Chapter 47 Sara Batcher
Sara Batcher
“The victim’s body appears to have been submersed in fresh water for approximately five years, which accelerated decomposition, leaving us with very little soft tissue to examine.
We didn’t find any obvious signs of perimortem trauma—no fractures, no bullet entry or exit points, no blade marks—but that doesn’t rule out foul play.
Drowning, for example, leaves no trace on bone.
Same with poisoning. I sent samples for diatom testing and toxicology, but realistically, the cause of death may remain undetermined. ”
Sara leaned over the bathroom sink and splashed water on her face, rubbing her palms vigorously over the skin in lieu of her normal four-part evening regimen.
Turning off the faucet, she straightened and looked in the mirror.
Her mascara had run, giving her a raccoon-like appearance, and she opened the center drawer and withdrew a cotton ball.
She went for the pale-blue bottle of eye makeup remover and misjudged the distance, knocking it over.
The room swayed. Maybe Sara should have stopped when they’d finished off the second bottle of tequila.
Maggie had done a better job of keeping up with Willow.
They had been the bad influences, the two of them pushing Sara for one more, then one more.
She got the cap off the eye makeup remover and wet the cotton ball.
God, when was the last time she had been this drunk?
Probably the Jahtunicks’ wedding. At least this time she hadn’t gotten up on a stage and kissed the DJ.
At the time, she had heard the crowd chanting their support of the action.
Later, Maggie had told her that the chant had been for her to “sit down” and that the DJ was only seventeen.
His mother had sent Sara a letter, chastising her for molesting a minor and threatening to report her to the authorities.
The letter had included a sponsorship form for the DJ’s soccer team, which was raising funds for a trip to London.
Against Ian’s advice, Sara had completed the form and enclosed a check for $15,000. That had seemed like an inexpensive way to avoid prosecution. It had worked.
She did a hack job on the mascara cleanup but managed to get the majority of it off, leaving a small mess of dirty cotton balls on the counter, then turned off the light and headed for bed, pulling off items of clothing as she went.
Her crocheted sweater hit the tile just past the steam-shower door.
Her jeweled belt, she hung on the towel hook.
Her cream linen pants, on the Egyptian leather rug.
She undid her bra and tossed it in the direction of the closet and left on her socks and underwear.
Willow hadn’t been wearing a bra. The points of her nipples poked through the baggy shirt she’d worn, and she’d shed her long cardigan sweater around the time they’d decided to order a few pizzas from Rotania’s and eat them on the floor in the den.
Sara couldn’t imagine not wearing a bra.
It felt like something hippies did, and while she wouldn’t have pegged Willow Morrow as a hippie before, after spending the evening with her, she was .
. . Sara frowned as she wormed underneath the covers.
Chill. Like how Sara had always wanted to be, except that she didn’t seem to be built that way, and it was impossible to be chill when there was always important work to be done, a company to run, and an unending to-do list to finish.
At least, there had been when she owned InkRose. Now that she no longer owned it, now that she was just another member of the board and called on quarterly for a meeting and otherwise ignored . . . she could be chill.
There was a soft knock on the door, and the right side eased open. Maggie peeked around the edge of the door. “May I come in?”
Sara nodded and sat up in the bed. “Think she suspects anything?”
Maggie shook her head. “I don’t think she has a clue.”