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

“The knife in your hand.” I crawl toward her slowly. “I’m going to come and get the knife, okay?”

Her eyelids flicker, but she doesn’t respond.

Trembling, I stay at arm’s length, just in case she bolts upright and attacks me. “It’s okay to drop it. I’m not going to hurt you.”

I hold my breath until she releases her clutch on the knife. Her palm unfurls to rid itself of it as if it’s cathartic to let go, and it clatters to the floor. I draw back tensely when she moves her arms, but they fold over her chest, like she’s laid out in a burial casket.

In a soothing voice, I say, “Okay. I’m reaching over to pick it up.”

In case she opens her eyes, I keep my hands in front of me and in her line of sight. My fingers scrabble to make contact with the edge of the knife. I try not to focus on the fact the metal is wet with my blood, the surface sticky to the touch.

Gingerly, I rise and step around her immobile body to turn on the light. The room’s illuminated in an eerie glow that does little to permeate the darkness.

I stare from the doorway at the petite woman who gave birth to me. In some ways, I would’ve preferred if a masked intruder were breaking into our home. At least then, we wouldn’t have a shared history, and this attack wouldn’t be so personal. The woman who pushed me out of her womb now wants to kill me. My own mother just tried to injure or murder me, and neither option is a good one. I’m at a loss for what to do because she doesn’t seem to know who I am.

“Mother?”

No answer.

“Deborah?”

I repeat her name a few more times before she stirs.

Raising her head an inch from the ground, she calmly replies, “Yes?”

My fingers touch the gaping hole—half an inch deep, judging from the blade’s size. “I’m going to go to the bathroom and see if I can take care of this wound.” In my head, I’m yelling at the top of my lungs, but in reality, I speak in a soft monotone. “You stay here, okay?”

Facing her from the doorframe, I step back slowly, scared to turn my back lest she tackle me from behind. In the bathroom, I debate whether to lock the door or leave it ajar. I choose to keep it wide open so I can hear her footsteps if she gets up.

When I drop the bloody knife in the sink, I cringe as water erases the bright-red residue.

Leaning against the counter, I tilt to the side so I can see both the hallway and my shoulder in the mirror. The laceration is narrow but deep, and the sight of blood has never sat well with me.

I dab at it tenderly with a wet washcloth and soap as tears stream down my face. Some from the pain, some from exhaustion, but mainly from astonishment. The bleeding is profuse, so I apply pressure to the rough cotton.

Raiding the medicine cabinet, I find hydrogen peroxide and a large bandage. When the blood immediately soaks through the layer of latex, I wonder if I need stitches and contemplate a drive to the nearest hospital.

Maybe I should take Deborah along with me and have her committed, I think bitterly.

After carefully removing the bandage, I rewet the cloth and ignore what’s running down the drain, holding the cloth taut against my shoulder.

When Deborah appears behind me in the glass, I immediately freeze, startled, ready to bolt. My hand instinctively clasps the knife in the sink. Her eyes seem overwrought, and her lower lip trembles. “Honey, what’s wrong?” Her gaze lingers on the bloodstained washcloth.

Flustered at her reaction, I don’t respond.

“My God, is that your blood?” She takes a step toward me in the small bathroom, and I demand she step away. Impatiently, her hand reaches out to touch my arm. “Let me see it.”

“No.”

I wince as she roughly pulls the cotton away from the wound.

A sharp intake of breath follows, and I loosen my grip on the handle of the knife.

“What happened?” she asks innocently.

Angrily, I sidestep her to face her concerned expression. “What do you mean, ‘What happened’?” If the situation weren’t dire, I’d laugh at her ridiculous question and serious expression. This woman should win an Academy Award for acting obtusely.

After moving the toilet lid down, she settles onto the fabric cover. Her eyes drift to the sink, where the bloody knife rests in the basin.

“Is that from my kitchen?”

“I’d say so.”

“What in the world were you doing messing around with it?” Her voice is sharp. “You could’ve really hurt yourself.”

My eyes widen in fear. I’m being gaslighted by my own mother.

“I know.” I’m brusque. “You could’ve really injured me.”

“We need to talk.” With a strained voice, Deborah says, “This is serious.”

“I know.”

“Is this one of those cutting rituals I hear about on TV? An unhealthy way for you to let your pain out?”

My head swivels to face her. “What?”

“Were you trying to kill yourself?”

“Mother . . .”

“I know you have a lot on your plate, and certainly, you’re stressed to the max, but honey, I don’t want to . . .” She tears up. “I don’t want you to end up like your father. I can’t bear to lose someone else, someone close to me.”

“Are you being serious right now?” I snap. “I don’t know about you, but sticking a knife in my shoulder doesn’t seem like a suicidal tendency.”

I flinch when she tries to pat my elbow. “We have to get you help. Let me call someone. How about Miles Fletcher? Or maybe your husband?”

“No.” My voice echoes loudly in the small space. “I don’t feel safe,” I say to the mirror.

“That makes two of us.”

Without a word, I take the knife from the sink and skirt past my mother. Downstairs, I hide it in the pantry behind cleaning supplies, where she won’t find it.

Scanning the kitchen, I take the butcher block