room, reading Agatha Christie and Tom Clancy.
No boy had been stupid enough to ask her on a date.
Her first date wasn’t until college, when she’d finally been far enough from home for no one to know what her last name meant.
In contrast, her home with Eric looked like every magazine she had dog-eared as a child and fantasized about as an adult. And it was hers. This beautiful life was hers. Had it been worth it all to get it?
Yes. Even though it had risked putting them in jail, even despite all the pain, the lies, the blood . . . yes. Because now they were a family, one that deeply loved each other. Cameron was safe and Ryder would never know fear. So, yes. It had all been worth it.
She took her foot off the brake and the vehicle rolled forward. Following the driveway’s curve, she pressed the button on her visor and opened up the first bay. Pulling in, she parked beside Eric’s Mercedes and killed the engine. She checked the time.
Too late to tell Cameron and Ryder good night. By now, they’d both be sound asleep.
The doors were open to the back veranda, and she found Eric on his phone, his reading glasses on top of his head, leaning against one of the porch columns, looking out on the view. He turned at her approach. “She just got home,” he said into the phone. “Let’s talk tomorrow.”
He hung up. “That was Walter. He said we did well.”
Andrea sighed. “I’m exhausted. Can we not ever do that again?”
He pulled her into his arms and rested his chin on top of her head, squeezing her into his chest. “I think the worst is over.”
She pulled away and looked up at him. “So . . . we’re safe? They don’t suspect anything?”
“A dead body was found less than a football field away from our back porch.” Eric tilted his head in the direction of the lake. “We’ll be of interest until they figure out the truth. But yes, as far as Roxanne is concerned, they don’t suspect anything.”
She followed his lead, trying to see the area in the dark. It was hard, with plenty of trees and bushes between them. “I can’t believe that David Batcher’s been out there this whole time.”
“They asked if I saw anything back then, and I told them that I didn’t even notice the apparent circus that’s happened in the last forty-eight hours of them discovering and excavating the body. Have you?”
She shook her head. “No. But I wasn’t paying attention.
Especially not back here.” Their yard was thickly landscaped, with a manicured lawn surrounding the flagstone paths, the stone pavers, the pale-turquoise pool.
You couldn’t see past the border of mature olive trees, their silvery leaves a thick barrier to the golf course hole behind it.
The only glimpse out of the yard was an arched opening built for their golf cart and framed in bright-pink bougainvillea blooms. Occasionally, if the moon was bright enough, you’d see a reflection off the pond through it, but nothing in the dark woods near the water.
No wonder someone had thought to dump a body out there.
It was doubling down on the concept of hiding it in plain sight while still having protection.
Andrea used to run on the course at night and had never seen so much as a dog-walker out there on the links.
It was like a thousand-acre private park that became a secret world at night, one that only a few had the key to.
“You know, I knew David Batcher,” Eric said. “He pitched me medical equipment a few times. Supplied us with the artificial valves we used to use.”
Andrea closed her eyes. “You’re kidding me. That isn’t good.”
“One in ten people in this neighborhood are in the medical field. If they start suspecting his client list, they’re going to have a lot of suspects. The only thing that they did bring up . . .”
The reluctance in his voice caused her alarm to spike. “What?”
“His company’s valve was part of the Brody Pitt surgery. Formatic was the company. They were one of the major parties listed on the wrongful death lawsuit.”
Brody Pitt. The lawsuit had occurred just a few months after Roxanne’s disappearance.
Andrea hadn’t been privy to the details, but she had seen the stacks of files that Eric had collected as evidence, and known that there was a risk to Eric’s professional reputation and malpractice insurance.
Patients shouldn’t die three weeks after surgery, but even the most skilled surgeon couldn’t fight the inevitability of certain medical outcomes, especially when faulty equipment was involved.
“So David died before he could testify?”
“No, he testified. He didn’t say much that helped or hurt the case, best I can remember.”
“Did you meet with him? Around the time that he disappeared?”
“No. My only experiences with him were a few isolated sales calls. I barely remember him; not sure I could have picked him out of a lineup.”
“Yeah, but between that connection and . . .” She gestured to the lake. “Our proximity to the scene.”
“We’re innocent. Don’t worry about it.” He tugged at a lock of her hair and grabbed his sweatshirt off the closest chair, preparing to go inside.
We’re innocent. Don’t worry about it.
They were innocent of this. And maybe he was right and there was nothing for her to be worried about. But it wasn’t the David Batcher murder that was stressing her out.
It was the scrutiny. She wasn’t sure they’d hold up under that.