Chapter 76 Sara Batcher
Sara Batcher
“They’re going to arrest me.” Sara dropped her head onto the open folder before her.
From the other end of the long dining room table, Maggie closed her eyes as she stretched her neck to one side. “The charges won’t stick,” she finally said. “They’ll release you on bail, and it will go to a jury trial, and they won’t convict. There’s no evidence.”
Sara sat upright and looked over the table, which was a disorganized mess of photos, receipts, phone statements, and more. In it, there was enough to prove that David had been a philandering drug addict with a mountain of problems, all of which unhelpfully stuck more red flags on Sara’s back.
There had been a gambling addiction. One she hadn’t even been aware of, but that had racked up several hundred thousands of dollars in debt. The problem? David had paid it all, didn’t owe his bookie a dollar. More motive for Sara to whack him, though, just to stop that bleed.
Add in his wandering penis. One that had apparently stuck itself in his assistant, his boss, his dental hygienist, a cart girl at the golf course, and their dry cleaner’s nineteen-year-old daughter.
While it could be argued that his poor bedroom performance might drive anyone to murder, the cops hadn’t found it suspicious, and Sara was inclined to agree.
Sleep with David and murder wouldn’t be the first thing on your mind.
A follow-up self-pleasure session to finish the job? Much more likely.
Tack on poor job performance. In addition to the lawsuit over Brody Pitt’s wrongful death, David had been on the short list to be fired, largely because of his pain pill addiction, which hadn’t been the ironclad secret that Sara had assumed it to be.
Turned out, she was less than two weeks away from being David’s sugar mama, a promotion she hadn’t wanted and wouldn’t have stood for.
Killing him over that was ridiculous, but apparently plausible, if you listened to the detectives.
The evidence was clear. Sara had been married to a loser. A charming, problematic loser—one who had screwed her over in the worst possible way: by pinning a murder conviction on her.
She looked down the table at Maggie, who was paper-clipping two documents together, and was struck with a sudden wave of gratitude. “Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“You’re the only one who believes me.”
“If you had killed David, you would have asked me to help you hide his body,” she said simply, as if it was obvious.
“Well, that’s an even better reason. You’d help me hide a body.”
Maggie moved around the end of the table and approached Sara, wrapping her arms around her shoulders and pulling her in for a hug. “You know I love you, and I’m here for you. No matter what.”
Sara sagged. “I’m scared,” she whispered.
“I know. I am too. But we’ll get through this together.” Maggie detangled herself. “Sit tight. I’m going to get us a drink.”
Sara watched as Maggie moved toward the kitchen and to the wine chiller.
She closed her eyes as a brief memory of David surfaced.
The night she’d launched the InkRose website, an amateurish attempt at e-commerce, but one they had celebrated with margaritas and fish tacos at a dive bar two blocks from David’s condo.
It was a bittersweet memory, and she blinked back an unexpected surge of tears, her hand quickly brushing at the edges of her eyes.
“Hey,” Maggie said quietly, approaching from the kitchen, two wineglasses in hand. “None of that.”
“It’s just . . .” Sara sniffled. “He was a good guy, you know. Despite all the . . .” She gestured toward the table.
“Meh. Agree to disagree. I will say that you brought out the best in him.” Maggie reached out and gripped Sara’s forearm. “You were a great wife.”
Sara’s face crumpled. It was nice of Maggie to say that, but she hadn’t been a great wife.
She hadn’t even been a good one. She had been a good entrepreneur.
A good checklist-builder. Excellent at building a brand, a team, and a customer base.
Horrible at everything required of a successful marriage.
Truth be told, she had been happier after he’d left. Almost relieved when she’d found out he was dead. The strongest emotions she’d felt since his body turned up were guilt and dread, both selfish emotions that were centered more on the consequences of her actions versus the mourning of a spouse.
And just like that, the final piece of the emotional puzzle clicked into place, and she really realized, for the first moment, that he was gone.
Not out of her life, because that aftermath had been a reality for a long time, but out of this world.
His heart, which she had listened to in the middle of the night, her ear flush against his warm chest, the sound comforting and calming, a metronome of consistency.
It would never beat again. His laugh, which was a belt of pure unrestrained joy, one you could hear across a crowded room, would never sound.
He’d never look at her in that way, the one where his skin crinkled at the corners of his mouth, and his mouth twitched into a smile because he was amused by something she’d said or done.
He’d never stop at the ice cream shop on the way home to pick her up a pint of cookies-and-cream.
He’d never see a Volkswagen on the highway and punch someone’s arm.
He would never experience being a father, not even to a dog. He wouldn’t ever hit that hole in one or go ice fishing in Alaska or see a Packers game on Lambeau Field.
An overwhelming sense of horror hit at the loss of everything undone in his life, and the thousand ways that he would no longer affect the world and the people in his life.
All because she hadn’t been able to deal with his mood swings. All because it had been easier for her to medicate him rather than tolerate him.
“Hey, now . . . shhh.” Maggie pulled her into her arms and squeezed her tightly. “Don’t cry. Sweetie. Stop.”
“I did this,” Sara sobbed. “It was me.” The possibility, which had always felt rather remote—especially after speaking to the medications expert Ian had brought on in the event this ever reached trial—suddenly felt absolute.
Lorazepam could have triggered a reaction that had killed David. Lorazepam she had administered.
“You don’t know that,” Maggie said firmly. “Anything might have killed him. Anything and anyone.” She squeezed Sara and rocked gently from side to side, shushing her cries.
Anything and anyone. The possibility felt like a cop-out. Sara closed her eyes and sent a silent apology up to David, wherever he might be.