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

peer inside because the blinds are closed. Shrouded in darkness, the house has an ominous quality to it, even in the daylight.

My mother’s bedroom and bathroom are on the first floor, the addition she begged my assumed father for my junior year of high school. He didn’t want to spend the money, but she convinced a couple of neighbors to help, and it ended up being a group project.

In fact, after everyone pitched in on our remodel, my parents returned the favor for a few of the neighbors who were tired of their old farmhouses and wanted more functional rooms.

The window in the master bath on the first floor might work. It’s not very wide, but I bet I can cram my frame through it.

It’s locked, but I have a solution.

I pick up a rock and toss it at the pane. It takes me a couple of tries since I feel off kilter and woozy. After winding up like a baseball player, I launch another stone through the glass, and it finally shatters.

The sound of breaking glass can’t repress the acute feeling that someone’s eyes are on me.

I stand in silence for a moment. Paranoid, I sneak glances around, barely able to see through the tall, dense grass in some areas.

Ignoring the chill running down my spine and my pounding headache, I decide I’m acting ridiculous. It’s because of the news flash about the prison; I’m on edge.

In the toolshed, I find a pair of thick gloves and a broom. After using the wooden handle to brush away the excess shards of glass, I drag the metal tin over to the window to use as a stool.

I’m sweaty and hot, and it’s not as easy as it looks on television to climb through a broken window without scraping yourself on shards. After I land with a loud thud on the bathroom floor, I toss the rock back outside.

Staring at the splotchy mirror over the sink, I pry open the medicine cabinet. Inside is a miniature pharmacy, white and orange pill bottles lining the shelves to full capacity.

Jesus, Deborah, I think, examining the labels. I wonder how carefully she keeps inventory or if she’d notice any missing.

After I slam the cabinet shut, I step into her mostly tidy bedroom, relatively similar after all these years. Deborah’s habits haven’t changed when it comes to making her bed. I roll my eyes at the abundance of decorative pillows that take up a chunk of it.

Her closet is still overflowing with clothes that are either too small or outdated by two decades. The unforgiving rocking chair that belonged to her mother rests in the corner of the room, and a fabric seat cushion is now attached, to make it bearable, I presume.

Making my way through the small downstairs, I scrunch my nose at the smell of cat piss and coffee. Since when did she inherit an indoor cat? Feral ones used to run all over the farm, great for catching barn mice, but Daddy always warned us about feeding strays, how they would never leave. My mother had a bleeding heart and begged unsuccessfully to keep every one of them as a house pet.

Mournfully, I study my father’s old chair, his existence made known by the plethora of cigarette burns forging a path down the battered leather. My mother tossed almost everything of his shortly after his death, but oddly, she kept his recliner and dining room chair, as if he still needed a seat at the table.

But he’s not your father, I woefully remind myself.

Scanning the rest of the small space, I’m baffled by the messiness. Pots and pans and silverware cover every inch of counter space in the kitchen. Boxes of pantry items are stacked on the scarred table and the Formica countertops. I assume the pantry is overflowing, but I’m amazed to find it scarce. It’s as if spring cleaning started and never finished.

Disgusted at the dirtiness, I shake my head in alarm. I guess you have your first project, I think, ripping off the shred of newspaper clinging to the bottom of my shoe.

When I reach the front door, I fumble open both locks with trembling hands to pretend I entered the way most would: through the actual door.

The adjoining living room has fared a little better. The furniture is the same, old and shabby, but at least it’s reasonably clean. I’m already tired of the house’s gloominess, so I open the drapes to let some light in through the picture windows.

Intending to wait up for my mother, I make room to sit by moving a pile of blankets on the couch. Noticing my favorite, a crocheted one made by my grandma, I spread it over my lap.

I promise myself I’ll just shut my eyes for a few minutes of rest. However, the bright morning sunlight is warm and inviting, consoling me gently to sleep.

It’s as if I never left. The hum of the refrigerator, the chitchat of birds, but mostly the solitude: they welcome me home with open arms, their familiarity beckoning me to remember this is where I once belonged.

CHAPTER 20

Deborah

A white vehicle is parked sideways in the drive when Deborah comes home, blocking her path to the garage.

It looks like the car from earlier, but she can’t be too sure.

Standing at the rear bumper, Deborah strokes her chin, staring at the ripped remains of where a temporary plate should be, shaking her head.

Deborah notices bald tires and dark tint missing in places, as if someone took a razor blade to shave off portions in vertical stripes.

Peering through the scratched tint, she’s disappointed no one’s inside, and all she spots in the back seat is a red cooler and an overstuffed suitcase.

She tries the handle, but it’s locked.

That’s not the case with the front door, which is ajar. Did I accidentally leave it open? Deborah shoves her knuckles in her mouth. She moved the metal tin after the incident. She doesn’t keep a