The Imposter Marin Montgomery (rom com books to read TXT) 📖

“I was absolutely devastated, and I missed Edward like crazy,” she admits. “I cried through the wedding and the awkward lovemaking, but he thought it was from inexperience. It was painful; he just didn’t know it was the heartbreak kind.”

She recounts with a deep sadness, “I found out later Edward sent letters, but my father ripped them up and burned them. At least that’s what my mama told me before she died.”

“Is that what you meant when you said”—Alice consults the notepad—“that your father could be ‘cunning’?”

“Yes.” Deborah crumples the tissue in her hand. “After Jonathan and I sat down with my parents and announced we were having a baby, my father cornered me a couple weeks later.” Deborah drops her face into her hands. “He wanted me to . . .”

Alice stares at her intently, intrigue written all over her face, the pen dangling in her hand. Then the beeping of her watch interrupts the high tension in the room.

CHAPTER 17

Sibley

Even though I’m dead tired, I can’t seem to get comfortable tilting my seat back for a nap. The back seat isn’t any better, my muscles frazzled with tension and nervous energy. Disturbed by the eyesore in front of me and a grumbling stomach, I decide to return to town, grab some food, and stock up on supplies.

I’m craving the local diner and some hometown food. The Freeze was the only hot spot in town when I was growing up, the celebratory place to go after home games and a popular date hangout. A small diner located at the edge of the town square, it’s known for its fried food and prizewinning homemade pie and ice cream. Black-and-white tiled floors, a jukebox, and red leather booths take you back to an earlier era.

Before I eat, I decide to go to the gas station and stock up on liquor, then go through the drive-through. We only have two gas stations in town, and I pick the closest to the diner. The cashier is on a personal call and doesn’t pay much attention to the few liters of vodka I pick up, along with soda water and orange juice to use as chasers.

As I’m waiting at the drive-through, I do everything to ignore the intense craving that’s causing tremors throughout my body.

Humming along to music, I play a word game on my phone, but the incessant voice doesn’t refrain from berating me about what a loser I am.

I ignore the internal bully so I can eat my food. After swallowing the last greasy bite of my burger, I decide it can’t hurt to have a couple of sips of my new purchase before I head back to the farm. It’ll mellow me out and help me sleep. And if the inside of the house is as chaotic as the outside, I might want to get a hotel. You can’t afford to stay in even cheap motels, I remind myself, opening the bottle.

A large swallow burns down my throat, and I hope it stops the headache building behind my temples.

In the side mirror, I notice a rusted-out Ford hanging a left at the stop sign.

It looks identical to my mother’s ancient beater. It was old then, and by now, I’d have thought she’d have upgraded, what with all the money she inherited from my daddy.

Thinking about this, I get heated, and wiping a frustrated hand across my brow, I watch her turn past a cluster of brick buildings on the square, then disappear from sight.

She didn’t give me one dime.

Thinking about the farm and my deep-seated hatred toward my mother, I continue to take generous sips. Before I realize it, I’ve successfully emptied a third of the bottle.

After opening my car door, I carefully climb out and throw my empty paper bags in the trash can. I consider driving back to the farm, but without a way to enter, what’s the point? Even if my mother is running errands and isn’t ready to go back home, she can give me the key so I can go lie down.

I’m starting to feel unwell, the sun beating down as I make my way across the street.

Glancing up at the striped awnings, I consider where she would’ve gone. There’s a beauty salon on this side of the street. Maybe she’s in there getting her hair done.

If that’s the case, she could be a while, I think impatiently, the buzzing in my head growing louder, decibel by decibel.

A loud voice drowns out even the pounding, but I don’t know where it’s coming from. I turn around and don’t see anyone else on the pavement yelling or even talking.

Weird.

“I need sleep,” I grumble.

Pushing myself forward, I walk into the salon, but the receptionist shakes her head. No one by the name of Deborah has an appointment today.

Perspiration drips down my forehead as I fight to stay upright.

Dizzy, I ask the receptionist to use their bathroom. She gives me a curious glance as I pass the desk, my steps uneven and loud, or maybe I just imagine this when it’s really the beating of drums in my head.

After sinking to my knees in the pristine pink bathroom, I watch as the remnants of food and alcohol eject themselves from my stomach, leaving me with the taste of bile and salt.

Shakily, I wet a paper towel to wipe my brow and face. I rinse my mouth out and pop a stick of gum, my eyes bleary and unfocused in the mirror.

I turn right instead of left to a red exit sign next to the bathroom and avoid the judgmental eyes of the clientele. I’m relieved the door opens to a back parking lot, and sure enough, there’s my mother’s car.

She’s not visible through the windows of the flower shop or dry cleaner. The next entrance is not glass, just metal, with no windows, just brick.

Curious, I look for a sign, but only letters are sketched on the outside.

DR.