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

ALACOY is spelled out in bold black stencils, but there are no hours or even a phone number listed. It doesn’t specify the type of doctor.

My interest piqued, I try the handle, expecting it to be locked.

Surprisingly, it’s open.

Since I can’t see inside, I expect to be welcomed into a dark lab or something. Instead, the front room is airy and clean. There’s no reception desk, just a couple of chairs. The small area is uncluttered. A couple of paintings hang on the wall, but they aren’t drab walls; they are painted a warm blue tone.

I’m wondering what type of office this is since I don’t see a buzzer or a security camera.

Then, hearing voices echo from behind the only door in the room, which happens to be closed, I tiptoe toward it.

I feel like a snooping intruder, but I guess I am. I sheepishly lean my head against the door. There’s no denying one of the voices belongs to Deborah, my mother.

I’m not expecting her to mention my father, Jonathan, in her next sentence.

My breathing becomes labored.

Is this a therapist’s office, I wonder?

Touching the wood paneling of the door, I hear Deborah say, “After the wedding, he started using his fists, and I can’t describe the relief I felt that the baby wasn’t made up of his genes.”

Another female voice, louder than my mother’s muted one, asks, “Over the years, did you ever want to tell Jonathan the baby wasn’t his?”

“Hell no!” My mother raises her voice, sounding upset. “He would’ve killed me. And our daughter. That’s why I never left.”

Wait? What? I chew on this news as my brain tries to play catch-up.

My deceased father isn’t my real father? And she’s claiming to some doctor he was abusive?

Covering my mouth with my hand, I force myself to keep my emotions in check so I don’t fling open the door and unleash a tirade of anger on a mother who doesn’t know I’m here.

“And nothing more from Edward?”

“Not until we bumped into each other a few years later, when he was home visiting friends. His parents had moved away by this point.” Her tone softens. “And he asked me to leave Jonathan. I was devastated Edward had moved on with his life and gotten married.” Deborah’s voice fills with contempt. “To make matters worse, he got married to an awful woman.”

“He told you this?”

“Yes. He begged me to leave Jonathan, said he would leave his wife in a heartbeat for me.”

“Did he know then he was the father to your daughter?”

“No,” Deborah cries. “At least not that I know of.”

“If he was the love of your life, I’m curious to know why you didn’t leave?”

Deborah sounds like a strangled cat. “Even though he would leave his wife for me, I couldn’t leave my husband. I was a coward, worried about what Jonathan would do to him. And to us.”

“If not for fear, would you have left Jonathan to be with Edward?”

I almost suffocate myself during the long pause.

“Yes,” my mother finally admits. “If our daughter wasn’t around, easily. It’s a double-edged sword, since I would’ve loved for us to be a family and for her to know her real father. But I knew Jonathan would never let that happen.”

“Were you not concerned about breaking up Edward’s marriage?”

“Not really,” my mother sniffs. “Not really. At the time, he didn’t have kids. I know Edward eventually had children, but they didn’t live here.”

“When did Edward find out about your daughter and vice versa?”

“I believe when she was in middle school. She and I were walking around the town square, and I could feel someone watching us. When I looked up, Edward stood stock still, staring at his spitting image. I didn’t even have to say it.”

My jaw clenches. Oddly enough, I remember this moment because it stuck out like a sore thumb. In public, my mother barely acknowledged the opposite sex. I thought it was because she was a timid creature—a pushover. But this time, she ran to the car and crumbled into a tearful mess.

No wonder Jonathan never seemed to trust her or like her or this sham marriage. I saw how his eyes bulged with resentment when he thought no one was looking.

Now that I think about it, my supposed father was usually in the barn or the fields . . . avoiding her.

“Were you worried about Edward’s wife or children finding out about your daughter, that they had a half sibling?”

My mother’s response is too muffled to hear.

Another lapse, this time from the woman. “I don’t think you’ve said. What’s your daughter’s name?”

“Sibley.”

“When did you tell Sibley the identity of her real father?”

There’s a long pause, or maybe it feels that way because I’m holding my breath.

It’s like an explosion of fireworks in my head when Deborah reveals, “I haven’t.”

Not only is my mother a cheater, but she’s also a liar. I knew my mother had been unfaithful. I just didn’t realize it was more than once. Not only did Deborah have an affair, but she got knocked up and passed me off as another man’s child.

The once-effervescent room becomes suffocating as it sways in front of me, and beads of sweat form on my upper lip at the earth-shattering news. I’m not Jonathan’s real daughter, and my birth father is a man named Edward?

Who is he, and more importantly, where is he?

A deep pain jabs me deep in the heart.

There’s a rustle of tissue or paper, and I can hear Deborah’s pitiful crying as she acts like a tortured soul. Always the victim. Maybe Fletch wasn’t far from the truth.

I’ve heard enough.

Eager to flee from the admission of Deborah’s guilt and lies, I start to tiptoe away from the door. Unfortunately, my shoe squeaks, and I don’t bother being quiet. I start to sprint out into the sunshine, stumbling over my own two feet, a torrent of tears streaming down my face.

CHAPTER 18

Sibley

In the safety of my car, I drive aimlessly with no direction