The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1) by Lance McMillian (primary phonics txt) 📗

“Just got a call. Tasha Favors was shot and killed in Clayton County a little while ago. Execution-style. A piece of duct tape covering her mouth. No witnesses to report yet.”

The words don’t register at first. I remain stuck on the blond woman. But Ella’s scream forces me to confront the truth. A flush of heat burns me from head to toe and strips me of all physical feeling. Scott sits down, unable to support his weight. I stagger up, trying to navigate the task of standing with no mental awareness of my legs. My mind howls, “Tasha!” Dizzy. I have to get out of this toxic place. I smash my phone against the wall, wanting no more connection to this brutal awful world. That beautiful, brave little girl. Dead. Corey Miller’s smug face flashes through my mind. Q-Bone’s parting words to me ring out: “That little girl is going to get got.” May both suffer the eternal tortures of the damned. I make for the door.

Down the hallway, Bobby steps out of his office and temporarily stops my escape.

“Did you hear about the Favors girl?”

Tasha, her name is Tasha.

Bobby looks at me and knows the answer.

“There could be some bad press on that, but I’m hoping the news of the Barton trial will drown it out. We need to change the strategy we talked about earlier. I need you. Are you ready to do a press conference on Barton yet? And we need to make clear that the Favors girl was not killed in Fulton County, but in another jurisdiction. Let Clayton County take the heat.”

The utter vulgarity. I need fresh air. I walk away with no intention of ever coming back. That beautiful, brave little girl. Dead. And the politicians want to cover it up.

“Hey! Where are you going? I need you on this.”

I reach the street. I start to breathe again in the smog-infested freshness of the air. I walk toward the parking garage. A reporter sees me and shouts my name. She and her cameraman launch a mad sprint. I hurry into traffic to get away. Near misses. Horns blow. I’m across and still alive. I see the street sign out of the corner of my eye—Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd. The realization stabs me in the face. Another person gunned down by the hateful and dark rage of the human heart. Amber. Cale. Lara Landrum. Sam. Tasha. Every murder case I’ve ever tried. Dr. King. Too much death.

That beautiful, brave little girl. Dead.

I drive off into the abyss.

EPILOGUE

Tasha’s murder drove me to the end of myself. I now sit before the graves of my wife and son. Dried mud cakes my dress pants, and my black, well-heeled shoes are soaked with the wetness of a recent rain. I came to this spot because it was the only place I could think to go. Running from death brought me to a graveyard.

Anguished hours pass. I feel deader than the corpses that surround me. Memories of Amber and Cale flood forward from the past. The journey from the white wedding dress to the red blood on the living room floor is a story of joy and pain. For the first time since the murders, I long to remember the good. Sara Barton is another matter. I wallow in a ravaging self-disappointment, unsure of whether it was love, lust, or loneliness that made me so blind. The parents of Sara Barton murdered an innocent girl, and the wreckage from their long-ago crimes keeps collecting fresh victims. But abuse only explains. It cannot excuse. The human toll remains. My friend Sam is still dead, and Sara killed him.

The tears come in torrents when I think of Tasha. I picture her scared little eyes at the end, distraught over humanity’s casual cruelty. The duct tape over her mouth sickens me. The senseless violence that defines my adult life shows no sign of abating. The blood-dimmed tide is everywhere, the ceremony of innocence drowned—and I am too small to stop the evil.

Things fall apart. The center cannot hold. My heart cries out, “O God, O God, O God.” I am broken.

I stay through the night, mired in the mud, nowhere else to go. In the midst of my sinking depression, a voice among the trees whispers, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” Looking at the headstones of my wife and son, the promise is a hard one to trust. I played my part faithfully before, only to receive unimaginable suffering in return. Why should I believe again? But the tug of repentance pushes me to an unavoidable decision point.

Change or die.

A deep tiredness permeates me in a way that goes far beyond the physical. My soul seeks respite, and dying feels easier than change. Two roads diverge—the good and the bad. A deep breath grabs hold of my lungs. I wrestle with God in the early hours and lose. The language of salvation calls to me. You are a new creation in Christ. I want to believe.

I stand and stretch, eager to tread the road less traveled, praying that God’s forgiveness will allow me to forgive myself. The moment is short-lived. The sense of closure that brought me to my feet seconds before evaporates into the mist. The same small, still voice speaks in a soft undertone, “You’re not finished.”

The confusing words return me to the sacred ground. The mystery eludes my grasp. Frustration that I am missing something obvious takes root. The harder I strain, the more I flail. The voice commands: “Be still.” I obey. The stirring, at first faint, graduates from a simmer into a boil. The clear instructions despair me because I want no taste of the bitter cup being offered.

“I can’t.”

“You must.”

Dawn beckons, but one last step remains. I open my heart to Corey Miller, Q-Bone, and even Mr. Smith. To each