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

eye. Tonight’s skirmish is over, and I won. The only vibe I get from her now is wariness. That’s fine by me. I’m tired of being taken for granted. There’s no profit in it. Lara picks up her purse and moves to the door. I have no idea how she’s going to get home, and frankly I don’t give a damn.

Her hand ready on the handle, she gives me a last hard look with eyes filled with the hostility of a disturbed hornet’s nest. My resolute exterior beats back a rebellion from my weakening nerves on the inside. I show nothing. She opens the door—her stare still firmly affixed on me like a meat clever. The chill of the fresh air washes over me.

She says, “You watch yourself. I don’t care how upset you are about your little dog—no one treats me like that. You get your act together or I’ll ruin you in a way you’ll never see coming. And you better not blow Bernard’s case next week or I’ll damn sure end you!”

I allow her the parting shot. A big sigh of relief escapes from me with the slamming of the door. After a discreet time passes, I sneak to the side of the front window to take a furtive inventory of Lara’s movements. She’s walking down the street with her phone out, a baseball cap on her head. Crisis averted. I patrol the house, checking all the locks and latches twice. Another look out the window reveals nothing. The boring night I expected a few hours ago turned into something quite different. Life comes at you fast.

Tomorrow’s Thursday. Four days before the start of the trial.

31

The next day my brother is in town and we meet for lunch. I have little appetite. Last night’s disaster with Lara sits undigested in my belly, and the lingering nausea is all too real. Ella will meet with Lara tomorrow to rehearse their direct examination, but I’m barred from that meeting per Ella’s earlier ultimatum. I’m glad to be spared the hassle.

Ben and I embrace. He’s five years older than me and looks five years younger. I idolized him growing up. I envy him now. He represents everything I lost—the wife, the kids, even the moral goodness. I hate the growing distance between us but feel powerless to do anything about it. I look at his life and see little apart from my own pain.

We talk about Mom, his family, college football, the usual. He makes the typical routine inquiries about the trial. I give the typical routine answers. He doesn’t ask about Lara. I admire his restraint. Last time he saw me Lara Landrum sat in our mother’s living room. Surely that merits a follow-up. Yet Ben has never circled back to me about Lara in the weeks since. We order our food and look at each other, seemingly both thinking the same thing—what now?

He asks, “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine.”

He studies me with great thoughtfulness, and I recognize the signs of what’s in his heart. Ben wants to minister to me. I’m not in the mood.

He goes on, “Come on. I know better. I want to know what’s really going on with you. We don’t talk anymore. I miss you.”

“What do you want to know? Amber’s still dead. Cale’s still dead. I still get up in the morning every day and go to work in the D.A.’s office. That’s about it.”

“Cut the bull. I want to know how you feel on the inside. That kind of thing. How’s your walk with God?”

My response is immediate: “There is no God, and I hate him.”

The words come out of left field. Their vehemence surprises me. Such a sentiment is not the kind of thing one says to a preacher in the South, even if he is your brother. But Ben’s reaction is full of sweet syrup. No dismay, no shock, no disappointment. Instead, he smiles.

“Why are you smiling?”

“Because that may be the first honest thing you’ve said to me since Amber and Cale were murdered. That’s progress.”

Fair enough. He thinks we just made a big spiritual breakthrough. I don’t. Honesty. Dishonesty. God. No God. None of it matters. Everything important to me was taken away by two small pieces of lead. Nothing will change that.

Ben continues, “You say you hate God. That’s good. Hostility I can work with, denial not so much. It would be the rare person in your shoes who wouldn’t be angry with God after what happened. Trust me, though, God is big enough—”

I interrupt, “Listen, Ben, I’m glad you’re here. It is good to see you. I mean that. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I don’t want to have this conversation now. Or ever. Let’s just enjoy lunch.”

Ben takes the rebuke in stride. He is a preacher. He has heard worse. I’m sure he took classes in seminary about how to reach recalcitrant people. His empathy and gift for public speaking would’ve made him a great trial lawyer. I could see him representing accident victims before country juries and generating headline after headline with million-dollar verdicts. But he wanted to be a preacher since he was a little boy and chose Jesus instead. I didn’t understand the decision, thought he was crazy. Why choose that life? Amber changed my perspective for a time, gave me a new appreciation for things eternal. Now I’m not sure that any of it matters. Meaningless, meaningless—everything is meaningless.

“Okay. I’ll keep giving you room. But if you keep stiff-arming God, you’re going to stay stuck in the ditch. You’ll never find peace on your own.”

“Easy for you to say. Your wife and child weren’t murdered.”

Silence follows. I shouldn’t have said that. Ben was withdrawing from the topic like I requested, and I threw the dead bodies of Amber and Cale right back in his face. The look of pain on his face is real. The murders now hang over this conversation just like they hang over the