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

enough. You don’t get to come in here and offer a sorry-ass sorry and put everything back together again. You have a lot to answer for.”

“I’m sorry for the man that I am then. I’m sorry that I’m weak and stupid. I’m sorry I hurt you. I never wanted that. I’m sorry my wife and son are dead. I’m sorry Lara is a witness in our murder case. I’m sorry the world is such a terrible place—me included. Sorriness follows me like a black cloud. I can’t get away from it.”

The force of my self-indictment knocks her back a bit. Her mood returns to sadness. We mourn in silence, avoid looking at the other, and sink under the feeling of what’s unsaid. When our eyes again meet, a single tear runs down her left cheek.

“Why her?”

The answer probably has so many layers that I would never get to the bottom of it if I spent the rest of my life digging for the truth. Lara’s own vulnerability played a part for sure—tragedy seeking out tragedy and all that. But I could’ve been happy with Ella. It didn’t have to be Lara.

“I don’t know.”

She accepts that for a time, then observes, “She’s very beautiful.”

“So are you.”

“She’s white.”

“Ella.”

“Maybe you’re a racist without even knowing it. How many white people have you put on death row?”

Her words are terribly unfair, but I keep my thoughts to myself. I deserve whatever censure she decides to dole out.

She again asks, “Then why?”

“I don’t know.”

More tears. Part of me longs to cry with her, but I can’t. I didn’t cry when Amber and Cale died, and I don’t cry now.

“Here’s the thing,” Ella continues. “I waited for you. I gave you space. I gave you time. I knew you had to heal but believed that we would be together in the end. I felt it. I thought you felt it, too, that we had this silent understanding between us. Now I think everything was all in my imagination, that I was just some dumb lovestruck schoolgirl holding on to promises that were never made. I wasted two years of my life. Am I just a fool?”

“No. I had feelings for you. I still do. Maybe too strong feelings. I had feelings for you even before Amber died. Maybe guilt over that paralyzed me. I don’t know. You’re asking me to explain actions I cannot explain.”

The part about Amber gets her attention—and mine. Not for the first time, pinpricks of conscience needle me, as if I willed Amber dead to begin a love affair with another woman. The feeling is hard to shake.

As if reading my thoughts, Ella reassures me, “You never did anything close to inappropriate. You were a good and faithful husband. You’re the most strait-laced, by-the-book person I know, which is why …” She doesn’t need to finish. The hurt is not only personal. I also failed her professionally as someone she looked up to.

I transition to the workplace side of the equation.

“I need to know what you’re going to do tomorrow when you go into the office.”

“I don’t know.”

The unknown hangs in the air. The beat of my heart reverberates inside my head. I’m here tonight because I want the case. Ella asks, “What should I do?”

“Tell Bobby.”

“Your career in the D.A.’s office will be over. Bobby will have to get rid of you and hope the case doesn’t get blown to hell.”

She searches for wisdom out the window, wrestling internally with herself.

“I’ll keep your secret.” Agreeing to the falsehood, she becomes smaller and weaker, poisoned by my deceit. She is now my accomplice and not happy about it. I should resign, spare her this pain. But I won’t. I can’t. I made a promise to Lara.

“There are some conditions. You have to break it off with her. You can’t keep sleeping with a witness. You know that. Also, she’s my witness at trial. I’ll take the responsibility for prepping her and I’ll handle her questioning. You’re too close to the situation. You need some distance from her.”

“Those are reasonable terms.”

“I have your word?”

“Yes.”

Ella starts to walk me out. She says, “There’s something else I need to tell you.”

We stop.

“I told Scott.”

Damn. I curse the prospect of another painful conversation in my future.

“Anyone else?”

She shakes her head.

We loiter together at the door. She kisses me. The driest, deadest meeting of lips ever. She places her hand on my chest—a touch of regret.

“Get out.”

***

The second I enter my house, a knock bangs on the front door. Scott brushes in without so much as a hello.

I ask, “Were you staking me out?”

“Something like that.”

He marches to the kitchen, opens the fridge, and grabs a beer from his previous stash. He studies me, takes a sip, and shakes his head. The disgust is plain. He takes another drink, and it begins.

“Anything you want to tell me?”

“I know you know, so say whatever it is you want to say.”

“Okay. I’ll say it. I’ve been saying you need to get laid for a while now, but I didn’t mean for you to do it with a witness. And not some witness in some random case, but a witness in the most high-profile murder investigation we’ve ever had together. And not some just random witness in our otherwise high-profile murder, but the most high-profile witness in the case, who also happens to be one of the most famous women on the planet. What the hell were you thinking?”

“How long did you work on that?”

“Shut up! This is serious.”

“I understand that.”

A stare down commences.

“Well, are you going to explain yourself?”

“What is there to say?”

Driving home from Ella’s condo, I took it on faith that Scott would shield me. Now my faith waivers.

He asks, “So you talked to Ella, I gather?”

“I did.”

“What did she say?”

I relay the substance of the conversation, including Ella’s conditions for me to stay on the Barton case.

He responds, “She changed her tune from when we talked. You must have sweet-talked her good. As worked up as