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

“Stop talking about her.”

“Or what? ‘I’m not a murderer,’ you told me. Are you going to hit me? Look at you trying to control your anger. Be a man! Get angry! Hit me! Treat me some more like the whore you want!”

I don’t move or speak.

“No? You’re pathetic. I knew that this morning. You lack the nerve—you and that ten-ton conscience you carry around. You castigate yourself for the enjoyment of any pleasure. You’re nothing. You’re the most boring man I’ve ever known. Here’s a newsflash for you: I’ve been treated like a whore by men far worse than you. You wouldn’t believe the things men have asked me to do—vile, depraved things, things that would sicken your precious conscience. You and your boring life with your sweet little Amber. Nah, she wasn’t a whore, but I bet you wanted her to be.”

The constant mentions of Amber nearly push me over the edge. But I hold on and begin the work of de-escalating my anger. Lara is a rape survivor. She is not really screaming at me, even if I deserve it. She is yelling at the father who molested her a long time ago. The shock of Sam’s death masked the significance of last night’s confession about her treatment at the hands of Bill and Julia. Lara doesn’t have scars. Her wounds have yet to even skin over—a minefield of memories ready to detonate at the slightest touch. No telling what happened to her out there in Hollywood, either.

I offer, “I’m sorry.”

“For treating me like a whore?”

“For that and everything that has happened to you.”

“Don’t go Freud on me. Stick to the law and something you know. Why don’t you apologize instead for not seeming to give a solitary damn that I almost killed myself today?”

“I’m sorry for that, too.”

Except I’m not really sure I believe her. I don’t disbelieve her. I’m just not sure I believe her, either. Everything she says feels like a rehearsed line out of a movie playing only in her head. These doubts I keep to myself.

I offer, “I would be devastated if you killed yourself. Please don’t.”

“I should kill you instead.”

“I don’t like that plot twist, either. Too much talk of killing today—Barton this morning, then yourself, now me. It solves nothing. Let’s just go home and get some sleep.”

“Not even a courtesy cuddle after I took care of your needs? You really do think I’m a whore, don’t you?”

“You didn’t seem to be in a cuddling kind of mood.”

“I am now.”

We lay down together on the bed. I hold her, willing the demons to go away—both hers and mine. I won’t sleep. The chance that I might awake with an ice pick in my heart looms too large as a possibility. I don’t really believe that, but I don’t disbelieve it, either. Driving down to see Mom, the gaps in my knowledge of Lara scared me. Now I know too much. I have no idea of what I have ahold of.

I ask, “Why suicide?”

“I’m tired.”

The response holds dual meanings, and she is fast asleep before I can probe further. I hold her for hours while my mind runs a marathon of disparate thoughts that I soon forget. The trial is almost here. I need to get back to work. I leave her sleeping and execute a quiet getaway.

***

I arrive at the office before anyone else. The halls belong to me alone, and I try to draw inspiration from the solitude. The trial is now a chore, but the best way to manage unpleasant tasks is to break them down into bite-sized morsels and chew a little at a time. I create a comprehensive punch list that will serve as my blueprint for everything that needs to be done before the real thing goes live. Number Eight on my list is the most enigmatic: “Sam?” Well, at least I have a couple of weeks.

Hours pass, and the purposeful flow of work supplies me with a comfortable energy. The burner phone in my right pocket vibrates, and only Lara contacts me on that number. I study it for three seconds before deciding to answer. A flood of obscenities crash into my ear as Lara berates me for abandoning her. The getaway was short-lived. My plaintive response about the need for trial preparation sounds pathetically weak. More verbal abuse follows. I take it like a punching bag until she hangs up.

The energy of the morning disappears into a vortex. I’m the tired one now. I push the punch list to the side, lay my head on the desk, and wish it all to go away.

27

“What now?”

Ella’s question to me later that day floats futilely in search of an answer. The topic is Sam, and talking about the problem brings me no closer to a solution.

“I’m going to the funeral tomorrow. Maybe something will shake out.”

“We have to have a strategy.”

The peevishness of her tone irks me. I know very well we need a strategy without her lecturing me about it. The ice between Ella and me remains unthawed, and the forecast points to a long winter. We’re stuck together for Barton, but this ride will be our last one as trial partners. Every beginning has an end.

I respond, “Much depends on how Millwood plays his hand. I’m inclined to let him make the first move and react accordingly.”

“You always taught me to be the action, not the reaction—to be offense, not defense.”

Just like Millwood taught me. I wonder who taught him. Maybe I should write a book—Lessons From The Great Trial Lawyers. I could run off to some remote place by myself, far from the world, and leave Lara here to work out her own issues. The life of the scholarly monk appeals to me. But first the problem of Sam demands attention.

“Exactly. That’s precisely why I want Millwood to make the first move. If you’re explaining, you’re losing. I can’t explain