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

Go in, tell it to her straight, and get out. Don’t give her an opportunity to play games.

She tries to take control first and bellows, “I warned you about ignoring me.”

“Shut up.”

“Don’t you—”

“Shut up! Listen closely. You don’t start behaving, we’re not going to let you testify. Do you understand? Barton may walk because of it, but I don’t care. You won’t be a witness. But I’m not going to take you off the witness list. I’ll subpoena you and have a sheriff’s deputy babysit your ass in a windowless room for the entire trial. Your choice. If you decide to behave, meet with Ella again at 3 p.m. to finish your trial prep. If you’re not there, then we’ll have your answer.”

I hold my intensity for as long as I dare before turning around to hightail it out of there. The terms set, further negotiations are superfluous. A quick exit is best. Before I can escape, a drinking glass shatters on the floor, but only after flying through the air and ramming into the base of my skull. I find a bar chair for balance, feel around for blood, and turn back toward the woman standing on the other side of the room. I have prosecuted scores of murderers, yet no eyes have ever assaulted me with such hatred. I can’t comprehend how we reached this point.

Moments pass in the ensuing staredown. I stand straighter to reveal my full size to make her think twice about another attack. I wonder if she has a gun. I imagine a murder-suicide that would cover a month’s worth of headlines. But notoriety is fleeting. Memories of a disgraced and murdered lawyer would fade over time, as if I had never lived.

Collecting myself, I retreat to the original script.

“Three o’clock sharp. If you’re not there, we’ll have your answer.”

“You’re going to let me down just like you did your wife and son.”

I could kill her. The fresh physical and emotional wounds transform me from the hunted to the hunter. Lara recognizes the change. When I take a step toward her, she takes a different glass and hurls it in another go at my head. I snatch it out of the air with one hand—residual instinct from my days as a high school receiver—and send it back to its source at a much greater velocity than which it arrived. I miss Lara but find the wall behind her, resulting in a thunderous smash and scattering more landmines of glass all across the floor.

The surprise noise sobers both of us for a moment, and I know with as much certainty as I’ve ever known anything that I need to get out of this condo as quickly as possible. Another minute and she may be dead.

“Don’t you walk away from me!”

Too late. I’m gone.

33

I take to the street. Possibly concussed, driving seems inadvisable. I could hail a taxi home, but Lara might show up with an ax and chop me into little pieces. Or maybe the ax would be in my hands. All scenarios are in play at this point, and I can’t take the chance. The office is out, too. If Lara does show for her meeting with Ella, I want to be far away.

A hotel a few blocks down the street attracts me. I need to be alone. I check in, tell the front desk that I am not to be disturbed, and find my room. The window actually looks out toward the condo, but the distance is too great to make anything out. I draw the curtain closed. I remove all my clothes, hang up my suit, and fold everything else neatly on the table—a small dash of order in an otherwise sea of tumult. I turn the air conditioning down to its lowest setting to chase away the hot rage. The lights are off. My head still stings, but a wet towel to the injury tells me that the blood is minimal. I’ll live.

I silence my phone and lie down on the bed without bothering to get under the covers. The exposure to the cooling air refreshes my naked skin. Goosebumps rise and fall in tempo with the beating of my chest. Thinking comes hard, and I swat away any stray attempts to do the requisite heavy lifting. The darkness comforts me in the knowledge that I’m unseen in a place where no one can find me. I’ve finally landed on an oasis of peace.

***

I bolt upright in bed, full of fear, unsure of where I am. The disorientation is immense. The darkness doesn’t help. I stumble to find a light to make sense of my surroundings. A lamp does the trick, and I sit in an adjacent chair to gather myself. The ache in my head persists, and I recall the earlier scene that brought me to this room.

I check my phone.

A bunch of routine matters litter my messages and Scott wonders why I’m not in the office the Friday before trial, but word from Ella is what interests me the most. I find it. The text reads: “Whatever you did worked. She showed up and did everything asked of her. We’re ready for trial.”

I read the text four times to be sure. My first thought is that I have a bump on my head for no good reason. But that’s applying rational motives to an irrational actor. More likely, the bump on my head was the price of admission to get Lara back on the team.

The phone rings as I continue to get my bearings. I grimace at the ID. Liesa.

She says, “Can you come over? I want to talk.”

“Now? About what?”

“Sam.”

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”

“Please.”

I sigh before replying, “Give me an hour.”

I shower and get dressed. I’ll grab fast food on the way. I study the man in the mirror. He looks normal, but his head still hurts. At least the glass didn’t hit me in the face. The anonymity afforded by the hotel