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

turn for the worse. I close my eyes for a second, drained and bitter, filled with misdirected hatred toward him.

“Believe me,” he says, his voice soothing, “I just want to leave that in the past.”

“Not true. You just want to convince everyone Deborah’s always had a screw loose.”

“I know what I heard, Sibby.”

“But I was actually there! I know what I saw!” Sickened by the sliver of doubt piercing through my own deep-seated belief of what I knew at the time, especially since reading the letter, I wonder if I’ve hung on to the ironclad truth of my own convictions for too long. Refusing to think about what Fletch angrily told me back in high school, I suck on my bottom lip.

All these years, I was convinced Fletch wanted to hurt me because of the damage done to his own family. But how much hatred would you have toward someone who made you get rid of your child? And someone who raised their hand to you?

My own instincts tell me my mother had justification for wanting Jonathan dead, as well as a legitimate motive.

I shake my head—and shake the memory loose. “It was an accident,” I say sharply.

“If that’s what you want to believe, then so be it.”

“You think I wanted to lose my daddy?”

His eyes glower. “You think I wanted to lose my mama?”

“Of course not. I think you relied on someone else’s accusations.” I don’t bother saying Kristin’s name out loud.

“Mark my words—there was nothing accidental about it. Your mother made sure your father paid the price.” He spits on the ground. “And not that he didn’t deserve it, but she didn’t care about dragging my family through the mud on her quest to break free of Jonathan.”

Sometimes when you take a step too far, there’s no way to pull yourself back, and you’re forced to fall off the cliff, hoping it won’t lead to your demise. This feels like one of those times.

“If it wasn’t an accident,” I taunt, “then blood’s on your hands too. You got your own mother killed.”

“Stop,” he growls in warning. “Don’t you dare, Sibley.”

We stand in uncomfortable silence, our bodies stiff with tension. He seems to forget my pain isn’t any less real than his. I had to live with a mother constantly scrutinized and under attack, and though some felt sorry for her, many thought she’d gotten what she deserved.

He’s gawking at me, and I redden at his intense stare. “You know, your freckles get more pronounced when you’re upset,” he says. “I forgot how they seem to spread over your face.”

My hand moves across the bridge of my nose as I fan my flaming skin. Poking my shoeless foot in the dirt, I fight the urge to jump into my beater and head back west. Maybe I was wrong to think this trip would help assuage my own bottomless pit of grief.

“Everything okay, Sibby? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

I put my hand up. “I’m fine. I think I need to go inside and lie down.”

“You better go inside and take care of that face.”

I nod, needing to be alone as quickly as possible.

“Oh, and here’s Deborah’s mail. Thought I’d save her the trip to the mailbox.” Handing me a stack, Fletch fixes me with a solemn salute. His eyeballs penetrate my back as I walk away.

I want distance between us and our heated conversation, but inside the house is no better, since I’m equally reluctant to confront my mother. I wish I could slink inside without her knowing I’ve been out in the barn. I’m not ready to look her in the eye, talk about what I found, or explain my battered face.

I’m also not ready to ask the hard questions about my father. Or fathers, in this case.

Everything I believed is now suddenly false, outdated, or irrelevant. Lies stacked upon more lies, a house of cards about to fall.

Inside the house, I sink into a chair to sort through the mail. I should put ice on my face, but my inquisitive nature takes over. If I weren’t an attorney, I’d be a private investigator, as I’ve always found researching and digging deep into people a fascinating endeavor. Everybody has a past, and my mother is making me question her innocence the night Jonathan died.

A freak accident is one thing, murder another.

Reading Deborah’s mail isn’t exactly on the up and up, but after I’ve sliced the envelope with the mail opener, I can’t believe what I’m reading.

My shoulders tremble, then my whole body, and I envision myself at the epicenter of an earthquake, a seismic shift beneath me.

Biting my tongue, I jump out of my chair for an explanation.

CHAPTER 30

Deborah

With the vile dress in hand, Deborah marches outside, planning to take it straight out to the burn pile. She changes her mind when she spots the lifted truck Miles Fletcher drives, but he’s not in sight. He must be out here looking for Sibley, she thinks, groaning. She doesn’t want to tell him Sibley’s inside sleeping, and she silently prays he won’t knock on the door.

It makes her uncomfortable to have him snooping around the farm. Hopefully, he’s gotten the hint he’s not welcome here. He’s a troublemaker, and he’s the reason for so much of Sibley’s anger. Deborah is clutching the fabric, but she can’t stand the thought of its presence, even for a few minutes. After shoving it in the corner of the pantry, Deborah spends an inordinate time at the sink, furiously scrubbing her hands. The mere thought of them touching the dress causes her to vomit.

Wiping a hand across her mouth, Deborah scurries to her bedroom, light headed and dizzy. After swallowing down a couple of pain pills, Deborah immediately lies down in bed. Even though it’s still morning, she’s tired and drained, never fully rested after a night’s sleep.

When she’s barely conscious, a loud banging startles Deborah. She’s frozen underneath the covers, then yanks them over her