His hairy arm lazily hangs out the window, and she notices a snake tattoo wrapped around his bicep.
Anxious about walking her cart to the stall since it means passing him, she shifts from foot to foot, hesitating. It’s not illegal for people to sit at the grocery store, she berates herself. Or look out the window.
Walking as briskly as she can with a limp, she passes him, noticing the red bandana wrapped around his scalp. She wonders if he has a shaved head or is going bald underneath the faded fabric, or maybe another tattoo is stretched over his skull.
She shoots him a dirty look, just in case, just so he doesn’t get any ideas.
His voice carries out of his open window, but Deborah doesn’t bother to stop, sure he’s hollering at someone else in the lot. Maybe his buddy or wife is in the store shopping for groceries, and he’s their ride.
As she darts her eyes toward him, he yells something, but Deborah’s not close enough to hear, nor does she want to backtrack and lessen their distance. Something about him makes her nervous.
A loud honk startles her, and tripping over her clogs, she stumbles on the pavement and goes down hard. The same aggressive driver gives another sharp beep as the woman driving swerves around her.
Sighing, Deborah wipes her hands, dirty and indented from the pebbled ground, on her pants. By now, her cart has drifted into the center of the lot. Deborah mutters something unsavory, forgetting about the man suspiciously watching her for a second.
It’s not for long, since a powerful thud draws her attention from her skinned knee to over her shoulder.
His burly figure has exited his truck, and his vast body barrels toward her. If he wasn’t a wrestler in his formative years, she’d be surprised.
When she landed on the ground, her purse spilled some of the contents and loose change, and breath mints are rolling on the cement, glinting in the sunlight.
The runaway cart has now settled against a parked car.
“Ma’am?” The mustached stranger squats down to Deborah’s eye level.
Clenching her hands, she whispers, “What do you want?”
He reaches a hand down for the strap of her handbag and swoops it up. “Just helping you with this.”
“Not today, you aren’t.” Deborah screams, frantically waving her hands at a couple walking by, “Help! Someone, please help me!”
The thirtysomething man runs over to her side, concern etched on his face. “Is there a problem?” His female companion has already yanked out her phone, ready to place an emergency call if needed.
“This man”—Deborah points at the apelike man—“tried to mug me.”
“What in the hell?” The mustache jumps up. “That’s not true.”
Confusion is on all three faces as each one peers at the others. The female bystander stares at all of them in morbid curiosity.
“You have my purse.” Deborah motions to his hands.
He’s taken aback, because indeed, he’s grasping her purse; the beefy man knows what this looks like to the couple. They exchange a smirk as his jaw hangs in bewildered silence. “I was just doing you a favor, trying to help you.”
“Would you please hand her back her purse,” the hero asks politely.
“This is a misunderstanding, is all,” the man blathers. “She fell. I was only offering her some assistance.”
Deborah shifts impatiently, waiting until he hands, no, shoves the handbag into her arms.
“Looks like you lost a few things.” The woman motions to the ground. “Let me get that.” The young lady leans over and picks up the mints and change, returning them to Deborah.
“Thank you.” Deborah smiles at the couple. “I appreciate your help.”
Avoiding the pointed stare of the incredulous stranger, she spins around and hurries toward her car. She can feel his eyes drilling into her back as she puts distance between them, but she doesn’t dare glance over her shoulder to confirm this suspicion.
With a slam of the car door, she fumbles with the lock. Careful to check her mirrors to make sure he’s not in pursuit of her, she guns the engine too fast, and the vehicle shoots forward like a rocket.
Deborah’s eyes dart back and forth between her side mirror and the windshield as she exits the parking lot, her mind a disorganized mess, more chaotic with each passing mile. Focused on what’s behind her in the rearview mirror, she isn’t paying attention to the road and the bulky object bolting across the center strip. Swerving too late to avoid what she suspects is wildlife, she braces for impact. Her body jerks forward as she stomps on the brakes, and relieved she wore her seat belt, Deborah waits for the deafening sound of scraping metal and the thud of a carcass.
The car grinds to a screeching halt, the smell of burnt rubber causing her to cough. It takes her a second to realize it’s from the friction and heat of the tread on the road as she ground to a stop.
Dazed, she rubs her neck and peers out the window, expecting to see a wounded animal that’s now roadkill. But there’s no lifeless body splattered across the concrete.
She removes her seat belt and shakily steps out of the car, suspecting the animal ran into the fields. When she walks back toward what she assumes is the scene of the crime, there’s no telltale sign of blood or matted fur, only tire marks.
Swallowing hard, Deborah slowly turns in a full circle, carefully considering her surroundings and the absence of wild animals and traffic. A feeling of defeat is tugging at her consciousness.
“I know I saw something,” she mutters.
Even though she’s relieved her vehicle and the suspected animal went unharmed, Deborah is apprehensive as she repositions herself in the driver’s seat, telling herself she’s being paranoid because of the incident at the grocery store. She might not be able to trust others easily, but she can trust herself, right? She knows what she saw, and that’s all that matters. Her hands tremble on the wheel as she drives under the speed limit the rest of the way home, her eyes wildly squinting from side to side at the open road, sure another object is going to lurch across her path.
PART TWO
SIBLEY
CHAPTER 6
Sibley
It’s barely 6:00 a.m. on a Friday, but I’m already frazzled, juggling multiple items in my arms. Wishing I had an extra set of hands that could follow me around and hold a catcher’s mitt underneath my struggling grasp, I sigh.
The struggle is real as I focus on staying upright without spilling my iced coffee or tripping over my own feet.
Unfortunately, my twentysomething paralegal and right-hand woman, Leslie, isn’t due in for another hour.
My rigid grip on the plastic tumbler keeps my drink at arm’s length from my black-and-white pin-striped blouse, lest it dribble down the front and necessitate an outfit change before my first meeting of the day. Believe me when I say this has happened more than once; a change of clothes is now stowed in my office closet.
Some call me clumsy, others headstrong, depending on if they’re my friends or the opposing counsel.
In my other hand, I’m carrying a laptop case and a half-zipped gym bag, having just finished a workout in our office’s downstairs exercise facility. One tennis shoe rests on the carpet while I shove my foot into a stiletto heel.
I wince as my poor pinkie toe swipes the uncomfortable edge of the navy suede, another blister earned from taking the stairs up to the sixteenth floor instead of using the elevator. I’m a glutton for punishment, I guess, or maybe it’s an accurate reflection of my life, the constant maneuvering and balancing act I have to do to keep up a well-heeled and well-manicured facade as the only female divorce attorney in my office.
I fumble with the lock on my door, and using my weight, I jam my side into the wood, creating a broad enough passage to let the bulk of my body and bags in.
The refillable cup starts to tip, and muttering a curse word, I hurriedly cross the office to set it upright on my solid glass desk, just in time.
Then, after shoving a coaster that re
sembles a brass-plated white agate underneath the Colombian roast, I settle into my plush leather chair to finish the task of changing out of my other shoe. I don’t think a stiletto on the right and a running shoe on the left would be a convincing fashion statement, but maybe I can defer to Yeezy on that.
After gently tugging my hair out from the ponytail holder, I shake out my strawberry-blonde locks and use my hands and some dry shampoo to add body, my day-old blowout still holding its end of the bargain.
At least something is. I smirk, thinking about my marriage.
Holden and I have been together since our early twenties, and a decade later, we’ve hit a rough patch.
A few months ago, he got tenure at his university, and I was ecstatic for him. He’d been working toward this for years, and it was the career trajectory he wanted.
Me, not so much, and my stance is admittedly selfish.
I was used to his career taking a back seat to mine. It was the argument I always had in my back pocket. Being the breadwinner, I could toss that in the ring when it came to chores or as justification for how I spent our money, my needs always at the top. And now that the tables have turned, I’ve become the resentful and nagging wife. After his promotion, the little time we have together has been sucked up not only by teaching but by his research and mixers, and our relationship is no longer a priority.
Worse yet, Holden no longer seems to need or want my opinion or validation.
I draw in a depressed breath, staring at the three-foot swordlike plant sitting on the ledge underneath the window. Called a snake plant, it adds coziness to my midcentury office, the furniture and decor reminiscent of an era gone by but not forgotten. I’m not a fan of the scaly reptiles, but the snake plant was a gift from a client.
I gulp, not sure client is the right word.
I touch a finger to my lips.
Friend, maybe.
Ever since that night a couple weeks ago, my husband might beg to differ on this point.
So we skidded from one rough patch into another onerous stretch.
Outside, a shrill blare from city traffic interrupts my thoughts. I’m about to glance out the window when a buzzing in my purse distracts me.
I ransack the contents of my catchall handbag and dig my phone out on the last ring.
“Speak of the devil,” I mutter.
Before I can say hello, my husband says coldly, “We need to talk.” I’m startled at his tone. He adds, “It’s urgent.”
I hastily reach forward for my coffee, instead catching the cup with my elbow. It topples over, the dark liquid pooling over the transparent glass, its movement swift as it spreads over the length of my desk.
“Shit,” I murmur.
“So,” the voice accuses, “you know what it’s about?”
“No,” I sigh. “I just spilled my coffee.”
Frantically, I open the frosted-glass desk drawers in search of a leftover napkin. My hands shake as I fumble with a couple of airplane bottles of vodka, both empty. They roll around in the drawer, loose and free, rattling underneath a pile of papers.
I rummage around for anything I can use to wipe the desk off, then push them aside, unable to find anything useful.
Glancing at my watch, I ask, “When do you want to talk? Tonight work?”
“How about now?”
My eyes home in on a tissue box on the middle table that separates the two chairs across from my desk.
Jackpot.
“Give me a minute,” I offer. “Let me check my calendar.”
I tap the mute button and set the phone down before rushing to clean up the mess I’ve made. The liquid has taken over the desktop, and I catch droplets about to plunge onto the plush navy carpeting in my office.
An aggravated scowl appears on my face, and I’m annoyed I didn’t ask for tile flooring.
After sopping up what’s left of my morning drink, I toss the tissues in my wastebasket and settle back in my chair.
“Sibley?” Annoyance penetrates the silence. “You there?”
Taking the phone off mute, I respond, “Uh-huh. I can spare a few minutes now. My next meeting’s in a half hour.”
“You do that,” he hisses. “I’m glad you can spare some billable hours. If we need more time, should I make an appointment with Leslie?”
“Whoa!” I snap. “What’s wrong?”
“You clearly know.”
“Obviously, I don’t.” I reach for a pen cap to chew on, something to refocus my mind as the usual craving hits. I need to focus on this conversation when what I really want is a drink. I lick my lips, thinking about the bottle stashed in my closet, underneath my change of clothes and a raincoat for the few days a year a monsoon or thunderstorm unleashes a torrent of rain.
I’m better than this, I tell myself, but it doesn’t ease the longing.
Exasperated, he asks, “Do you have something to tell me?”
“You know I don’t like these games.” I chomp down hard on the plastic. “I’m trying to be available, but I don’t have much time, so what gives?”
“Fine, then. I’ll cut to the chase.” Holden lets a pregnant pause linger. His flair for the dramatic is giving me an ulcer. “Why am I looking at a dating profile for you?”
This is not what I expected to hear out of his mouth. I thought he was referencing something else entirely.
The stash of empty bottles I’ve hidden all over the house.
Our joint checking account, which I’ve depleted.
I’m baffled. “A dating profile . . . for me?”
“Repeating what I say only buys you time and further implicates your guilt, Sibley.”
“I’m processing the words you just said,” I say. “You’re staring at a dating profile of me?”
“Yes.”
“Care to share it?”
“You wrote it, so you should know. And I quote, ‘Just looking to see what my options are. To be up front and scare you away, I’m still married, still unclear on what I want from this, but easily available if I think we’ll have some fun. Are you still reading? You are, aren’t you?’”
Speechless, I open my mouth and then close it.
“Oh, and then you added a devil emoji. I must say these pictures are very flattering. Going risqué on a public site is ballsy for you, and with your career, it seems a bit over the top, but lately, you have been reckless.”
Even with the air-conditioning blasting through the vents, a bead of cold perspiration trickles down my lower back and into the black pencil skirt I’m wearing. The chilliness of my office doesn’t make up for the dread dripping into my waistband.
The phone chimes in my ear, signaling a text. I glance down to see a screenshot of my supposed dating profile.
It’s certainly me; there’s no denying that. My stomach drops three more times as the accompanying pictures come through.
The first is my professional headshot. I’m buttoned up in a suit jacket with a camisole underneath, my hair and makeup expertly applied, the smattering of freckles across the bridge of my nose absent. This one is used on the firm’s website and in marketing materials. Hell, it’s on various billboards throughout the valley. I used to take a different route to avoid it on my way to work.
Gaping at the other three photos, I’m confused. These aren’t for public consumption. In one, I’m scantily clad in a bikini, holding a piña colada while relaxing on a white-sand beach. It was taken a little over a year ago in Key West on a much-needed vacation, and if you look closely, Holden’s tan shoulder is next to my freckled one.
The next is a seductive pose, my blonde sex kitten hair big and tangled, a come-hither look in my green eyes. I’m wearing lingerie, a black corset and thong, the result of a night when I had too many glasses of merlot and a pang of deep sadness I couldn’t shake unless it was with an AmEx card. The $700 price tag I could stomach more easily than the empty pit in my gut. The need to feel sexy was worth the high price, except he didn’t appreciate it one bit.
&
nbsp; My jaw clenches at this memory.
In the final pic, I flash a coquettish smile at the camera, one of my hands tucked into the front of my white lace panties, leaving little to the imagination. I’m engaged in an intimate moment touching myself and enjoying it, taunting the photographer.
A flush rapidly spreads down my neck. The last two photos were supposed to be private. He promised me only I’d see them, and I’ve never shown them to anyone. I saved them in the cloud. Could someone have hacked them?
But why?
Because they’re borderline pornographic, I chide myself.
“Are you there?”
“Yes,” I manage to whisper.
“You don’t seem to have much to say.”
Biting my nail, I struggle to think of anything else to add in my defense. I must be a shitty attorney if I can’t make a solid case on my own behalf. “I bought that lingerie a couple of months ago.” I shrug. “You had no interest.”
“Hmm . . .” His voice rasps. “Looks like you showed it to someone.”
“No.” I stare closely at the last picture, at my painted red lips and kitten eyeliner.
His voice rises an octave. The tone is less controlled and hysterical—a perfect match for the unsettled thoughts in my mind. “I don’t believe you.”
I keep my chin up, glad he can’t see it quivering. “We can talk about this tonight.”
“Is there anything to talk about?”
“I didn’t—” I start to say, but just as quickly, I close my mouth.
“First, your birthday, and now online dating? You’re fucking unbelievable.”
Pressing my eyes shut, I try to remember, but it’s all a haze—a loop. I heard about different dating apps from friends who rejoined the dating pool after messy divorces or because they hadn’t met anyone the organic way, whatever that is anymore.
A few nights ago, when I was out, or maybe it was last week, I went to a happy hour with a group of women for networking opportunities. We all work in different industries, and usually, there is an eclectic mix. It’s once a month, and it’s great because there are always new people who join.
The Imposter Page 6
