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

actress shows up at night in your living room and starts taking her clothes off. Really? That didn’t make you suspicious? Why not? Because you wanted the fantasy to be true. You’re a man. You’re stupid.”

I certainly feel stupid.

A confused Ella asks, “You had an affair with Sam Wilkins? Did you kill him, too?”

I pretend to share her surprise. Sara laughs and rolls her eyes. She responds, “I’m done answering your questions. I want to say something to him, without you listening in. So just go over there and let the two of us have a moment. Be a good girl and run along.”

Ella looks unsure. I give a nod. She hesitantly walks back against the wall, out of hearing range. Sara leans in.

“Here’s what you’re going to do—you’re going to quit your job and be my defense lawyer. Make the best deal you can with your girlfriend over there and get me as little jail time as possible. You do that, I’ll keep our little secret.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Am I? It seems pretty sane to me. I know I have to do jail time, but I am still a young woman. You have a good career going. We can make this work. If not, I’ll ruin you.”

“I am prepared to accept the consequences of my actions. You should do the same.”

She sneers, “Nice of you to start playing Dudley Do-Right now, but you don’t want to go down this road with me. You’ve seen what I can do.” True enough. But hers is a wild play, and she knows it. No more deals with the devil. Instead, I have a question.

“Why did you kill Sam?”

“You’re not pinning that one on me.”

“I know you did it. We were at my Mom’s. You broke the wine glass. You knew Sam died from being shot, but I never told you that. You already knew because you shot him. Why?”

She stares at me a long time but eventually admits, “He figured me out.”

Then I remember Sara Barton’s funeral and finally comprehend the significance of Sam’s intense staring at the woman claiming to be Lara Landrum. Barton’s ego blinded him from recognizing his own wife, but Sam cracked the code, probably from memorizing his secret cache of pictures. The story from there is easy. Sam told Sara what he knew, wanted to learn the reason for her deception, and maybe even hoped to share her bed again. She has that kind of power—the same power with which she lured him to the woods to put a bullet in his brain.

Resentment lights her face. I’m just another man who has disappointed her along the way. I remember our discussions about her father—the truest words she ever spoke to me. Everything starts with the family. She grew up abused by a monster and ended up marrying a man who preys on young women. The separation between Barton and her father is one of degree, not kind. History repeats itself.

She goes into attack mode.

“You know, you were the easiest one to dupe. You were under my spell the first time you caught a whiff of it. You couldn’t get your pants off fast enough. You dropped your girlfriend over there faster than a hot potato.”

She looks toward Ella and snorts before turning her glare back to me.

“How dumb do you feel? You bought everything I said hook, line, and sinker.”

She’s not wrong, but my pride won’t let me concede the point. I respond, “Says the woman handcuffed to a chair, wearing an orange jumpsuit.”

She spits at me and misses before launching another broadside.

“There is more than one type of prison. You may not wear a jumpsuit, but you’re no freer than I am. You’re a prisoner of your own lack of imagination. You call what you do living? I gave you a chance to break out, to be different, be a man of action who chases after what he wants, consequences be damned. And you know what? It was the only time you’ve been free in your life. When you’re on your deathbed bemoaning the end of your sad little existence, you’ll be thinking about the thrill of sneaking around to thrust yourself inside me. But you couldn’t handle it. Remember the last time we were together? You couldn’t handle it. Instead of enjoying the moment, you hated yourself for being happy.”

I think of the memory and my crazed eyes staring back at me in the mirror. I did hate myself, but not for being happy. Consumed with moral sickness, I saw for the first time the depths of my debasement that night—personal, professional, spiritual.

“Did killing your sister make you happy?”

The question scores a body blow. She refuses to answer. More insults follow. I stop listening. She cannot say anything to me that I have not already said to myself. I get up to leave, turn my back, and walk away from her forever.

As I reach Ella waiting by the door, the murderer raises her voice and says the only words in the world that could make me turn around.

“I know who killed your wife.”

I turn and stare. I have no idea what she knows or how she knows it, but she is a master of surprises. She smiles at me with sadistic pleasure. I don’t believe her. I’m afraid to believe her.

“Don’t you want to know?”

I offer a slight nod. She smiles some more and milks the moment a little longer before the big reveal.

“You did.”

I stagger as feeling returns to my body. Blood shines in my eyes. I take a step toward her mocking face, but only one step. She wants me to lose control.

“She’s dead because of you. I know it. You know it. You didn’t pull the trigger, but you loaded the gun. No signs of robbery. Nothing sexual. Just a random killing because the man who was supposed to be the victim was not there. Those bullets were meant for you, yet your wife and son paid the price. You live with that the