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

The doors were purposely shut behind me, locking me down here. Someone wanted me down here, and that person is my mother.

CHAPTER 45

Deborah

After she’s left for the barn, Deborah locks the front door behind her and then leans against it. She breathes heavily, and her eyelids flutter uncontrollably, as if she’s in a contest to see who can blink the most.

She gives herself a moment to stand unmoving, using the dense wood for support. A pummeling on the opposite side of the door causes her to jump. It sounds as if someone is throwing punches.

Deborah’s hand moves to her throat.

She realizes it’s someone knocking.

Warily, she turns around.

Swallowing hard, she whispers, “Who is it?”

“Deborah?” a male voice hollers, and she doesn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified.

“Uh, yes.” She wipes her hands on her pants. “What can I help you with?”

“It’s me, Holden.”

“Holden?”

“Holden. Holden Bradford.” His voice sounds strained. “I know we’ve never met, but I’m Sibley’s husband.”

Flabbergasted, Deborah smooths her frizzy hair, matted from the earlier rain. This is not how she pictured the first meeting with her son-in-law.

“It’s raining pretty hard!” Holden shouts. “Mind if I come inside?”

Deborah stares out the small kitchen window at the yard, now upset she’s let it get so overgrown and wild. What’s Holden going to think of the three-foot-tall weeds and the thick grass?

Not to mention her own appearance.

She stares at her reflection, and devoid of makeup, her eyes look sunken in her face. As she glares at the messy kitchen, her heart sinks. He’s going to be disappointed at the family he married into.

With a defeated sigh, she flicks the porch light on and fumbles with the lock.

She’s face to face with someone who shouldn’t be a stranger but nevertheless is.

“Hi,” Deborah says.

“Hi.” Holden reminds her of a drowned animal. His tawny hair is sticking to his forehead, and his tortoiseshell glasses are fogged. The light cotton jacket he’s wearing isn’t meant for rain; it’s soaked.

“Come on in.” She ushers him inside, where he stands dripping in her kitchen. Mud and grass stains cover the front of his denim jeans. His tennis shoes squish on the linoleum.

They stare at each other in awkward silence until Deborah remembers her manners. “Let me take your jacket,” she offers. “And get you a towel.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate it.” He removes his waterlogged jacket and hands it to her. Underneath his coat he’s wearing a T-shirt, and he uses the hem to clean his glasses.

Deborah hangs his jacket up and grabs him a dish towel out of a kitchen drawer to wipe his hands and face. His beard, trimmed, not bushy, has water droplets stuck to it. Giving a quick swipe to it, he asks if he should remove his shoes.

“That’s all right,” Deborah says, motioning to a chair. “We can sit in the kitchen.”

“I don’t want to ruin the fabric. I’m pretty dirty.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She ignores his protests. “Sit down. Make yourself at home. Would you like something to drink?”

He runs a hand through his wet hair. “A water would be good, even though I got a mouthful outside.”

Deborah points to a single mug sitting on the counter. “How about tea?”

“Tea?” He shrugs. “Uh, sure. That’s fine too.”

“I made a third, but there’s only two of us. Let me just pop it in the microwave for a couple seconds.”

“Speaking of, where is my wife?”

“She left.”

His jaw drops. “She left to go where?”

“Back home.”

“Are you sure?”

“That’s what she told me.”

Holden rubs a hand over his tired face. “I just drove all the way here on a wild-goose chase. I’ve been trying her cell for a couple days, and it goes straight to voice mail, which would make sense because she’s not where she’s supposed to be.” He murmurs, “I should never have trusted she’d go of her own volition.” Holden yanks his phone out of his back pocket. “Do you mind trying her phone? She’s not going to answer if I call.”

“Sure.” Deborah picks up her cell.

There’s a lull as Deborah listens to the phone ring, but no one picks up. After disconnecting, she sets her phone on the table and shrugs. “I’m no luckier. She confided in me about the . . . about the indiscretion, and I’m sorry.”

Holden considers her strangely. “She told you what happened at the firm?”

“She just said she needed a vacation.”

“That’s one way to put it.” He uses the steaming mug to warm his hands.

“What do you mean?”

He swallows. “Rehab was a mandatory request from the partners at her firm. They wanted her to complete an inpatient program. It’s a requirement for her to come back to work.”

“Rehab?” Deborah quivers. “For drugs?”

“No. It’s not a drug addiction,” Holden says. “Or rather, I should say, it’s a different type of drug. Alcohol’s classified that way, I guess.”

“I’m all too familiar with that one.” Deborah feels sorry for Holden. She knows firsthand what it’s like to live with an alcoholic: the mood swings, the outbursts, and the instability.

“I knew Sibley’s father liked to drink. She said he wasn’t violent, just quiet, sometimes moody. ‘He liked to ruminate,’ I think were her exact words. Runs in the family, I guess. Must’ve got that gene.”

“She’s not herself. Far from it.” Deborah scratches at her neck. “We’ve been estranged, but there have been telltale signs. She can’t remember what she does or details. She blacks out and forgets. There have been a couple of times I’ve felt unsafe that she could and would harm me. One night, I went to her room, I don’t know, just to stare at her. It’s been so long since she’s been home, slept in her bed. It was a sense of normalcy for me, I guess. The covers had slipped from her back, and I was going to tuck them back up around her shoulders. She was always like me—no matter how hot or humid it was outside, she still had to have a blanket. I’m the same. She’s not who she says she