When I reach the front door, I fumble open both locks with trembling hands to pretend I entered the way most would: through the actual door.
The adjoining living room has fared a little better. The furniture is the same, old and shabby, but at least it’s reasonably clean. I’m already tired of the house’s gloominess, so I open the drapes to let some light in through the picture windows.
Intending to wait up for my mother, I make room to sit by moving a pile of blankets on the couch. Noticing my favorite, a crocheted one made by my grandma, I spread it over my lap.
I promise myself I’ll just shut my eyes for a few minutes of rest. However, the bright morning sunlight is warm and inviting, consoling me gently to sleep.
It’s as if I never left. The hum of the refrigerator, the chitchat of birds, but mostly the solitude: they welcome me home with open arms, their familiarity beckoning me to remember this is where I once belonged.
CHAPTER 20
Deborah
A white vehicle is parked sideways in the drive when Deborah comes home, blocking her path to the garage.
It looks like the car from earlier, but she can’t be too sure.
Standing at the rear bumper, Deborah strokes her chin, staring at the ripped remains of where a temporary plate should be, shaking her head.
Deborah notices bald tires and dark tint missing in places, as if someone took a razor blade to shave off portions in vertical stripes.
Peering through the scratched tint, she’s disappointed no one’s inside, and all she spots in the back seat is a red cooler and an overstuffed suitcase.
She tries the handle, but it’s locked.
That’s not the case with the front door, which is ajar. Did I accidentally leave it open? Deborah shoves her knuckles in her mouth. She moved the metal tin after the incident. She doesn’t keep a hidden key anymore, just in case someone wants to ransack the house.
What the . . .
Deborah peers up at the security camera, irked she can’t rely on it to provide her any basic details before she decides whether it’s safe to enter. The recorded images take too long to download because of the spotty reception on the farm and typically appear black and grainy on her phone screen. If anything, it’s supposed to be a deterrent, except in this case . . .
As she waffles on what to do, Robert doesn’t answer, so she shakily dials the emergency number. After all that’s happened, she doesn’t want to assume the identity of her uninvited visitor.
Relieved an operator quickly answers, she doesn’t offer a greeting, just a mumbled string of words.
“I don’t understand,” the male voice says. “Who’s at your house?”
“I’m not sure,” Deborah whispers. “Someone’s here on the Sawyer property.”
“Okay, do you know who?”
“I might know them.”
“Is this the Sawyer farm?” There’s an air of exasperation she doesn’t miss.
“You have to believe me.” She grips the phone in her hand. “I’m not lying. There’s a strange vehicle in the drive, some type of foreign car. A Toyota.”
“No one said you were. Can you describe them?”
She grits her teeth. “I didn’t walk inside yet, but if that’s what you want me to do . . .”
“What do you mean?” The voice on the other end fights to stay calm. “An intruder is inside the house?”
“I haven’t gone in.”
“Wait, hold on a sec!” the man says. “Have you walked around the premises?”
“No,” Deborah says.
“Do you have any spare keys the trespasser could’ve located?”
“I don’t think so.” This should be an obvious question, yet she doesn’t know. Frustrated, Deborah paces the length of the porch, tempted to collapse onto the porch swing, until she notices the curtains are open. Deborah never leaves them open. It might entice someone to take a peek inside the house.
Licking her lips nervously, she wonders if the man is back.
“Please stay out of the house. An officer will be dispatched shortly.” The man on the phone sighs. “There was an escape today at the correctional facility.”
“What?” Deborah almost loses her balance. “Another one?” She tries to act reasonable. “But there’s a car in the drive, so clearly the owner didn’t walk here.”
“Well, people do drive getaway cars.” A keyboard clicks in the background as the dispatcher says, “Expect a policeman soon, ma’am.” And then, “I can stay on the line if you’d like.”
“Please. I’d like that.” Comforted by this, Deborah rests the phone against her thigh, not hanging up, per se, but keeping it there to shutter the conversation, at least for the moment.
Sneaking closer, she peers inside the picture window, spotting a lumpy figure sprawled out on the couch, their silhouette covered entirely by a blanket.
Soren, she thinks hopefully.
Disregarding the dispatcher’s advice and unable to contain her nervous anticipation, she gently pushes the olive-green door the rest of the way open. If it is Soren, she doesn’t want to prolong their reunion any longer, and the white car outside gives her a sneaking suspicion it might be.
Deborah’s met with the annoying squeak she thought she’d become accustomed to. Now it sounds like a brand-new irritation.
“Hello?” She tiptoes into the house.
Her eyes play catch-up, taking a moment to adjust to the dimness from the contrast of outside. A wheezing sound from the living room brings Deborah face to face with the heap on the sofa.
Stunned, Deborah peers at the straggler sawing logs under her roof.
Slowly, she approaches the form tangled up in her mother’s cherished blanket, their back to Deborah.
There’s no mistaking the freckled skin and blonde hair, and Deborah hovers over her. Pushing aside the strap of her tank top, Deborah’s fingers trace the skin, where a small tattoo of a monarch butterfly rests.
The phone slips out of her other hand as if dipped in Vaseline, and Deborah barely catches it before it hits the woman’s chest.
CHAPTER 21
Sibley
Even when I hear a loud gasp, I’m rattled but not fully awake.
The squawking continues, and in my slumber, I assume it’s a hummingbird outside on the feeder.
“Oh my God, it is you!” The voice resonates from above me. “You came home!”
Bemused, I open my eyes, expecting to see my comforter from home draped around me and not a crocheted heirloom blanket.
Disarmed, I’m face to face with big brown eyes and a heart-shaped face that matches mine. The only other trait we share besides our face shape is our fair skin. I used to think I shared similarities with Jonathan, but my mother blew that out of the water.
Her eyes go wide when they see me, squinting as if I’m a mirage.
As she moves her hand to her heart, her skin turns an even whiter shade. “Is that really you?”
We peer at each other. My mother’s hair is now shoulder length, chestnut colored, and tinged with gray. My sudden presence has caused a reaction of sorts. I’m still trying to decipher what kind.
I shift awkwardly on the couch, ready to bolt in case it’s not a positive one. We didn’t necessarily have the fairest of goodbyes.
“As I live and breathe.” Her hand reaches out to touch my cheek. “I thought I’d have to die before I saw you again.”
I try not to flinch at her touch or her morbid comment.
“You feel hot, and look at you, using a blanket in this heat!” She scoffs. “You came from sunshine; you should be used to it.”
Her gaunt appearance is worrisome, skin sagging down to the bones. She looks a lot older than her fifty-plus years, her wrinkles more pronounced in the sunlight.
She tilts her head, as if her eyesight is faulty and she can’t rely on what’s in front of her.
“I don’t like surprises, but this is . . . wow!” She settles back against the edge of the couch, tears welling
up in her eyes. “I just don’t believe it. Pinch me, please!”
Dumbfounded, I wish I could feign excitement, but the bitterness soaks my lips like the residue of something pungent.
Uncomfortably, I tighten my hold on the blanket, feeling naked as her eyes examine every square inch of me.
Moving to a seated position, I cross my arms over my chest.
I feel feverish, and my skin’s flushed from alcohol, sunshine, or trepidation. Maybe all three. My throat is parched, and breaking the torturous eye contact, I ask if I can have something to drink.
“Of course,” she says, but she doesn’t stand, so I heave myself up. It feels good to stretch my sore limbs. I follow her into the kitchen, where the unpleasant smell again forces me to pinch my nose. “You get an indoor cat?”
“No, but Esmeralda’s about to give birth in the barn.”
“Why does the house smell like an outhouse?”
“Hmm . . .” She sniffs the air. “I didn’t notice.”
If she doesn’t detect the noxious odor, she must be used to living in these putrid conditions, which is an unsettling thought.
“You want any breakfast?” My mother shuffles over to the refrigerator, and I notice she’s limping on her left side. I’m about to ask what happened when I stop to gawk at the fridge’s contents. Usually, it’s overflowing with more food than a family, let alone one person, could eat. Now, nothing is inside save for a carton of milk, a pitcher of water, and a few expired-looking yogurts, as if someone has cleaned it out.
“Why aren’t you eating?” I ask casually.
“I am.”
“Then why does it look like the end of a pandemic?”
“If I keep the fridge stocked, all I do is eat.”
I’m confused. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”
“When you get to my age, you’ll see how your body rebels and the calories go straight to your waistline.”
“Believe me, I already know,” I groan. “But why’s everything removed from the cabinets? I can’t say I like what you’ve done with the place.”
“I’ve had some run-ins with mice. It took me a minute to find the little devils.”
“When was this?”
“Week or so ago. My favorite kitty, Esmeralda, and her chums were happy to help.”
Rolling my eyes at her fondness for nomadic cats, I offer to help reorganize her cupboards.
Before she can respond, the phone rings in my mother’s hand, alarming us both. She doesn’t answer, instead setting it on the counter. With the kitchen a mess, I have no choice but to search for the least inhabited chair and scoot aside some old magazines and newspapers, dog eared and worn.
A muffled voice interrupts the quiet, and I assume it’s a radio announcer until the voice repeatedly shrieks her name. My mother gives a guilty look at her phone.
“Crap,” she murmurs. “I must have hit answer instead of decline.”
“Who is it?”
“Give me a second.” She holds up a finger, picking her phone up from the counter.
I swallow a sip of my water as my mother chatters into her phone. Tilting my head, I recognize the familiar voice. From her one-sided conversation, realization dawns on me. “Shit, did you call the police on me?”
She doesn’t respond, but I see the local police department contact on her phone. Horrified, I clap a hand to my mouth. The rock. Her window. Breaking and entering.
Dammit. This staying under the radar isn’t working out for me. How does an unexpected road trip turn into two run-ins with the police?
Ignoring me, she says, “I wasn’t wrong. She’s here; can you believe it?” I watch her grin into the phone. “Yep, all the way from Florida.”
Now it’s my turn to be confused. Florida? Did she forget I live in the desert?
I pout. She wouldn’t forget what state I live in had she bothered to write a letter back to me or return a call.
I jump up, grabbing the phone out of her hand midsentence. “Hi, Chief, this is Sibley. Sorry to give both of you a scare. I surprised her out of the blue.”
My mother gapes at me like I’m speaking a foreign language.
I cradle the phone, mouthing, What’s wrong?
The voice on the other end falters a greeting. “Ah, hi, Sibley. How are you, stranger?”
“Good,” I say. “Great.” I don’t bother to add that while being home for less than two hours, I’ve learned my mother’s a fraud and my dead father isn’t my real one.
“It’s pleasant to hear your voice.” He sounds relieved. “Your mother scared the living daylights out of me when she called 911 and the station received an alert from her security system. Not to mention a woman named Nora said she was almost run off the road by a woman speeding like a bat out of hell. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
In my stupor, I didn’t consider Deborah might have alarms on the doors and windows. I’m relieved he doesn’t mention the broken window or my drunken shape entering the small space. Again, I lie to the authorities. “I used the spare to get inside, Chief. Didn’t mean to spook her. In fact, I already ran into Miles Fletcher.” I smirk. “He gave me a warm reception when he pulled me over.”
“Then it definitely wouldn’t have been you speeding.” I can hear his deep belly laugh through the phone. I forgot how much I missed the police chief’s discernible guffaw. “I’ll bet Officer Fletcher gave you an earful.”
“Oh, he did. Said he’s vying for your job.”
“I’m sure he did. Problem is, I doubt I’ll ever get to quit the force.” He grunts. “Well, I order you to enjoy your time with your mama. How long are you in town?”
“I don’t know,” I stammer. “A couple of weeks, maybe?”
“Sounds good.” I hear the background noise of the station, and he speaks louder over the din. “Please stop in and see me before you leave. We sure do miss you around here.”
My face feels heated. I know he’s not referencing when my squad in high school went TPing and included the police station in our harmless prank. It was good fun until someone got a bright idea to use spray paint on one of the vehicles in the lot.
When I’m about to hang up, the police chief stops me. “And Sibley?”
“Yes, sir?” I gulp.
“Don’t know if you knew, but they built a men’s prison outside of town, and we’ve had a string of unfortunate incidents. It’s important to be conscientious.”
“I heard an announcement on the radio!” Here comes another fib. “And it might be an odd coincidence, but I did notice a broken window in my mother’s room.”
“What?” my mother and the chief both gasp, one through the phone, one poised over my shoulder.
“In the master bath.” My voice vacillates. “Please tell me you’ve now caught them.”
The chief urges me to hand back the phone to my mother.
“This can’t be happening . . .” My mother starts to shake like a leaf. She disappears out of the kitchen with the phone, and I hear her mumbled cries as she exits the room.
Ashamed at my behavior, I wait until I hear a shriek from her bathroom before I take tentative steps toward her bedroom. She’s seated on the edge of the bed, and even though she’s no longer speaking to the chief of police, the phone convulses in her trembling grip.
“I know you don’t like surprises,” I say, attempting a halfhearted apology. “I’m sorry for showing up this way.”
She doesn’t acknowledge this, instead staring at her gnarled hands.
“I got worried when you didn’t answer,” I say lamely. “You haven’t wanted to communicate.”
Her silence is deafening, and suddenly I’m a little girl again, feeling vulnerable and unwanted. Old insecurities rear their ugly heads. It’s time to change tactics before I implode. “Can I help clean up the glass?”
Deborah doesn’t answer, just murmurs, “They stole from me.”
“Who?”
“Whoever broke in.” She sighs. �
��A bunch of my medication is missing.”
“Pills?” I ask innocently. “What kind of pills?”
“This is unbelievable, and after what happened last winter . . .”
“What happened then?” My eyes widen. “Is that why you’re limping?” With a pounding heart, I wonder if this is what Fletch was alluding to.
She rests a hand on her forehead. “A man tried to . . . he didn’t try; he . . .” Stammering, she covers her mouth with her hand.
“What?”
“He attacked me outside.” She nods toward the porch. “Out there. Dragged me to the barn and clubbed me with a gun.”
“How could you not call me?” I’m appalled. “This is serious, Mother.”
She tilts her head to consider me. “Would that have changed anything?”
“I would have come to the hospital.”
“Really? We both know you haven’t been back since . . .” She hesitates. “Since you graduated your senior year after the unfortunate accidents.”
If one could call them that. I shudder. “I wonder if my dad would agree to that sentiment.” She doesn’t pick up on the insinuation about my father, who, in a flash, has been erased as my biological one.
Her eyes cut to my core, piercing deep inside of me. We both know nothing would’ve brought me back here unless it was her funeral. An uncomfortable moment passes between us.
I shift from foot to foot. “From the looks of the place, I got worried you had moved or were robbed.”
“The man didn’t take anything.” Motioning around the room, she sighs. “And move where? I’ve got so much work to do here as it is. Besides, who would want my stuff?”
This time I bite my lip to keep from making a sarcastic comment. She’s right about one thing—her furnishings aren’t high on a robber’s wish list.
Why anyone would choose this place to target is beyond me. Everything is mostly old, not even in the antique sense. The grandfather clock is certainly priceless, but it would take grunt work to lift and carry out the door. The clutter makes it hard to ascertain valuable from invaluable. The junk has been amassed just as eagerly as the more essential items. Most of the things are sentimental to my mother, meant for memories, not for resale.
The Imposter Page 17