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

about Sam shooting himself—her one mistake—put me on the right scent. Ella remains in the dark about these last particulars, and here darkness is a friend to both of us. I continue the story.

“From there I pulled the thread. Sara Barton dies, and Lara Landrum drops out of all her movies and avoids contact with anyone from her old life.

“The 911 call—who first told us about it? Lara Landrum the day after the murder. Why did Sara unlock the bedroom door if her husband was going to kill her? Why tell Officer Hendrix everything was a misunderstanding? Because she wanted the audio of the 911 call but still needed Barton to stay in the marriage long enough to get framed. And when Hendrix left that night? Barton says he and Sara had sex for the first time in months. She was keeping him close lest he walk out and defeat the whole plan.

“The photo of the bruised back—every single thing we know about it comes from one person.

“The gun—Barton claims Sara wanted it, and she made him load it for her. A playground near the murder scene is a stupid place to ditch a gun, unless the murderer wanted the gun to be found. But why? To allow the police to discover Barton’s fingerprints on the bullets.

“The missing cell phone on the day of the murder—a wife could hide her husband’s phone with ease.

“Now think back to the night of the murder. Sara told Sam to meet at ten to ensure that the body was discovered while Barton was out of pocket with her, destroying any chance Barton had at an alibi. She made Brice promise not to come over that night in case he messed up her plans. And remember Barton’s testimony, ‘Lara’ wasn’t there when he arrived at her home that night. She arrived later. She was too busy killing her sister.”

Ella mulls it all over—connecting the dots as I did Friday night. She says, “Amazing. Something was always off with her. But what about the sex tape with Brice?”

“Luck is where preparation meets opportunity. I don’t see how she could’ve arranged being filmed. Best I figure she planned to use Brice as the trigger in some way. Jeff Yarber told me that Sara and Brice were already dirty dancing in full view of everyone before sneaking off to fool around. She planned to flaunt her affair with Brice to get Barton to bite. The video just did most of the heavy lifting for her.”

She chews on it some more and adds, “So she slept with Brice to give Barton a motive for murder. She slept with Sam to make sure that he came over to the house that night. Posing as Lara, she slept with Barton to steal his alibi right from under him. She slept with you—why?”

“Because I was an easy mark.”

The truth hurts. We both ponder it awhile in mournful silence.

Barton survived a close call. The certainty of his guilt never wavered in my mind. The evidence demanded it. Now every conviction I’ve ever secured screams at me about injustice. Have I always been so wrong?

The remembrance of murder trials past breaks when Ella sizes me up with a deadly earnestness. She doesn’t want to talk about the case anymore. Something else is on her mind.

She asks, “Do you love her?”

“I love you.”

The spontaneous response is pure, unfiltered, unscripted. That it escaped from my heart reveals again how little I understand myself. The old gold prospectors in north Georgia would pan for treasure by allowing rushing waters to clear the clutter of distraction and debris, leaving behind the one true thing. The river of life does the same for us by sifting the wheat from the chaff. What remains are the people who love us the most. But whether the discovery is one of gold or identifying the individuals who matter above all others, a trail of tears follows us like a cloud in the sky you can never escape.

In a loud whisper, Ella Kemp—the woman I love—says, “You can’t have me.”

“I know.”

A good woman is hard to find and easy to lose. The pain behind Ella’s words is evident. The deep freeze of the recent past melts away, but she will never let me get close to her again. The broken trust can never be welded together without the fault line of that original crack showing.

Ella asks, “What are we going to do?”

I stare into the abyss of an uncertain future. I miss my wife and son desperately. Still.

I answer, “I’ll resign. You should have my job. I’ll talk to Bobby.”

“I don’t want that. This job is your life.”

“How’s that working out for me?”

We laugh together—the moment providing a needed dose of shared humor. But time is ephemeral. Ella waits for a moment before becoming serious.

“For the past few months, I’ve been looking for a new job. A business litigation firm in town needs someone with significant trial experience. They’ve made me an offer. It’s triple the money. I think I’m going to take it.”

We try not to look at each other. Life is a product of our choices. This exquisite creature stood ready to love me forever—the promising foundation to rebuild the man that once was. I chose a different path.

“Ella, you don’t—”

Scott bursts in. The tension between Ella and me releases. The interruption does us good. Scott wears a death mask.

Ella asks, “Who died?”

Her attempt to lighten the mood combusts before taking flight. Scott’s face jumps from misery to horror. Somebody did die.

Ella and I study him, fearing the worst, without even knowing what the worst could be. I see it at once. Sara Barton killed herself. She figured out the engineering and hung herself in a county jail cell. The certainty that I am right provides a cold, remorseless comfort that her death cleanses me from my sins—like a murderer who breathes a sigh of relief when another man is executed for his crimes.

Failed by his typical strong voice, Scott hoarsely