The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1) by Lance McMillian (top 20 books to read TXT) 📕

a chance. But love leads to pain, and I’m still overdrawn from the last withdrawal.

“You know, it can be just dinner,” she says.

“It’s not that. I’m really tired.”

“I thought you never sleep.”

“That’s why I’m tired.”

“Fine. But one of these days I’m not going to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

We walk together to the parking garage and go our separate ways.

***

Being alone and loneliness differ, and the heaviness of the latter affects me more than at any other time I can remember. Once at home, I check my phone for messages that aren’t there. The thought of Ella beckons me. Should I call her? I almost answer yes. Maybe tomorrow.

I lounge on the couch and take an inventory of my surroundings. The house is as it was at the time of the murders. I cleaned the blood off the floor but left everything else the same. I study the painting of Thomas Jefferson above my mantle. Before me is a man of complexity, a person at war with himself and the times in which he lived. My father revered Jefferson and passed his love of history on to the next generation. Because of this upbringing, the past has always spoken to me. But now I scan around at a house frozen in place and feel the danger of too much looking back.

Cancer killed Daddy a year before I lost Amber and Cale—the three most important people to me gone in quick succession. I picture them together in Heaven, joy-filled and laughing just as they were in life. I’m of different cloth. Like my mother, I am sharp-tongued and judge the world with cynical doubt. These days, my worst tendencies consume me. No one is left to soften the hard edges.

I close my eyes.

***

Knocking on the door, followed by a doorbell, startles me awake. I don’t know how long I slept. My mind re-focuses, and I stumble to the front entry hall. Only Scott would come over this late. I open the door without checking.

The voice outside says, “Hi.”

Still recovering from the effects of waking up mid-dream, I stare at Lara Landrum dumbly, unsure of the situation. I wonder if someone else died.

She says, “I wanted to say thank you.”

I stand there mute, fighting the cobwebs. Both body and mind feel heavy and slow-footed.

“May I come in?”

“Yeah.”

We stand together awkwardly just inside the door, close to one another. Too close. The proximity breaks me out of my stupor. I’m afraid to retreat and give her more ground. She is the first woman to be alone with me in this house since Amber. The unfamiliar territory scares the hell out of me.

She asks, “Can we sit down?”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Well I’m here.”

Lara brushes past me, struts into the living room, and sits down. I follow her from a safe distance, but continue to stand. She wears form-fitting jeans and a purple tank top. I’m pretty sure she is not wearing a bra. The effect on me is no different than it would be on any man. I sit down next to her, but not too close.

She asks, “What happens next with Bernard?”

She wants to talk about the case. This whole setting is wildly inappropriate. I answer anyway.

“He will try for bail tomorrow.”

“Will he get out?”

“Maybe. Probably.”

“He’s a murderer.”

“It happens.”

She shifts closer and puts her hand on my leg. The old nerves spring up from a place long dormant. She rubs the leg and then teases her way to higher ground. My heart beats quicker and my blood flows faster, but this cannot happen. Emotions impair judgment, and the chemical reactions her touch stirs within me are a pathway to stupidity. I remove her hand.

“You have to leave. You’re a witness in the case.”

“No one needs to know.”

“I’ll know.”

We look at each other. Her playful eyes pose a dare. The scene is ridiculous. One of the most beautiful women in the world sits on my couch, offering herself to me. I have no idea what’s going on.

I ask, “Why?”

“I like you. You’re real. You know pain. Real pain. What it’s like to really hurt in the depths of your soul. I feel it, too. We’re both wounded animals, and we can help each other get well.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“I know everything. I know you blame yourself for your wife’s death. I know you’re scared to let yourself be happy again. I know you hold yourself to impossible standards. I know you haven’t made love to a woman since your wife died. And I know you want to make love to me right now.”

I kiss her.

But then thoughts of Amber, Ella, Jesus, and the Georgia Rules of Professional Conduct descend at once, a tableau of impressions all with the same urgent message: “No!” I pull away.

She removes her top to reveal the most perfect breasts I’ve ever seen—generously-sized, chiseled out of marble, unblemished.

I kiss her again. Her bare chest rubs against me, and the last flickers of resistance die a flaming death. I lead her to the bedroom. She pushes me down on the bed, Amber’s bed. We lose ourselves in each other. I release all thoughts of history, loss, or pain. The moment devours me, and I love it. Afterwards, we hold each other, and she falls asleep in my arms—just like Amber used to do. I feel like a real person again.

The moment passes. My mind registers the significance of what just happened, and anxiety spreads. I go outside, stand on the back porch, and contemplate. The wind feels good on my exposed skin. The quiet produces a comfortable peace. I think about my faith and the role Amber played in making me a godly man. I think of Jesus’ promise to give me rest if I would only submit my yoke to Him. I consider the naked woman in my bed and am forced to look God square in the face.

My faith matters to me—even if I’m terrible at it. To the world, sex between consenting adults is no