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

A voice whispers in my ear. “You aren’t who you say you are, are you?”

I try to flip over, but her hand presses down on my throat, cutting off my air.

“What’re you doing?” I gasp, my hands clutching at her elbows. Using my nails, I scratch her as hard as I can until she abruptly releases her grip.

“You can’t take her place.” Her weight shifts off the bed, but when I lurch after her, my hand grabs at the air.

When I flick on the lamp, no one’s there.

Dizzy, I run a palm over my face.

Was that a nightmare?

It had to be, yet the bedroom door is ajar. I could’ve sworn I closed it when I came in here. Yes, I’m positive. It was closed when my mother came home.

Agitated, I take a sip of water from the glass on the nightstand, my heart rate through the roof.

I pound down the stairs, a violent maelstrom with increasingly erratic thoughts. Missing a step, I stumble, and I’d have broken my neck if the wooden railing weren’t intact to catch my fall.

When I reach the bottom with a thud, my nails trace the uneven walls to safely guide me in the dark through the rest of the house.

Hell bent on confronting my mother, I don’t bother knocking on her door; instead I fling it open hard enough that it hits the wall with a bang. I expect her to be awake, and my mouth is ready with a slew of cusswords, but the vitriol disappears from my lips.

I stare in confusion at her four-poster bed and listen to her heavy snores. There’s no way she can fake this deep breathing, and I reach forward to listen closer. Something smooth on the floor next to her bed rolls under my foot. When I lean down to grab it, I realize it’s a pill bottle.

It’s too dark to make out the prescription name, so I cradle it in my palm.

An object catches my attention at the edge of the hallway, and disturbed, I stare at something out of sight and blurred.

I scream at the billowing figure as it approaches.

Sure I’m witnessing one of the many people who have lived and died in this centuries-old farmhouse, I dart to the living room, running for dear life.

Outstretching my arm to restrain the shadow running across the carpet, I find myself grappling with air instead of the clandestine figure. I manage to get tangled up in the cord to a floor lamp and dive headfirst into an old wooden chest that probably belonged to the same generation as this phantom.

Blinded by the pain, I groan, not caring when the pill bottle is released from my clutch.

CHAPTER 26

Deborah

Deborah’s always been an early riser, as she was raised entirely on a farm. The work never ceases, and the days start long before the rest of the world begins to stir from their beds.

She’s standing in front of the coffeepot, ready to brew her 5:00 a.m. morning joe, when she feels something soft rubbing against her ankle.

Half-asleep, she assumes she stepped on a dish towel that fell to the floor, but then the object purrs.

Dropping the coffee tin, she stares at her pregnant cat, Esmeralda, one of the permanent fixtures of the farm. She’s taken pity on Esmeralda by feeding her extra kitchen scraps, since her swollen belly indicates she’s about to give birth any day. Deborah doesn’t usually let the cats roam freely inside. She only made an exception when she had a mice infestation.

“You little weasel.” She grins. “How’d you get in the house?”

After stroking her fur, Deborah plies her with a treat to go back outside. She frowns when she realizes she walked straight out onto the porch, and the sudden realization dawns that both the front and screen doors are wide open.

As she strides back into the house, an uneasy feeling takes root in her gut.

Her eyes dart to the living room, which is in a state of disarray. The floor lamp is upturned, and the cord has been pulled out from the wall.

Magazines and books from the top of the oak chest are scattered across the carpet. Most of their pages are now ripped and torn, as if someone purposely shredded them in a fit of anger.

She walks through the downstairs, and with a sigh of relief, she sees that nothing besides that room has been disturbed.

She doesn’t bother to check the upstairs, her blood pressure skyrocketing.

Deborah fumbles for her cell phone, which is charging on the counter. Her fingers dial 911, but she doesn’t hit call quite yet, choosing to walk back outside first.

Dammit, anyhow. She hates that a string of robberies has had no suspects—including her own attack—and with the nearest neighbor a few miles away, she’s worried that someone could be hiding in one of the outbuildings.

Usually, she wouldn’t be caught dead outside in her old ratty slippers and housecoat, but the house feels stifling, and she needs a breath of fresh air.

The sight of Sibley’s old car stops her in her tracks.

It hasn’t moved, but the driver’s door is wide open, inviting her to seek refuge inside. A scented air freshener in the shape of a pine tree hangs from the mirror, doing little to cover the smell of stale fast food.

Deborah winces as something sharp cracks underneath her flimsy slippers. It’s a shard of broken glass, the culprit a fractured vodka bottle that’s hiding halfway underneath the chassis.

She screams out of surprise, her fist hitting the faded paint of the doorframe.

She notices the key’s in the ignition, hanging innocently, a taunting suggestion that the driver intended to get behind the wheel, whether impaired or not.

Disgusted, Deborah snatches it out of the vehicle.

As Deborah lets her eyes drift to the back seat, she’s tempted to rifle through its contents, intent on uncovering who this stranger is: supposedly her daughter, yet all signs point to a different girl than the one she knew.

Sibley never seemed like the type