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

staircase, missed by most visitors, takes me to the attic. It’s one of those old-time attics with high ceilings, a generous-sized window, and a space that spans the house from end to end. The attic could pass for a room, but calling it an attic adds an intoxicating layer of mystery to what is one of my favorite places in the entire world. Little has changed. The rest of my family never cared for the space. As a result, the attic belonged to me alone. Even today it reflects the decorating choices I made a long time ago.

I sit on the old couch and soak in the atmosphere. Dust particles from last century populate the furniture. An old weight set sits in the corner. A drum kit—like all drum kits, begging to be played—stands in front of the window. A bowling ball and bowling pins lie behind a chest, remnants of a doomed attempt to convert the site into a bowling alley. All kids should have such a place—somewhere creative, free, and unrestricted by adult norms. I miss those days but appreciate that I was lucky to have them.

The creak of the stairs previews Lara’s arrival. She glances around the room with perfunctory interest before walking with purpose straight my way. She wears a short silk bathrobe about ten sizes too small. She reaches the couch, sheds her covering onto the floor, and drops to her knees on top of it. She removes my shoes, my socks, my jeans, my boxers, my inhibitions. The excitement I feel rises, and her expert handling of me generates the expected response.

She straddles me and begins gyrating up and down in tempo with the steady rain. I close my eyes, listening to the water pound the roof, recalling my days as a drummer to keep the beat with the rhythm of her movements. The melody is slow and steady. Thunder rattles the house the moment I finish, driving out the sound of the drums in my head. She lays her head on my chest for a few seconds, kisses me for the first time since entering the room, puts her bathrobe back on, and strolls out the way she came, having never said a word since coming up the stairs. I trace her path throughout the house based on the sounds of the floor underneath her feet. The rain pelts hard on the attic window.

25

After spending another morning keeping company with Mom in the hospital, I drive up to the house and see my brother’s car in the driveway. My stomach drops. Maybe Lara is hiding in a closet. I park and walk in, not knowing what I’m going to find.

They sit together in the living room. Lara greets me cheerfully. My brother gives me a look of confused wonder.

I say, “Lara, Ben. Ben, Lara.”

“We’ve met,” Ben says, adding, “I came over to get my weedeater.”

The weedeater. Great.

“Ben was just telling me what you were like when you were growing up. I love small towns. I wish I had a nice place like this to call home.”

“I don’t get back enough,” I observe.

Ben says, “You’re right, you don’t. But I’m glad you’re here now. A couple I’m going to marry next month is joining Sally, the kids, and me for dinner. We could probably fit a place for the two of you if you’re interested. I know the kids would love to see you.”

Lara’s slight smile reflects her curiosity as to how I will respond to my brother’s invitation. I am not so sanguine. Knowing that my deceit now extends to my family only makes things worse. Lara should never have come here.

“Tonight’s not a good night.”

“I understand. You can walk me out then. Lara, it was a pleasure meeting you. Don’t be a stranger.”

We exit and face each other under the oak tree in the front yard—the site of so many adventures together in decades past. This oak tree was here when our father was a little boy and will likely stand after the both of us are gone. The thought provides a strange comfort. This tree cares not a whit about my problems. Life goes on.

“Why is she in Mom’s house?”

“Witness prep for the Sara Barton murder trial. A lot of paparazzi follow her in the city. It’s a distraction. I figured we wouldn’t be bothered too much down here.”

My answer actually solicits a laugh. Was it that ridiculous? But Ben is a hard one to fool. Ministry has prepared him well to sniff out mendacity.

“Don’t lie to me.”

The words are not harsh. They never are. Compassion shows in his face. Ben is Jesus in the flesh—gentle, faithful, humble, grace-filled, a true servant through and through. He delivers an amazing sermon, and he’s had numerous opportunities to go to bigger churches, pursue greater fame. But he always says no, content to answer God’s call on his life in relative obscurity. He often explains, “A man gets into trouble when he starts thinking about his own glory.”

He is the happiest person I know.

“Ben, I don’t want to talk about it.”

The hurt in his eyes is genuine. We’ve always been close, but Amber’s murder has wedged us apart. He tries to bridge the gap every few months. I refuse to reciprocate. Relationship-tending requires more energy than I can spare.

And now he has met Lara. The need for secrecy is on my mind.

“Please don’t tell Sally or Mom,” I say.

“I won’t lie, not even for you.”

“I don’t think either of them is going to ask you if Lara Landrum was in Mom’s house.” He laughs.

“Probably not.”

He pats me on the back, gets in his car, and starts his engine. Before driving off, he rolls down the window and gives me one last message.

“Be careful, brother.”

***

We sit together in front of the fire. Lara drinks some wine that she raided from Mom’s liquor cabinet.

“Tell me about your father,” she says.

We haven’t talked much to each other about the past. Even in the mountains,