The Imposter

by Marin Montgomery

  “I have some news about the twins. One of the girls . . .” Jonathan’s voice trails off. “We lost her.”

  Deborah hears the word lost, and she clenches her fist, the one not tethered to Jonathan’s hand. It’s as if he’s talking about something inanimate, like a missing sneaker or his car keys. A newborn baby that just entered the world does not belong in the same category as a misplaced object.

  She hears herself speak but doesn’t remember forming the words. “How did you lose her?” Her voice sounds calm while her hands tremble. You could almost believe she was asking about breastfeeding etiquette or a preferred diaper brand.

  Now, a loud crash in the other room abruptly interrupts Deborah’s tearful flashback, and she quickly slams the baby book shut. Surprised Sibley’s home already and worried she’s going to barge in at any moment and discover her crying, Deborah wipes a sleeve across her cheek, drying her eyes.

  Deborah’s never dared to tell Sibley she had a twin sister.

  After shoving the baby book underneath her bed, Deborah struggles to stand upright, using the flimsy ironing board to help her to her feet. Instead, it topples over and takes her down with it. Yelping, she sits on the floor in frustrated silence at her clumsiness until the sound of the television echoes from the living room.

  CHAPTER 35

  Deborah

  The smell of fresh wood clippings and tobacco drifts to her nostrils, and at first, she wonders if Sibley found a box of Jonathan’s things that unleashed the powerful, manly spice.

  About to ask, she stops dead in her tracks.

  A hand automatically crosses her heart in disbelief.

  Sibley’s not in sight, but a man is. This one is different from before.

  He’s seated in Jonathan’s old recliner in the living room, wearing a plaid shirt and jeans, his unruly salt-and-pepper hair sticking out in tufts, as if he got electrocuted by a light socket.

  Worse, he dares to smoke a pipe in the house without permission, one leg draped casually over his other knee, as if he belongs in her home, in his chair.

  A scream dies in Deborah’s throat.

  Did he climb in through the broken window? Impossible. She’s been in her room all day. But he could’ve sneaked in and hid. She hadn’t noticed the plastic tarp moved, though.

  She doesn’t want to draw attention to herself. Even if she makes a fuss, she doubts Sibley will hear her in time to make it back to the house.

  Deborah can’t fathom why a man would make himself at home in front of the television in a stranger’s house. Surely this isn’t what these crooks are doing when they ransack homes: settling in to watch old reruns of black-and-white movies. Though not much would surprise her anymore.

  Maybe the man’s ploy is to make himself a guest in people’s homes so they let their guard down. To her, he looks like an older gentleman in a commercial selling car insurance, harmless and neighborly. The kind who waves when you drive by or brings you a thoughtful gift on holidays. This could be how he’s skirted any type of suspicion; he’s just so normal looking.

  Before her presence is noticed, Deborah moves a couple steps back, keeping her body turned toward the room and him. This way, if he stands, she’ll see him coming. She can make it to the kitchen and the front door without going through the living room.

  That is, if she doesn’t make a peep. In the hallway, she removes her tennis shoes to keep the sound down, since her socks will make less noise on the old hardwood floors and linoleum.

  Once she reaches the kitchen, the divided entryway is visible to the living room, so she’ll have to risk being seen for a few steps.

  Taking a deep breath, she’s about to make a run for it when a shrill buzzing drowns the television’s sound.

  Startled, she almost has a heart attack until she realizes it’s the phone ringing.

  Fear grips her body in its clutch, and for a moment she stands deathly quiet, waiting for a sign.

  Deborah wonders if the intruder will answer or yank the phone out of the wall. Holding her breath, lungs filled to maximum capacity, she scurries past, refusing to look in the direction of the man seated in the living room.

  After closing the door softly so it doesn’t slam, she staggers down the steps.

  CHAPTER 36

  Sibley

  When I pull into the drive, I almost crash into the garage in fright as a figure unexpectedly darts out from behind the structure.

  It’s Deborah, and her face is peaked, like she just saw a ghost. Her whole body’s trembling, even in the eighty-degree heat.

  Swallowing the lump in my throat, I edge the vehicle off the drive, trampling the weeds and shrubs that have popped up as I park next to the garage. I’m more confused when she runs through the brush barefoot toward my car.

  As I cut the engine, she yanks on the passenger-door handle and throws herself into the seat before the door’s even shut.

  I’m deathly afraid of snakes, and at first, I think she spotted one in the garage, taking cover in the dimly lit and dusty area. Imagining one slithering over my foot, I involuntarily shudder.

  Her hand grips my elbow and shakes my arm. It appears I’m supposed to be clued into how she’s feeling.

  Examining her striped socks, I ask, “Where are your shoes?”

  “I took them off so I could tiptoe.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s . . . there’s . . .” She launches into a stream of unintelligible words.

  “Oh my God.” I signal her to stop talking. “Where’s the snake?”

  “What snake?” Breathless, she shakes her head. “No, no, no. There’s a man”—she lowers her voice to a whisper—“in the house.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Floored, I shriek, “A strange man is in the house?”

  Initially, I think she’s messing with me, and I wait for her to crack a smile. Instead, she cowers in fear.

  Distraught, I yelp, “Is it the man that hurt you?”

  “No,” she says tersely. “This one is older. Older than me.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “He’s wearing regular clothes, no mask. I was going through my closet, and when I walked out, there he was.” She groans. “He’s sitting in your daddy’s old recliner, watching TV.” She throws her hands in the air. “Can you believe it? Television!”

  “So you don’t think it’s related to one of the robberies your neighbors had?”

  “I don’t know.” My mother’s twisting her cross pendant tight enough I’m worried she’s about to choke herself. “He wasn’t searching around or anything. Just sitting. I can’t imagine I’d have anything they would want.”

  “It’s not the pastor or the man you’re dating?” I ask. “Does he have a key?”

  “No. But the door wasn’t locked.” She looks apprehensively toward the house. “We should call someone or the police. Maybe get Miles over here. That’ll be faster.”

  “What about your security camera?” I ask. “I’m sure there will be a recording of him entering the house.” Another thought strikes me. “Could he be lost?” I wonder. “Maybe have dementia and have wandered away from a nursing home?”

  “I don’t know.” She dejectedly sighs. “I guess I never thought of that.”

  “I’ll take care of it, Mother. We can try safety in numbers,” I say. “Go inside and ask if he needs help.”

  “Maybe we should call someone first.”

  “And leave him inside?” I demur. “No. Not a chance. He might be spooked if he’s lost.”

  “I don’t want you going inside. I have no idea if he’s armed.”

  “Where’s Daddy’s rifle?”

  “It’s missing. My attacker took it,” she whispers. “It never showed up.”

  “Wait—that’s the rifle they hit you with, that old Winchester?” My jaw drops. “I took a gun down to the station that I thought might’ve been used in your attack.”

  Her face turns ashen. “Wh
ere did you find it?”

  “In the barn.”

  “You weren’t at the pond?”

  “No.” Bewildered, I gawk at her. “Why would I have gone to the pond? I said I was in the barn.”

  She asks me to describe it, and her face blanches at my description. She’s acting like I committed a heinous felony, and I’m disturbed at her reaction, but this isn’t the time or place to discuss.

  “Can we talk about this another time?” I insist. “We have enough to focus on right now.”

  Handing her my cell, I instruct her to call the emergency number as a backup. I’ve already made up my mind it’s an elderly gentleman who needs assistance, but I want to alleviate her fears. It can take first responders or police a while to get to the farm, and I don’t want to wait that long.

  “I’m going to check it out.”

  She doesn’t look happy about this, but she dutifully follows me out of the car.

  In the daylight, the deterioration of the farmhouse is magnified. The missing chunks of siding and peeling paint can’t hide in the smooth brushstrokes of sunlight.

  But now that she’s selling, the point is moot.

  I start walking, and she follows in my footsteps, like one of her outside cats anticipating mealtime. So close that when I abruptly stop, she lurches straight into me.

  Turning to face her, I say, “I don’t want you to come in behind me. If this isn’t a lost senior citizen, I need you to be prepared to go for help. I left the keys in the ignition. Also, in case I’m wrong,” I add, “I don’t want him to see you if you haven’t already been spotted. If he thinks there’s only one of us, it might help our chances.”

  Nodding her head in acknowledgment, she still doesn’t make any move to fall back.

  Pretending I’m fearless when my insides are mush, or maybe I’m more careless when tipsy, I’m about to chastise her for not staying back when I trip on one of the porch stairs and almost nose-dive into the cement.

  She catches my wrist just in time, so I avoid the spill.

  Mouthing a thank-you, I decide the best idea is to walk around the porch and face the trespasser through the picture window. That way, I have a vantage point and a pane of glass between us in case it’s not some sweet, displaced man.

  “I’m going to go around the side,” I whisper.

  “Then you’ll be in his line of vision.”

  “Yeah, but then we can see him through the window. We stand a better chance out here.”

  She loosens her grip on my arm, and I take that as acceptance of my idea.

  At the side of the house, I look over my shoulder at her. “Okay, I’m going to stand in front of the window.” I demonstrate a hand signal. “I’ll warn you like this if you need to run.”

  The sun lights up her somber stare, and I clasp her fingers gently for a second. “Don’t worry; we’re in this together.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Deborah

  Sibley’s words have a soothing effect on her, and she hadn’t realized how much she’s longed to hear her say they’re in this together. It comes too late. Deborah needed to hear her say it years ago, when the squad cars and ambulance swarmed their property and carried out the tortured body of Jonathan while she sat on the stoop and cried. They were crocodile tears, but tears nonetheless. Deborah was cried out from when Edward had died a few weeks before Jonathan.

  Sibley didn’t come down from her room for days after Jonathan’s death, leaving Deborah painfully aware she was on her own. Of course, Sibley didn’t know the impact of Edward’s death or what he’d meant to her, and she has regrets about that.

  With one last fleeting glance in Deborah’s direction, Sibley heaves forward, placing herself directly in front of the window and the unknown man.

  Observing Sibley’s face, Deborah’s on high alert, waiting for a sign from her on what to do next. She hopes her daughter is right, that he’s not a violent criminal, merely a confused, misplaced elder. It’s not like Deborah doesn’t know what that’s like.

  Deborah’s hands are squeezed tightly together, anticipating the worst. When Sibley angles her head in Deborah’s direction, Deborah’s confused at her initial reaction.

  Her mouth has dropped open in surprise. “Mother, he’s not here.”

  “He’s not in the chair?”

  “No. No one’s in the living room!”

  “That means he went to another room in the house.” She covers her face with her hand. “Maybe he went to use the bathroom.”

  “But you said the television was on.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s off.”

  “So”—Deborah shrugs—“he must’ve turned it off.”

  “Let me get this straight. A man was sitting in the recliner watching television?” Sibley peers again into the window. “And he bothered to shut the TV off and go to the bathroom?”

  Deborah says lamely, “I suppose so.”

  Rolling her eyes, Sibley says, “I’m going to go inside.”

  “Sibley, I’m still not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “We can’t stay out here all day. It’s hot out here.” She wipes a hand across her brow. “And you’ve got my cell.”

  Deborah watches as Sibley steps around her and leads the way inside. Both of them take reluctant steps over the threshold into the kitchen. Paralyzed with fear, Deborah stands in the corner of the kitchen while Sibley clunkily moves through the downstairs rooms.

  On second thought, Deborah doesn’t want to be alone in case the man appears, so she scrambles after her. Sibley’s in the bathroom, checking to see if the tarp over the small window displays any signs of tampering.

  Terrified the man is going to leap out of her closet at them, Deborah flings the door wide open. With a horrified scream, she jumps as she’s hit in the face by a hanger holding an article of clothing. But it’s not just any item—it’s the dress.

  The dress.

  Tarnished and bloody, it sways like a lifeless body hanging by a noose.

  Deborah’s hand covers her mouth as she gives a strangled gasp.

  Sibley stands stock still, her eyes narrowed at the offending item. Gulping, she motions. “Looks like we found your dress.”

  Deborah’s fingers roughly grasp the front of Sibley’s shirt. “What the hell do you think this is?” Deborah commands herself to calm down, but it’s useless, her pulse racing like an engine. “This isn’t a game.”

  Sibley’s eyes narrow. “You think I put it here?”

  “Oh yes, you did! How does it just appear in my closet?”

  Sibley untangles herself from her mother’s clutch. “I have no idea why you think I’d have this dress. Let’s think about this calmly, Mother.”

  Her patience isn’t soothing but irritating to Deborah. “Don’t you dare tell me to calm down!” Deborah cries. “Where the hell did you get this? It was supposed to have burned a long time ago. Did you take it with you when you left?”

  Sibley protests angrily, “You told me it was in the pantry, yet it never materialized there.”

  “Then explain to me how it appears out of nowhere in my closet?”

  “Are you kidding me right now?” Sibley glares at her indignantly. “You told me there was a stranger in the house!”

  “There was! I’ve never seen him before!” Deborah spits out. “And I originally found the dress in your room.”

  “I have no clue what you’re talking about.” Sibley raises her hands and takes a step backward. “But what would you like me to do with it?”

  “Nothing,” she snaps. “Just get out of my room.”

  With an exasperated sigh, Sibley slams the bedroom door behind her, and Deborah fumbles to lock it.

  After making sure her closet isn’t hiding any live skeletons, Deborah closes the closet door with a bang.

  She goes into her bathroom and opens the medicine cabinet to uncap a new bottle of pain pills. She takes a few more than the usual dosage, but anyone in her position would understand. Lingering
on the toilet seat, she stares at the trembling bottle in her hand. Deborah wonders what it would be like to take all of them—if they would intoxicate her system immediately or slowly eat her intestines up. Would the pain intensify, or would it all go away as she drifted off to sleep?

  CHAPTER 38

  Sibley

  Frightened by my mother’s outburst, I need to defuse the situation, but she wants me out of her sight. From the other side of the door, I inform her I’m going to check the upstairs. If she hears me, she doesn’t respond.

  When I come back down, I gently tap and try the handle. I’m surprised to find it’s locked. “Coast is clear. No one is here.”

  “Did you check the closets?”

  “Yes.”

  “Under the beds?”

  “Even the bathtub.”

  Deborah’s response is a ragged sigh. “I’m going to lie down.”

  Frustrated that my mother’s response to any problem is to lock herself in her room, I pace the faded pattern on the floor, feeling trapped and isolated.

  I need a drink.

  Just one.

  Or maybe two.

  I grab some vodka from the fridge, disguised as water, since I know how my mother feels about alcohol.

  If I’m honest, we both retreat in our own ways—my mother to her bed, me to the bottle.

  After the weird turn of events, I feel like a caged animal; an anxiety attack threatens to cripple me. Unable to breathe, I heave open the screen door and gulp the fresh oxygen outside. Even with the faint smell of manure and grass, if someone asked me what scents I identified with clean air, this would be my answer. As I walk outside, I don’t have a destination in mind; I just want to feel the sun and forget the image of the bloody dress and my mother’s mask of terror.

  The liquid burns so good down my throat. Promising myself I’ll only take a few sips, I savor each swallow, ignoring how fast the vodka disappears into my stomach.

  I don’t know if it’s the heat or the brisk pace of my drinking, but a dizzy spell hits me as suddenly as a slap across the face. Before I know it, I’m at the entrance to our root cellar.