Chapter 70
Roxanne dressed carefully on what would be her last day of life.
She talked to her parents on the phone and ended the call with a promise to see them at the birthday party on Friday.
She went grocery shopping and stocked the kitchen with all of Eric’s favorite snacks, drinks, and ingredients.
She wrote down his favorite meals and the recipes for each of them, though she doubted he would ever pick up a pot.
They had gone over the timeline carefully.
Eric would join her in Los Angeles for the birth and her major surgeries, but otherwise she would have to fend for herself.
He needed to play the part of the grieving husband and would have to suffer as one until his path crossed with the new version of Roxanne and he “fell in love” with Andrea.
They weren’t sure how long the timeline would be between Cameron’s birth and Andrea’s coming-out party to Eric’s social circle.
It would have to be after all evidence of her surgeries had healed, and there was no way to know if there would be complications from those.
They had to mentally prepare for a separation as long as two years, though Eric hoped it to be closer to one.
They also had to gauge public perception and not rush the introduction of a new wife too soon after Roxanne’s disappearance.
The urge to pack a bag was maddening, but she resisted.
Kisi would have a bag for her with a week’s worth of clothes.
Roxy wasn’t on any medications, and would buy anything she needed in Los Angeles.
There, in her new apartment, a two-bedroom townhome that was leased in Kisi’s name, she’d finally be able to purchase a crib.
Baby clothes. A breast pump and birthing books and diapers.
She would be able to celebrate her pregnancy instead of hiding it.
And she would do it all alone. The thought hit her hard, and she paused, looking into the mirror and cupping her hands over her stomach.
She and Eric had planned to get pregnant when his workload eased up, but not for a few years.
This wasn’t ideal, especially in how it had come about, but a baby was still a blessing.
And this plan, as crazy and extreme as it was . . .
It would give her freedom. She was almost breathless at the thought.
She laced up her running shoes and rolled her socks over the bottom of her black leggings.
She used athletic tape to carefully tape the blood bags to her stomach and sternum.
Eric had drawn a pint and a half, an amount that he promised would make a mess.
She pulled a thin T-shirt over the bags and topped it with a pullover sweatshirt.
She left her hair down but put a hair tie on her wrist. The smartwatch, she left on the charger.
The last thing they needed was for it to track her heartbeat long after her time of death.
As a final item, she went to the safe in the closet and opened it using the six-digit combination.
In it were their passports, wills, the deed to their house, and a few stacks of emergency cash.
She counted out $2,000 and put it in the zippered pocket of her sweatshirt.
Before closing the safe, she hesitated and removed her passport, flipping it open.
Roxanne Accardi
She had never updated it after the wedding, and she ran her fingers over her maiden name.
Being an Accardi had, in many ways, made her life easier.
Doors had been opened for her—forced open, in some circumstances.
Money had, her entire life, never been an issue.
She had attended private schools and had her own driver.
A driver who, as she grew older, she understood was a bodyguard.
There had never been an attempt to shield her from witnessing the violence, but there had always been safeguards in place to protect her, Tori, and her mother.
Even more so after her brother was killed.
The adage that the children were off limits was bullshit, at least in the circles that Nico Accardi operated in. He killed women and children as easily as he killed men. His competitors were more than happy to return the favor, which was why fear had become an accepted part of her life.
Would she know how to live without it?
She flipped through the pages. There were so many stamps. So many memories. Traveling was something that she and Eric loved to do. Together, they had explored Venice. Hiked Kilimanjaro. Swum in the Dead Sea and ridden elephants in South Africa.
Andrea would not be able to have a passport. They would have to limit their travels to spots within driving distance, but that was okay. World travel didn’t work as well with a child in tow.
She returned the passport and closed the safe. Then she grabbed her purse, and Roxanne Kendal left her home for the last time ever.
She parked in the lot on the north end of the Fox Trail. Most runners and hikers parked and started on the south end, so she was unsurprised to see it empty. She took a spot on the end and called Eric’s hotel in Austin. The operator transferred her to his room, and he answered on the second ring.
They went over the plan for a final time, then said their goodbyes. She ended the call and took a deep breath, steeling herself for the act. She would need to be quick and fast. No mistakes. No witnesses. If it took more than a minute, she was doing something wrong.
She opened her purse and removed her gloves and sweatshirt and double-checked the blood packets under her shirt.
She took the large Ziploc bag out of her purse, then made a quick survey of the car.
She tucked her purse into the passenger floorboard, out of a thief’s sight. She opened the door and stepped out.
It was late afternoon, and the sun was already to the tree line, the long shadows casting the Audi into the shade.
It was chilly, and she moved quickly, dropping the sweatshirt and gloves by the front of the car; then, reaching back into the vehicle and opening the center console, she removed the short paring knife.
She closed the door and turned slowly, checking the entire lot—deserted—and the woods—quiet.
The trail, which curved to the left after a long stretch, was empty.
Now or never. Quickly, before someone came.
She took a deep breath, then lifted her shirt and pierced the bag with the paring knife.
She yanked, tearing the bag open, and then dropped the knife and squeezed a quarter-size amount into her palms and rubbed them together.
She shuffled back, then forward, making a mess of the mulch.
Some blood dripped from her hands, and she went to grab for the door handle, intentionally missing it.
She swiped at it again and grabbed the handle, yanking it open.
Blood dripped from the gash in the bag, and she went to step in the SUV, using the steering wheel to pull herself in, then fell back.
She left bloody palm and finger smears on the inner doorframe and seats, then shuffled back a dozen steps, gently punching her stomach repeatedly to encourage more blood to leak onto the mulch.
She heard a sound and paused, whipping her head around to see if anyone had appeared down the trail.
No one was there, and she hurried back toward the SUV, using the same path and disturbing the mulch as she went.
When she was back at the car, she slammed her side into the side mirror, bending it back, and grabbed it with her bloody hand for good measure.
Now to escape. She quickly stripped off the shirt and blood bag, shoving them into the Ziploc and sealing it shut.
She grabbed the gloves and pulled them on, then the sweatshirt.
After getting the air out of the Ziploc bag, she stuffed it into the top of her yoga pants and pulled the sweatshirt down over the bulge.
She used her glove to shut the car door, then double-checked the scene.
It looked horrible. Blood everywhere, with clear signs of a struggle.
Someone would be by here and see it and immediately call the police.
She spotted the knife still on the ground, and grabbed it, leaving the car key in its place.
Then she carefully stepped around the front of the car, making sure not to disturb the mulch, and moved into the woods, out of sight and in the opposite direction of the trail.
The woods were thinned out, and according to the map, there was a road a quarter mile to the north. She started to run, her breaths short, her panic starting to mount.
It was too late now. The crime scene was set. Her phone and wallet were in the car. She checked her watch, then remembered she didn’t have it. She picked her way down the hill, moving as quickly and carefully as possible. The last thing she needed was a twisted ankle.
She cupped her stomach as she moved, rubbing the small swell of her belly. “Getting you to safety,” she whispered. “I promise I’ll take care of you.”
Five minutes later, she broke through the trees and hit the two-lane road. She looked left, then right. A hundred yards down the road, Kisi flashed the lights of her Honda sedan.