The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1) Lance McMillian (ereader with android .txt) 📖

with each other. The habit is so ingrained that neither one of us even takes notice. It’s part of the fabric of our relationship—something unique that belongs to us and no one else. Ben marvels at our interactions and worries so much about it that he prays for Mom and me to get along better. The prayers must’ve worked. The Prodigal Son has returned home.

“Ella is doing the direct examination of Lara Landrum at trial.”

“What! It should be you. That’s the biggest moment. It should be you.”

“We have our reasons. Ella is real good at relating to female witnesses. It’s a pivotal moment and needs a woman’s touch.”

“Nuts.”

That’s her pet phrase when she desires to express vehement disagreement with whatever you just said. I break the news to her today to avoid having to answer questions about it later. Now she has a few weeks to adjust to her disappointment before Lara testifies. But she’s not having any of it now. The heaviness of her eyes can’t mask her feelings of disgust.

I assure her, “You’ll still see plenty of me on your bigscreen TV.”

“Nuts.”

She falls asleep.

***

Evening comes. The sun is long gone, but the residual light left behind offers its last breaths to illuminate the country around me. I rock on the front porch, waiting for Lara, hoping that she doesn’t get lost without cell service somewhere in middle Georgia. Every vehicle that passes dashes my expectations and turns up the volume on my worrying. The door to the detached garage stands open, ready to hide her car as quickly as possible. In a small town, gossip is the most valuable currency and even the trees have eyes. Her coming is a needless risk in an ongoing cycle of needless risks. We’ve already been caught once. I won’t survive a second discovery.

When she pulls into the driveway, I direct her to the open garage and hurry to close it behind us. I breathe easier with the evidence out of sight. I grab the bags and shield her from the road as we make our way to the house. I show her the powder room and collapse on the couch, feeling as though I could sleep for days. I awake from a momentary nap when she asks, “So what now?”

I ask, “Hungry?”

“Not for food.”

The eyes dance. Where does she get the energy? The import of her words should excite me, but the impact falls flat. The realization that I barely know this woman hammers me, like I’m playing the most dangerous game of my life without even knowing the rules. I need some answers.

“Why are you here? Be honest. Tell me.”

She is dumbstruck. The dancing eyes turn sad. She sits in a chair and stares into the flameless fireplace. I wait her out. She finally fixes her attention back to me.

“I have nowhere else to go.”

The tears follow. She moves to the couch to be held. I oblige. She is every bit the lonely woman I took her to be at Sara Barton’s funeral. The implications of her loneliness suffocate me. Two messed up people, mutually co-dependent, carrying out a secret affair with a looming murder trial in the background—the prospect of catastrophe appears a matter of when, not if.

I embrace her for longer than I would like. The ritualistic chirping of the crickets ushers in a new evening. Last night that familiar sound of my youth supplied me with a small dose of melancholic nostalgia. Now the chirps grate on my nerves. The steady drumbeat thumps louder and louder in my head, like an Edgar Allan Poe story where the guilty man cannot run away from his beating heart. I break the silence to thwart the march of the crickets.

“Are you going to act again?”

“I’ve been working nonstop for fifteen years. Since Sara died, I can’t do it anymore. I have nothing left to give.”

I hear the words, but I’m not really listening, content that her voice drowns out the outside noise. For the sake of my sanity, I keep the conversation going.

“Don’t you have friends in Hollywood?”

“No! That place is a bunch of vipers! The men want to grope you and trade parts for sex. The women are worse. They’re mean, shallow, and vengeful gossips. They’d sell you out in a second if it meant a better part for them. Everything’s so fake. I loathe it with all my being. I sold my house when I was out there and don’t ever intend to go back.”

The sneering vehemence surprises me. I’ve never really asked about her career before, figuring she gets that kind of talk enough. I know without probing that her disgust stems from personal experience—intensely personal experience.

She goes on, “Remember the night we first made love? I told you that you were real. Well, you are real. That’s why I’m here. You’re the only real thing in my life right now. I can’t handle the fake anymore. I need real. I need you.”

I don’t feel very real. And a relationship that has no outside identity apart from its own cocoon doesn’t ring the bell of authenticity. But I’m tired. I pushed for answers and now regret doing so. She’s too heavy for me at this moment. To change the mood, I suggest some s’mores.

Dubious at first, Lara’s face brightens by the light of the firepit in the backyard. I give her a stick, supplies, and instructions. Her unencumbered joy at roasting marshmallows over an open flame restores a measure of my lost hope in the universe. We laugh—the burnt marshmallow, chocolate, and graham crackers rescuing the evening.

Lara asks, “Can we make another one?”

“We need to get inside before the storm hits.”

“How you can tell a storm is coming?”

“I can smell it.”

One of the skills you develop growing up in the country is an innate ability to detect the gathering storm. The process defies description. You just know. We retreat back inside, and I send her off to take a quick shower before the weather arrives.

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