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

When I’m about to hang up, the police chief stops me. “And Sibley?”

“Yes, sir?” I gulp.

“Don’t know if you knew, but they built a men’s prison outside of town, and we’ve had a string of unfortunate incidents. It’s important to be conscientious.”

“I heard an announcement on the radio!” Here comes another fib. “And it might be an odd coincidence, but I did notice a broken window in my mother’s room.”

“What?” my mother and the chief both gasp, one through the phone, one poised over my shoulder.

“In the master bath.” My voice vacillates. “Please tell me you’ve now caught them.”

The chief urges me to hand back the phone to my mother.

“This can’t be happening . . .” My mother starts to shake like a leaf. She disappears out of the kitchen with the phone, and I hear her mumbled cries as she exits the room.

Ashamed at my behavior, I wait until I hear a shriek from her bathroom before I take tentative steps toward her bedroom. She’s seated on the edge of the bed, and even though she’s no longer speaking to the chief of police, the phone convulses in her trembling grip.

“I know you don’t like surprises,” I say, attempting a halfhearted apology. “I’m sorry for showing up this way.”

She doesn’t acknowledge this, instead staring at her gnarled hands.

“I got worried when you didn’t answer,” I say lamely. “You haven’t wanted to communicate.”

Her silence is deafening, and suddenly I’m a little girl again, feeling vulnerable and unwanted. Old insecurities rear their ugly heads. It’s time to change tactics before I implode. “Can I help clean up the glass?”

Deborah doesn’t answer, just murmurs, “They stole from me.”

“Who?”

“Whoever broke in.” She sighs. “A bunch of my medication is missing.”

“Pills?” I ask innocently. “What kind of pills?”

“This is unbelievable, and after what happened last winter . . .”

“What happened then?” My eyes widen. “Is that why you’re limping?” With a pounding heart, I wonder if this is what Fletch was alluding to.

She rests a hand on her forehead. “A man tried to . . . he didn’t try; he . . .” Stammering, she covers her mouth with her hand.

“What?”

“He attacked me outside.” She nods toward the porch. “Out there. Dragged me to the barn and clubbed me with a gun.”

“How could you not call me?” I’m appalled. “This is serious, Mother.”

She tilts her head to consider me. “Would that have changed anything?”

“I would have come to the hospital.”

“Really? We both know you haven’t been back since . . .” She hesitates. “Since you graduated your senior year after the unfortunate accidents.”

If one could call them that. I shudder. “I wonder if my dad would agree to that sentiment.” She doesn’t pick up on the insinuation about my father, who, in a flash, has been erased as my biological one.

Her eyes cut to my core, piercing deep inside of me. We both know nothing would’ve brought me back here unless it was her funeral. An uncomfortable moment passes between us.

I shift from foot to foot. “From the looks of the place, I got worried you had moved or were robbed.”

“The man didn’t take anything.” Motioning around the room, she sighs. “And move where? I’ve got so much work to do here as it is. Besides, who would want my stuff?”

This time I bite my lip to keep from making a sarcastic comment. She’s right about one thing—her furnishings aren’t high on a robber’s wish list.

Why anyone would choose this place to target is beyond me. Everything is mostly old, not even in the antique sense. The grandfather clock is certainly priceless, but it would take grunt work to lift and carry out the door. The clutter makes it hard to ascertain valuable from invaluable. The junk has been amassed just as eagerly as the more essential items. Most of the things are sentimental to my mother, meant for memories, not for resale.

I wait for the inevitable questions. She asks, “What brings you home? Is everything okay?”

No, it’s not, I want to scream, but I force myself to say without much conviction, “Nothing in particular. I just wanted to see you.” I sigh. “It’s been too long.”

Her face goes ashen. “I don’t remember agreeing to have company right now . . .” Her voice trails off. “A lot is going on, and it’s not the best time.”

Her thin gold band is still on her finger after all these years, and it only heightens my resentment. It’s a slap in the face that she bothers to wear it after all that happened—along with the cross pendant, a paltry attempt to be pious.

I swallow down my anger as we lock eyes. “I need to ask you about my father. About Jonathan.”

“Can you excuse me?” My mother presses her fingers to her forehead. “All of a sudden, I’m not feeling well.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m dizzy. This is too much shock for one day. I need to lie down.”

The vodka roils in my stomach as if I’m aboard a cruise ship in turbulent waters, and excusing myself quickly, I run to dislodge the contents for the second time today.

CHAPTER 22

Deborah

Deborah goes to bed spooked and wakes up filled with dread when she hears talking in the other room.

Oh no, she thinks, groaning. He’s back. He’s probably seated in front of the television.

Remembering the broken window, Deborah slides into a pair of slippers, not wanting to risk cutting herself on slivers of glass. He must’ve crawled in the bathroom window quietly. How could she not hear his footsteps?

Slowly, Deborah walks into her bathroom to consider the damage. Plastic is now taped to the opening, and broken shards are no longer on the floor.

That’s right: her daughter is here. The sound is her voice.

Deborah goes in search of her daughter to thank her for cleaning up the mess. Her appreciation turns to bemusement as she watches Sibley balancing on a chair in the kitchen, searching in vain for something. Her hands are sweeping across the cabinets like she’s looking for one of those secret bugs that people plant