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

sleeping with the star witness. The weird thing is that I’m not sure I even care anymore. I just want it to be over. My ordered life ceased to exist the moment Scott brought me out in the middle of the night to the unhappy home of Bernard and Sara Barton.

The house is silent, but I’m not alone. I think about the old ghosts that still live here and the haunting they exert over me. If I were a better man, Sydney would be running up to greet me right now. But Sydney, too, is a ghost. I enter the living room, unsure of how I will ever pass the hours until another dawn.

“Where the hell have you been?”

The question takes a wrecking ball to the silence and causes me to jump out of my skin. I can tell from Lara’s mood that she has been here for a while and that she didn’t like waiting. I should’ve checked into that hotel.

I ask, “How did you get here? Your car wasn’t on the street.”

“I took Uber.”

“Uber? To here? Are you insane?”

The instinct of self-preservation runs strong. An unfolding dread numbs my body and sends a flash of heat to my flush face. Her recklessness astounds. She cannot be here.

She answers, “Don’t be an idiot. I had him drop me off a couple of blocks away.”

“He’s still going to know it’s you, though. You’re leaving a credit card trail.”

“I have aliases. All stars do. Stop being a pussy.”

The slur boils me inside. I once saw a knock-down, drag-out fight between two rednecks at a Panama City Beach McDonald’s over that very accusation. It may be primitive, but the insult is an affront to one’s manhood. “Fighting words” is what we call it in the law—the kind of thing they used to duel about in the old days. I can’t shoot Lara, and I won’t take my hand to her, but I can get her out of my house.

“You need to leave.”

“Do you think you can ignore me? I’ve been calling you all night. Where the hell have you been?”

On the way to visit Sydney I put the burner phone in the car’s glove box and haven’t looked at it since. Resentment of her controlling attitude spawns within me, but her bargaining power over me is immense. She can ruin my career, my reputation, my relationship with my best friend. I feel like a puppet in her play.

“I was visiting a dog.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

I explain myself—the whole backstory of Sydney and my reunion with her earlier tonight. I avoid looking at Lara during the retelling and instead burn a hole into the floor with my eyes. Her reaction when I finish doesn’t make me feel any better. She smiles with enthusiastic mocking.

“That’s damn cute,” she says.

I don’t take it as a compliment.

Pouring salt into the wound, she adds, “And you just gave her away? That’s cold.”

I can’t disagree and feel as if the night has turned into death by a thousand cuts. I miss Amber.

Hearing about Sydney changes her mood. She looks around the room, finds a picture of Sydney, and inspects it with a close eye. Then she smiles.

“She’s so cute. Maybe I can meet her one day.”

Noticing my disbelief, she moves toward me with the silky smoothness of a sleek sex kitten on the prowl. I fortify myself against the incoming attack. Not tonight. She deploys the smile that has made men all over the world fall in love with her. But I’ve seen the empress with no clothes, and I’m not so easily moved anymore. It’s all an act. I pray that the entire relationship hasn’t been a giant put-on, but what’s happening now is pure performance.

She purrs, “You’ve had a hard day, and you’re under a lot of stress. Let me make you feel better. I’ll do anything you want tonight. Anything.”

I don’t even know what that means. My resolve holds.

“Get out.”

She smirks as if she has seen this movie before. Undeterred, she attempts another approach, rubbing me with her hand, pressing her breasts against my chest. “You know you want to,” she whispers. Not tonight. If I give in to this seduction, I’ll never respect myself again. The absolute clarity of the moment solidifies any breaches in my resistance. I remove her hand and back away.

“Leave.”

She folds her arms and laughs in disbelief. I think I prefer crazy Lara to mocking Lara. Yell at a man, he’ll get over it soon enough. Laugh at him, and he’ll hate you forever. The refusal to take me seriously continues to stir my blood. Oblivious to my growing ire, she removes her shirt with the speed and efficiency of a sneaky panther. Those perfect breasts again shine before me in all their welcoming glory. I consider looking away from the temptation, but my anger gives me a strength I didn’t know I had. She comes to me again, the panther on the hunt. When she takes my head in her hands to kiss me, I grab and twist her wrists with more force than necessary to make my point. She backs away, finally realizing her misread of the situation. Half-naked, rubbing her sore wrists, a mixture of surprise and fear on her face—Lara Landrum doesn’t look so menacing.

I bark, “Get out or I swear that I will call the press myself right now and confess everything.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Like hell.”

Threats are worthless if one is not willing to follow through. The spontaneous declaration that I would go to the media was not planned out, but I latch onto its wisdom with great speed. I’m at the end of my rope, and the absolution of confession would feel like welcomed relief. The present is faltering. I could quit the case and live the rest of my life in the woods. I’ve always liked Maine.

Lara’s sexual aggression takes a timeout. There are no more laughs or smirks. Her shirt goes back on, and she studies me with a reappraising