The Imposter

by Marin Montgomery

  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 is, Holden. She’s someone else.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, Deborah. She’s acting completely out of character.”

  “No,” she says impatiently. “I don’t think you understand. The woman who showed up here isn’t Sibley; she’s just pretending to be her. Her name is Soren.” Deborah exhales a breath. “Soren came back after all this time.”

  “Soren?” Holden scrunches his nose. “Who’s Soren?”

  “Sibley’s sister.”

  Holden’s eyebrows shoot up in confusion. “Sibley has a sister?”

  “Had.”

  Alarm registers on Holden’s face.

  “Hand me the tissues, will you?” Deborah points at a box on the counter next to him. Fisting a bunch in her hand, Deborah coughs a few times, her voice husky. “She had a baby sister. A twin, as a matter of fact.”

  “Whoa!” Holden twists the mug in his hand. “I had no idea.”

  Thinking back to that afternoon, Deborah sobs into the tissue. “They were born seven minutes apart, and Soren supposedly only lived for a little over twenty-four hours before the doctor told me she was gone. Then, about six months ago, I started getting letters from a woman who claimed to be Soren. She said she lived in Florida but wanted to get to know me.”

  “What made you think Soren was still alive if she died as an infant?”

  “Jonathan, my husband,” she says simply. “I figured he had someone kidnap her or sold her to a baby snatcher.”

  Midsip, Holden spits out his tea. “Are you serious?”

  “I wouldn’t have put it past Jonathan’s twisted mind to sell off one of our babies, pretending she was dead.”

  “That’s . . . wow.” Holden looks baffled. “That’s insane.”

  “I wish I could say it was far fetched, but people would walk into hospitals and take babies, especially back then. When I got the recent letters, I figured this was the case.” She stammers, “And the woman mentioned facts no one else knew. She sent letters from a PO box in Florida. I wondered if it was a hoax, but again, she knew so many tiny details.”

  “Did she ever send you anything to confirm her identity?” Holden asks. “With the internet and Photoshop, you can fake so much these days.”

  “Yes. She sent a recent picture, and though I haven’t seen her in thirty-four years, there was one identifying mark distinguishing the two twins at childbirth.”

  Holden tilts his head with curiosity. “What was it?”

  “The nurse called it a congenital mole, and it was on Sibley’s back, her left shoulder.” She drops her head in her hands. “The woman in my house doesn’t have a birthmark on her left shoulder.”

  “Oh, that?” Holden’s jaw drops. “Sib had it removed, Mrs. Sawyer. Shortly after I met her. Then she got the tattoo of her butterfly. I’m not a fan of tattoos, but it had personal significance for her.”

  Deborah is astounded at this news, and she lets her hands drift with uncertainty to her neck.

  “It’s more than that,” she insists. “I’ve noticed my pills have gone missing. I’ve counted them, and they aren’t all there. I used to keep them in my medicine cabinet, but they keep disappearing. It took me a moment to catch on. First, I excused it as a break-in, but now . . .”

  “Jesus.” Holden runs a hand through his hair. “This is serious. What types of pills?”

  “Strong pain pills and sedatives.”

  “She did get in a car accident before she got here. She might be having some residual pain.” He removes his glasses to rub his eyes.

  “I’ve been trying to convince myself it’s because she’s sick and not because she wants to hurt me.” Deborah sniffs. “I’m worried the combination is making her violent. Holden . . .” Deborah closes her eyes as she says the awful words. “She attacked me. With a kitchen knife.”

  His jaw drops. “Seriously? I’ve never known her to be violent.”

  “She had me pinned on the ground, and I don’t know, it was like I was staring up at the devil.” Deborah shudders. “Her eyes were soulless and black, as if her body had been taken over. I’ve never been so scared in my life, and well . . .” Deborah bites her lip. “I’ve had some pretty terrifying moments.”

  Stunned, Holden looks ready to burst into tears. “What happened?”

  “I had to talk to her. In a soothing voice, I tried to calm her down until she released me.”

  “Did you get hurt?”

  �
�Just scratches.” Deborah shows him her arm. “But nothing serious, thank God.”

  Holden shakes his head in amazement. “This is unbelievable. I’m . . . I’m in shock.”

  Deborah toys with the used tea bag next to Holden’s empty mug. “She has a lot to work through right now.”

  Holden taps his fingers on the table. “I need to go find her.”

  “I’m sorry these are the circumstances we had to meet under.” Deborah plays with her cross pendant. “But you got to finally meet your mother-in-law.”

  “Yes.” Holden nods.

  “And now it’s too late.”

  “Why would it be too late?”

  “Because she’s never coming back.”

  “Why do you say that?” Holden frowns. “Is she . . . do you think she’s going to hurt herself?”

  Deborah’s eyes widen, then start to droop.

  “You look tired. I better continue my search and let you sleep. Do you mind if I use the restroom before I go?”

  “Not at all,” she murmurs, pointing in the direction of the bathroom. “It’s that way.”

  Holden disappears, and when he returns, he hurriedly collects his damp jacket. “Thanks for the hospitality, Mrs. Sawyer,” he says politely. “And for the tea. I’m going to take a drive and see if I can locate Sib.”

  “But I told you, she’s gone,” Deborah says sullenly. “And what about the rain?”

  “The rain’s not a biggie.” Holden shrugs. “I can handle the weather. I just hope something hasn’t happened to her. By the way”—Holden slips his jacket back on—“what kind of vehicle is she driving?”

  “It’s an old Toyota, white.”

  His jaw tenses. “You mean the white one outside that looks like it’s seen better days?”

  Deborah grips the table as she rises. She’s unclear what he means. Why would her car be outside if she’s left?

  Confused, she stares at him like he’s mad. “It’s not here.”

  Holden flicks on the light switch he probably assumes will be a porch light, 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.”

&
nbsp; “What exactly are we trying for anymore?” I asked miserably. “It’s clear I’m not a priority. Why bother with another year of this?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Forget it.” I shook my head. “Never mind.”

  “Why won’t you tell me what you did last night?”

  “Does it matter?” I groaned. “You were busy doing your own thing.”

  Holden’s stare didn’t waver, his fingers tapping on the open window. “Still waiting.”

  “Tanner and I grabbed drinks.”

  The lie was effortless, and at the moment, I didn’t feel bad. It seemed, I don’t know, minimal. Avoidance of a fight, maybe, when I was the wronged one. My husband had forgotten about me on my important day. I didn’t want this to become about my choice of plans instead of his failure as my husband.

  “Hmm . . . that’s not what he said.” Disappointment was etched in the worry lines of his forehead.

  My face flushed. “Then whatever he said I did, I did.”

  “Why would you lie to me?” His blue eyes pierced mine with sadness. “Is that where we’re at now? The ‘lying and blame game’ stage?” He leaned closer to sniff my neck. “You smell like cologne.”

  “I do not.”

  “You wore that dress yesterday.”

  I looked down. “So what?”

  “What do you mean, so what?” He punched the door. “You didn’t come home last night. You smell like another man. You haven’t changed out of your clothes.” He peered at the gym bag lying on the seat next to me. “I hope it was a fun sleepover,” he huffed.

  “If you don’t believe me, check the cameras,” I snipped.

  But I was a drunk, and I hadn’t gone in the front or garage door, where the cameras were. I forgot I’d left my house keys in my car.

  And I didn’t have an excuse for why I hadn’t gone through the garage entrance, because there was a keypad. Instead, I’d climbed through our unlocked window in the laundry room.

  As an attorney, I understand reasonable doubt.

  And Holden didn’t believe I was truthful.

  It didn’t help he snooped through my phone and found a text from Nico checking to see if I’d gotten home okay.