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

“Been busy. Murder never sleeps.”

“They’ll still be dead Monday morning, you know.”

Chad’s gift is an ability to say seemingly innocuous things that nevertheless convey hard truths. The dead will still be dead no matter what I do, and using my job to avoid every other part of my life is a poor excuse for living.

Chad’s wife, Olivia, joins us in the entryway. More small talk follows, and I fake friendly patience. At last, Chad calls out for Sydney. On cue, the sound of footsteps coming from the basement answers in obedience. Sydney enters the room and stops for a second before bounding toward me with unleashed enthusiasm. She remembers. Her meaty paws jump up at me, and I bend down to let her lick my face. When I kneel to get more on her level, she knocks me down in her excitement.

Amber and I adopted Sydney as a rescue border collie and boxer mix shortly after we got married. We had just returned from our two-week honeymoon in Australia and named her after our new favorite city in the world. The trip was incredible—experiencing New Year’s Eve at the Opera House with a million other people, climbing to the top of Sydney Harbour Bridge, the revealing bikini Amber wore on Bondi Beach. On the flight back to the States, I looked at my sleeping wife and knew that God had given me a woman I did not deserve. Then we got a puppy.

Sydney’s excitement at seeing me has yet to abate. I can’t help smiling in effortless joy at the spastic display of her devotion. I’ve watched touching videos of soldiers returning from war to reunite with their ever-loyal canine friends. Now I’m living out my own heart-tugging moment. The pureness of Sydney’s love humbles me.

I gave her away after the murders because the pain was too much. She invoked too many memories—memories that I was too mentally weak to handle. Every time I looked at Sydney, I saw Amber and Cale. So I turned the page and found Sydney a happy home, convinced that I was doing the right thing.

Chad, Olivia, and I make some obligatory small talk as required by the customs of the South. Chad brings up the trial next week, and I respond, “I pray that justice is done.” Olivia asks if I’ve met Lara Landrum. Et tu, Brutus? I never took her for the starstruck type. Yes, Olivia, I’ve met Lara Landrum, and I could tell you some things that would burn your ears off.

I leave that last part out.

Not wanting to overstay my welcome, I say my good-byes and give my ex-dog a parting hug. Chad encourages me not to be a stranger and even means it. But I am a stranger to everyone, most of all myself. The joy I felt moments ago gives way to deep sadness, and the night air judges me as I walk to the car. Reaching my door, I turn back toward the house and see Sydney staring at me through the window. I wave farewell to her and slump down in the driver’s seat.

Giving away that dog is the single worst thing I’ve ever done in my life. I worried coming over here that she wouldn’t remember me. But her unbridled happiness at seeing me again hurts much more. Sydney doesn’t care that I gave her away. She doesn’t care that I haven’t visited her in two years. She doesn’t care about any of my faults. She loves me just as I am. And during the one time I needed unconditional love more than at any other moment of my existence, I gave it away. The buoyant man who held Amber under the December summer sky of Australia would never have exiled Sydney from his life.

I hate myself.

I turn again to the house, hoping to see Sydney still manning her post. But she is gone, and I am alone. The tears burst forth like a pent-up tsunami, sending me into convulsive heaves. I never cried when Amber and Cale died. I got the shakes and the chills. I vomited. I suffered in silent anguish. But I never cried. I couldn’t. The tears just wouldn’t come. Now I sit in a car on a street bawling over a dog. The release doesn’t make me feel better, only worse. I still hate myself.

The phone rings. Scott. I gather myself and hit the necessary button.

“Where are you?”

“Visiting Sydney.”

“The dog?”

“Yes—the dog.”

“Big trial next week, you know, and you’re visiting a dog?”

“What do you want?”

“I don’t think Sam killed himself.”

“Why not?”

“Remember that second bullet we found in the tree? It matches the bullet that killed Sam. Two shots were fired that day. Does that suggest suicide to you? It’s murder. One is the kill shot. That’s first. The second shot you wrap around Sam’s hand and fire it yourself to give him gunpowder residue. Murder. I know it in my bones.”

“But who?”

30

Scott’s update on Sam occupies my mind during the drive home. The breakdown from seeing Sydney over, I’m back on the case. But the disquiet from what just happened still sits as a thorn in my flesh. Trying to consider all the angles Sam’s death might have on the trial, the image of Sydney looking out at me from the window intermittently tortures me. Anger replaces sadness. I can’t believe I gave away the family dog. What was I thinking? I gave Sydney away to escape from the past, yet I wallow in the past every single day of my life.

I park the car in the garage, no closer to solving the Sam puzzle. Fear seizes me that I might very well lose the trial. My mind’s all over the place; Ella and I barely coordinate trial plans; and Sam’s death just threw a giant monkey wrench into everything. That’s not even considering the Millwood factor and the probability that I hopelessly compromised the case by