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

bandaged foot, she uses one hand on the railing to guide herself up the stairs and the other to carry the hot ceramic mug. It takes Deborah longer to ascend between her sore foot and limp.

The door’s slightly cracked, and Deborah tentatively peers inside. A motionless lump covered in blankets on the bed doesn’t stir, and her sour mood tempts her to wake Sibley up to give her a piece of her mind.

Deborah’s about to speak when she notices the area rug has been rolled back haphazardly and a pool of liquid is on the floor.

Not bothering to knock, she tiptoes closer. A spilled water glass is the culprit, but her jaw drops at an upended board that reveals a cutout in the floor.

What on earth? Deborah is awed. When did this happen?

Not as limber as she once was, Deborah struggles to lean down and examine the hole. She doesn’t want to wake Sibley up, so she pauses a moment, heart beating in her chest, the mug trembling in her hand.

Not wanting to risk burning herself, she sets the mug carefully on the dresser.

After lowering herself with the aid of the wooden chest, Deborah reaches into the opening, her eyes on the mass in the bed.

Her fingers grasp some type of fabric caught on the edge of the rough-hewn wood. Delicately she removes the material from the small crevice, and realizing the thread of the button is snagged, she deftly untangles the thread from its captor.

Deborah gasps as her eyes widen in horror, her brain slow to comprehend what she’s holding in her clutch, only knowing that it shouldn’t be there.

Dropping it immediately like she’s been burned, she recoils as if it’s a snake ready to strike. She scoots across the floor and away from the floral-print fabric covered in bloodstains and charred in various places, but she can’t stop staring down at the impossibility of it.

It’s a dress, the dress she wore that April Sunday evening, over sixteen years ago. She gladly watched it go up in smoke, or so she thought—all evidence of that night destroyed on the burn pile. There should have been nothing left but ashes.

So what the hell is it doing in Sibley’s room?

Up until that night, it was her favorite dress, but by the end of the evening, it was unwearable and bloodstained.

She claps a hand to her mouth. That fateful day is burned into her memory, just like she thought the dress had been. It’s cotton, an easily flammable material, and is covered in large poppies of various colors, with a modest neckline and a few pearl buttons that adorn the front. Deborah never wore low-cut clothing or high hemlines for two reasons, both to do with Jonathan.

First, because he never allowed it.

But second, and more importantly, because the bruises and cigarette burns etched into her skin would have shown. Jonathan was sly, brilliant, always making sure to cause injury underneath Deborah’s clothing so it wouldn’t be visible. The smacks and verbal abuse happened behind closed doors or when Sibley wasn’t around, which became more frequent once she got to high school.

On this particular Sunday, she and Jonathan attended church service while seventeen-year-old Sibley babysat in the church nursery. Their usual routine after church was that Jonathan would read scriptures at home while Deborah prepared the afternoon meal that served as both lunch and dinner.

Deborah was grateful Sibley and her father shared a mutual adoration, even now that she was a rebellious teenager. She was relieved Sibley still seemed to bask in his glow. As much as Deborah was envious of their relationship, she was relieved Jonathan didn’t take his temper out on Sibley any more than most parents. Jonathan still disciplined her, but not with the severity or regularity he aimed at Deborah, as if her very presence aggravated him.

That was why it was out of character when he erupted in anger at Sibley on the way home when she asked him about getting her own car. They only had one vehicle, Jonathan’s truck, and he refused to let anyone else drive it unless he was riding shotgun.

Slumped in the back seat, Sibley glumly stared out the window.

Jonathan went quiet, which usually meant he was irritated, and it typically resulted in anger being directed at her. This riddled Deborah with anxiety. She had grown used to the calm before the storm, and her body anticipated it now.

Clutching her small purse on her lap, Deborah’s clammy hands left perspiration marks on the fabric as she watched him sneak glances in the rearview mirror at Sibley. His forehead creased as if he was deep in thought, and his dark eyes looked like he was watching a tennis tournament, lobbing stares back and forth.

Her distress only increased when they got home to the farm. Though Jonathan was a heavy smoker, he had made a solemn oath never to smoke when he was dressed in the suit he reserved for church. When they clambered out of the truck, he pulled his carton out of the console and lit up without bothering to change.

Their daughter preferred the outdoors and helped Jonathan around the farm and with the animals when they had them. She often imitated him, becoming his miniature shadow. But today, he wanted nothing to do with her, shooing her into the house with Deborah.

Usually, Deborah would change out of her dress as well, but this afternoon, a premonition filled her with dread.

By this point in her marriage, their daughter was a buffer between her and Jonathan. She had been hopeful that Jonathan’s mood would mellow as he grew older or with having a child, but it hadn’t helped. Other mothers would have wanted a girlie girl, but Deborah felt freed from his constant scrutiny, since Sibley was a tomboy who preferred to be near her daddy. This gave Deborah time to read and quilt, and even though the household chores never ceased, her husband’s prying eyes left their target for a while, preoccupied with teaching