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

on the back porch by myself, reading a book, enthralled with breathing the mountain air in a carefree environment. Living in the city surrounded by death has worn me down. I should’ve escaped much sooner.

A voice calls me into the cabin. Lara, the wig long gone, stands in the archway of the bedroom wearing a look of desire and nothing else. “Come here,” she says, summoning me with her right index finger. I put the book down and do as I am told.

I dance with Lara on the bed in a series of unscripted movements. The motions are unhurried. Laughter and joy accompany our explorations. I savor each long kiss, thankful to no longer be alone. I lower myself on top on her and begin a gentle rhythm.

The mood in the room changes slightly without warning. My mind picks up on the subtle shift but is slow in sending any messages to the rest of my body. I continue my movement while the woman underneath me focuses on something else.

Lara asks, “Can I help you?”

She is not talking to me, and this detour is not one of her role-plays. Someone else is in the room. The hairs on my neck stand up in full fear mode. I flash on possible weapons and strike out. I stop, turn, and see her. My first thought surprises me. She’s beautiful. The metamorphosis from business dress to casual wear highlights her delightful face and the joyful perkiness of her personality.

She storms out of the room.

“Ella, wait!”

I throw on a pair of boxers and give chase. I make the front door as Ella nears her car.

“Wait!”

The gravel driveway cuts into my bare feet as I step across toward her.

“Ella, please!”

She turns to face me.

“What?”

That she speaks is a relief until I realize I have nothing to say. I just wanted her to stop, for everything to stop, for the world to go back to the way it was a few moments ago.

“What?” Her voice rises.

“I don’t know.”

She does her damnedest to avoid tears—burying her hurt to keep it below the surface. She resorts to anger instead. The contempt is chilling. She might as well be staring at Corey Miller.

“Look at yourself!”

I don’t do it and keep my attention on her. The expression on my face reveals a painful authenticity—no filter, no calculated look, no mask. The message is a mystery to me, but it’s real whatever it is. I have no control over anything out here. I’m naked.

“Look at yourself!”

This time I listen and take a self-inventory—no clothes except plaid underwear, goose bumps erupting on my cold flesh, and beat-up feet dying a slow death from a thousand cuts. The picture would be comedic in other contexts. But no one is smiling in this scene. Even worse, what I glimpse on the inside is far uglier than external appearances. I see a man exposed. Ella sees him, too.

She gets in her car, starts it up, and drives away. The tires kick up dust from the gravel, covering me in the grimy residue. I stand there in a sea of helplessness, too stunned to anticipate the myriad different ways the future could break from this point forward.

I drag myself back to the cabin.

21

We drive home from the mountains two days later. With every mile closer to the city, the weight on my chest bears down a little more. Ella’s short visit cast a pall over the rest of the weekend. I never got around to finishing that book.

The maintenance of my secret now rests in the hands of a person slapped in the face by my betrayal. The uncertainty of what will happen Monday morning hovers over me like an unannounced jury verdict. I don’t wait well. Bobby will run me out of the office on a rail if he learns the truth, and I fear that Lara will not hang around if I cannot deliver the justice I promised for her sister.

Looking over at her as she sleeps against the passenger window, I dive deep into the depths of my feelings toward this woman. Her presence next to me is no accident. Lara spent the week with me in that cabin instead of Ella for a reason. I chose Lara and may even love her. Sometimes things are that simple.

***

“What do you think she is going to do?”

Lara’s words jolt me out of a faraway trance. I didn’t realize she was awake. The last five minutes driving on dangerous mountain roads are an unrecollected blur. I wince in distress at my slippery grasp on events. Holding the steering wheel tighter, I answer the question.

“I don’t know.”

“A woman scorned.”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“That’s what you think.” Her words carry an authoritative tone that conveys the message that she knows of which she speaks. I wonder what man would ever be fool enough to reject Lara Landrum. I don’t dare ask. She continues, “Will the D.A. take you off the case?”

“Yes.”

“You better talk to her then.”

I nod. Feeling vulnerable, I run my hand down her thigh for reassurance. A hint of a flinch follows, but she allows the hand to stay. I keep it there until the next curve of the road demands otherwise. I feel like a man living on borrowed time.

***

I knock on Ella’s condo door shortly after returning to the city.

“It’s you.”

Her voice conveys no anger, just sadness. I follow her into the living room. We sit on opposite couches—the prosecution and the defense. The apartment’s furnishings are sleek, stylish, sexy even. The whole vibe is one of promise and possibility. The contrast with my own furniture stuck to the past strikes me as somehow symbolic.

We measure each other. I pray she’ll break the silence, but she’s not budging. I taught her well. Make the other party state his position first. I say the only thing I can.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Good question. I’m sorry I hurt Ella, but not for what I did. I’m mainly sorry she found me out.

“Everything.”

“Not good