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

Irked, I grudgingly stand up and try to maneuver the heavy old wood away from the wall. I’m only able to manage a couple inches, but what it uncovers has my whole body tingling from shock.

A firearm rests not so innocently on its side.

A wave of dizziness overcomes me, and I’m scared to touch the gun, let alone move it.

My mother mentioned a gun was used to strike her. What if this was used in her assault?

I open the chest, figuring that there might be a rag or something I can wrap the gun in so as not to disturb any usable fingerprints. I want the police to catch her attacker. Regardless of our past, I’d never wish harm upon her.

Some might believe in an eye for an eye, but not me.

I find a couple of old ratty towels, and my hands shake as I gently use one to wrap up the gun. I look underneath the fabric and am astonished to see old photo albums and yearbooks from my parents’ own respective childhoods.

This is exactly what I was hoping to find.

I sink down onto the dusty floor and flip through pages of my mother’s yearbooks, examining each name and picture. A couple of Edwards jump out at me, and I repeat their names aloud as a memorization tactic so I can look them up later.

But at the end of the yearbook are the larger senior photos, and when my eyes fall on one of them, it’s not even a question. We share an uncanny resemblance: the same light-colored hair, smidgen of freckles, and bright-blue eyes. This has to be him.

My finger presses on his face. Edward Pearson.

I’m about to close it when a gauzelike piece of paper comes loose from the back of the book, where it was tucked between the last page and the binding. The faded handwriting belongs to my mother, so timeworn it seems it could crumble from the slightest mishandling.

Silently reading it, I’m startled when a shriek pierces the dead air.

Realizing it’s my mother’s voice calling my name, I hesitate. I could go outside and give myself away, but I’m not ready to face her yet. A heaviness weighs on my heart as tears stream down my cheeks from what I’ve become privy to. This diary entry or letter is unaddressed, so it’s unclear if she’s writing to someone. Even though my mother only has a high school education, she’s able to articulate her grief-stricken feelings.

It’s from 1986.

This is the last time I will write.

He pretended to be excited at first and said he made an appointment for me to get checked by a doctor. I was surprised because he’s been so cold and distant, but I thought maybe he changed his mind. I should’ve known better.

The appointment he made was to a clinic a few hundred miles away so no one would know. He told me point-blank I was having a procedure done. He said I’m not fit to be a mother, and it would be Satan’s spawn. When he pulled up to the front, he told me to go inside, and he would park and be right in, but he never showed. Instead, he disappeared. I didn’t know what to do after he drove off. I went in alone and came out alone.

I wasn’t sure if he would come back for me. The nurse took pity and let me sit in the waiting room until he finally showed up a few hours later, drunk and cursing loudly. I had to fight with him to get him to let me drive us home. I want to tell my mother, but I’m scared.

But I just wanted to let you know, it’s over now.

Forever yours, Dee

A tear slides from my cheek onto the flimsy paper, and swiping it, I watch as a few of the words run on the page. Smeared, just like my family’s reputation.

I’m horrified and wholly confused at the agony of what happened to my mother. So Jonathan didn’t want me, whether I was his blood or not?

Or was this Edward the one who pushed her to get rid of me? Maybe he didn’t want a child, and it wasn’t until later that he had a change of heart. He must’ve had a good reason for not wanting my mother and me to be part of his life at the beginning. Or maybe it was perspective—there’s a big difference between a fetus and a teenager.

If he was married and I was conceived during their affair, it would be understandable, though not admirable, that he would step back from Deborah.

I’m torn between the father I had growing up and the father who abandoned me before birth. It’s a lot to accept.

To his credit, Jonathan never acted like he resented me. I spent most of my time outdoors with him, his little helper. I would’ve felt the tension, the same as the hostility I felt between him and my mother. I rarely heard them fight, but unspoken words were often exchanged between them.

Thinking about his dedication to me, I slap the old chest in disappointment. Why wasn’t I reason enough for him to slow down on the bottle and quit? It’s brutal to realize your childhood was a lie and the adults might as well have been part of a scripted reality series, since they had their own secret lives and failed to be accountable for their life choices.

Contemplating my disillusionment, I sit in stunned silence until heavy footsteps interrupt, their pace quickening as they get closer.

CHAPTER 28

Deborah

After tending to her wound and making sure she didn’t track any glass inside, Deborah pours herself another cup of coffee.

Sibley doesn’t answer when Deborah hollers upstairs, so she assumes she went back to bed. She remembers how Jonathan couldn’t function after a bender, and judging from the empty, broken bottle of vodka, Sibley’s going to need a dose of caffeine when she wakes back up.

Careful not to put weight on her