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

but it doesn’t turn on. Peering out the kitchen window, he squints at the car in the driveway, barely visible but parked as heavy rain continues to descend on it.

“It’s right here, Mrs. Sawyer,” he says politely.

She shuffles over beside him. “What is, dear?”

Pointing at the car, he says, “The car. It’s right here.”

Deborah swallows hard. “Oh dear. I need to go get my glasses.”

Laying a hand on her forehead, she watches Holden nod and hurriedly run out into the rain. Why is everyone acting strange? she wonders.

As soon as he leaves, she forgets what he even wanted.

Shrugging her shoulders, she fumbles her way to her bedroom.

CHAPTER 46

Sibley

Teeth chattering, I sit on the muddy step of the root cellar, soggy and cold. Listening to the downpour, I strain to hear what sounds like a yell. It doesn’t get any louder or closer, and glumly, I decide it must be hissing from the wind.

Prepared to scream again, I’ve opened my mouth to holler when I hear a crackle that is sharp and brisk. It sounds like a stick being snapped underfoot.

I beat on the door again, my knuckles bruised and sore, along with my shoulder. “Help me!” I screech, my voice hoarse. “Please help me. Get me out of here! I’m stuck.”

I yell this repeatedly as if I’m on autopilot, and then, as abruptly, I stop.

My nostrils flare when I catch the whiff of lighter fluid and charcoal interspersed with the woodsy scent of trees.

It wraps me up in memories of sitting around a bonfire and roasting s’mores. I used to love watching the roaring branches explode into smithereens.

Even though it’s one of my favorite memories from growing up, it’s out of place right here and now.

As I crane my neck to hear, a knot forms in my stomach.

Did Deborah set some brush on fire?

Horrified, I wonder whether her intent is to suffocate me by smoke inhalation.

I stand and pace back and forth.

No. I shake my head.

No, she couldn’t be that sadistic.

She’s just getting rid of the burn pile, but I swallow uneasily as I remind myself of what tragic events unfolded after the last time I watched her use the burn pile.

A comforting thought replaces my earlier terror. There’s no way she could light a match in this weather; it’s impossible to start a fire in this wetness.

But still . . . the smell of smoke is overpowering me.

It’s not like Deborah couldn’t use a dry piece of tinder or wood to ignite it. It won’t spread in the wet grass, but she doesn’t need it to.

Trembling, I realize she could also use the barn or shed as a starting point, and before long, the outbuildings would be ablaze.

Peering at Esmeralda in the dim light, I wonder miserably if she and her kittens can claw their way out for us.

I search the empty shelves in desperation, hoping to see a hatchet or saw magically appear just in the nick of time.

I start to wheeze, inhaling the stuffy air and what tastes like a pack of cigarettes.

A wave of sadness washes over me. I’m all alone down here, and no one knows it but Deborah and me.

And when they find my body, my husband will think the worst of me. Holden will continue to believe I had an affair with Nico. He’ll never get to hear the truth from me when I’m sober. Or regretful.

I squeeze into the farthest corner and pull my knees up, resting my arms on them. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, and I can’t deny who or what I am. I’m an alcoholic. A functioning one—and as of late, a barely functioning one—but I’m ready to say the words.

I whisper them out loud for the very first time.

To be completely honest, when you’re an alcoholic, you miss entire chunks, as you’re often either barely cognizant or blacked out.

The night Nico and I went out, my birthday evening, has missing bits and pieces.

But there’s no ambiguity in what happened.

Yes, Nico touched my hair and my arm and my knee. But that’s where it ended. He paid the tab and, like a perfect gentleman, sent me home in a ride share.

Except when I got there, I returned to a dark house and no Holden.

I was suddenly angry again.

I stomped around, slamming cupboards and doors, and the only party I attended was my own pity party.

Upset, I passed out in the guest room upstairs instead of the master, not bothering to undress.

In the morning, I called Tanner for a ride to the bar to retrieve my vehicle. He had an early meeting and was already in the office, so I took another ride share.

I didn’t bother asking Holden because I was still fuming he’d forgotten my birthday. The master bedroom door was shut when I left, and I didn’t bother to go in.

I decided to get ready in the office and thought nothing of it.

But when Holden woke up and I still hadn’t come to bed, he called Tanner to ask if he’d heard from me. Tanner assumed my husband had taken me out for my birthday, which led to the conversation about how he’d forgotten my birthday and what type of celebration I’d had since I supposedly hadn’t come home.

Tanner told Holden I’d called him for a ride to the speakeasy to get my car, and just as I was about to head to my office to shower, Holden showed up in the parking lot of the bar, apologetic.

He promised to make it up to me, but tired and cranky, I dismissed him. “Whatever, Holden. I gotta get to work.”

“It’s barely six.”

I shrugged my shoulders, bleary eyed. Being hungover and lacking caffeine did not bring out morning cheeriness.

“So.” He rested his hand on the side mirror. “What did you do last night?”

“Not celebrate with my husband.”

“Yeah, I got that. That’s on me.” He held his hands up. “I’m a shitty husband. Sorry, babe. We can try again next year.”

“What exactly are we trying for anymore?” I