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calling if I don’t.

“Hi, Mom.”

“One of my wine glasses is missing.”

“Have you notified the police?”

“Stop it. I’m serious.”

“Just kidding. I meant to tell you that I broke it when I was staying at the house. I’ll buy you a new one.”

A man should not lie to this mother. But for my relationship with Lara, the wine glass never would’ve been broken, which means I can honestly say that I broke the glass. I know how it sounds. Very lawyerlike. Nevertheless, I stand behind the statement. Mom is not satisfied.

“You don’t drink wine. You never drink wine. And you never drink out of my wine glasses. You always use the plastic tumblers. Was somebody else here at the house with you?”

Lord have mercy. The woman is a better detective than Scott. She has a nose for stories that don’t smell quite right, always has. I could lie about drinking wine on this one occasion, and it would be a lie that would be impossible for her to disprove. But a man shouldn’t lie to his mother. I try another tack. Truthful sarcasm.

“You caught me, Mom. I brought a woman to the house. I said something that upset her, and she smashed your wine glass right against your fireplace. I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

I have total recall of the scene, the aftermath of learning about Sam’s death. I think back to one of my English classes in college, where everything had a symbolic meaning that transcended the literal, and I see the broken glass as a metaphor for the relationship between Lara and me. The jagged edges promise pain if I don’t handle them exactly right. Even then I may nick myself by accident. Sharp objects carry that inherent risk.

Mom snaps, “You don’t have to be an ass and talk to me like that.”

“I’m sorry, but you know I have the biggest trial of my life coming up, and you’re giving me the third degree about a wine glass.”

“Fine. How is that going anyway? Have you talked to Lara Landrum lately? My friends keep asking me. Did you decide to handle her testimony like I told you?”

Part of me wants to tell her that Lara Landrum broke her wine glass just to experience the wonder of her reaction. But no. I close my eyes and continue the conversation.

***

Staring out my office window at the fading afternoon sun, a wave of loneliness sinks my mood. The sad reality is that I have nothing to do and no place to go. I’m ready for the trial. The work I could manufacture requires conferencing with Ella, and that’s a non-starter. The condo means the tempest of Lara. The thought of home fares no better. I live in a museum filled with ghosts, and I feel like a stranger to its history. I consider a hotel. Instead I just sit.

A wandering mind has no peace, and mine is no different. Trying not to think about anything leads to a torrent of random, unsequenced thoughts more fitting in a dream. I think of Otis Redding—another Georgia boy from the country. My father did legal work for him long before I was born. The possibility of leaving my home in Georgia to sit on a dock of a bay 2,000 miles from here is tempting. Otis died in a plane crash three days after recording that song. He was 26. I try to recapture all the lyrics, but lose the thread somewhere before thinking about the next thing—the Battle of Antietam. Over twenty-two thousand Yankee and Rebel casualties of war in a single day. For what? The world is mad.

The mind eventually settles on Erin Riggs—the first girl I ever kissed. Friday night. The football game. Underneath the bleachers. A cool fall night. Awkward. Clumsy. Amazing. She moved away the following spring, and I moped around town for a full two weeks. Never saw her again. I swivel toward my computer and search her out for a good thirty minutes, happy to have something to do. The hunt grows cold. She probably got married, changed her name. Would I even recognize her? Maybe she was on one of my juries along the way. Whatever she looks like now, the vision of her that night materializes before me as if she were in the room right now. Erin Riggs.

Then I think of Sydney.

I pick up the phone and call Chad Dallas. We go to the same church, except I don’t go anymore. As soon as he answers, regret at my impulsive action descends like a paratrooper. What am I doing?

“Haven’t seen you in awhile,” he says. Chad is one of the most rock-solid Christians I know, and this comment is his gentle way of chiding me for abandoning church.

“I know. Been busy.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I was wondering if I could see Sydney.”

“Right now?”

“If that works for you.”

“I don’t see why not.”

I look at the phone accusingly as if it tricked me into making the call. The mind’s leap from Otis Redding to Erin Riggs to Sydney to reaching out to Chad happened with astounding swiftness. I head to my car questioning my every action. Work has been my crutch for so long that in its absence I’ve become unreliable in how I fill the void. Maybe that’s how Lara ended up in my lap. Having reached the limits of my physical endurance by working non-stop, I longed for another distraction. Now I’ve had my fill of her. Tonight it’s Sydney’s turn to aid and abet my war against emptiness.

***

The drive over changes the feeling of uncertainty into one of anticipation. I haven’t seen Sydney in over two years. Will she even recognize me? As I park on the street, the thought that she might not remember freezes me in place. Experiencing that rejection would hurt. I get out of the car, put on a mask of happiness, and head to the house with slow steps. Chad greets me at the door,

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