The Imposter

by Marin Montgomery

  “They have yoga, which I read can help with detox,” Adrienne mentions. She’s a certified yoga instructor and is a massive proponent of reiki and meditation.

  I barely nod.

  “Are you even paying attention?”

  “Not really.”

  “Nerves?” She taps her fingers on the gearshift. “Okay, I got you. You’re afraid, so let’s break it down.”

  “It’s more than that,” I admit. “I’m worried about my job.”

  “You mean because you’re taking time off to come here? Sib.” She sighs. “You can’t focus on that. Your recovery is the most important thing right now.”

  “I know, but I’m also worried about one of my cases.” Adrienne waits for me to elaborate. “I have a client that’s getting a divorce, and I just found out the client’s wife was at the home of one of my colleagues.”

  “Okay, but what’s the big deal?” She broods. “You think the wife wants representation from your firm?”

  “Something we like to call ethics. Both my client and his wife would have to sign off to have two attorneys from the same firm representing them in their divorce.”

  “Since when did attorneys start having scruples?” she teases. “And did your colleague tell you the wife came to them personally?”

  “We only do when it benefits us.” I elbow her in the ribs. “Except in this case, it’s Tanner.”

  “Isn’t he one of your closest work friends?”

  “I thought so.”

  “And you didn’t know they knew each other?”

  “Nope,” I grumble, wishing I had something to dull the battering ram in my head.

  “But how does it affect you?” Adrienne asks gently. “I mean, this sounds like soap opera drama, but why would Tanner be out to get you?”

  “Because in my absence, another attorney will take over my cases for me.”

  “Babe, I love you, but I’m not following this train. What does your out-of-control ass have to do with Tanner and your client’s wife?”

  “If she and Tanner are hooking up and my client’s reassigned to him . . .”

  “Then his vested interest is in the wife of your client, which makes you a liability?”

  “I’d say collateral damage.” I shudder. “If Tanner’s successful, he’ll represent my client and be privy to all his financial records and bungle his case big-time, but in a way that isn’t obvious. I can be the ‘fall girl’ for the case.”

  “How would that work out?”

  “I have my suspicions.” I tear at a fingernail. “But it will be hard to prove when he’s not easily accessible to me.”

  “Then someone better keep an eye on dear, sweet Tanner,” Adrienne says excitedly. “What about your paralegal? That Leslie chick? Can she watch your back while you’re gone?”

  “Possibly.” I lean my head back against the seat. “Except I’m not sure where she falls into this.”

  “You think she’s doing you dirty?”

  “No. But I don’t know what lies Tanner’s feeding her or what promises he’s made.”

  Adrienne pats my knee. “I don’t want to minimize your frustration and hurt with these people, but this is better than all the courtroom nonsense I see on TV.”

  I give her a wink. “I’m glad I could provide you entertainment, dear friend.”

  We become tenser and less talkative the farther out of town we drive, as the reality sets in this isn’t a girls’ trip to somewhere fun but a severe departure from our everyday lives. The rest of the drive we chat about everything but where we’re headed, and too quickly, we’ve reached our destination, which isn’t where I’m supposed to be.

  “Are you really sure about this?” Adrienne asks one last time as we pull up the long, winding driveway. Instead of being at a resort-like rehabilitation facility, we’re on the outskirts of the desert, about two hours outside the city.

  “I am.” I ask to borrow her phone. “I’m going to call Holden since we’re about halfway to the facility. I’ll tell him we stopped for gas.”

  Holden picks up on the second ring, concern in his voice. “Everything okay?”

  “Uh-huh,” I say. “Google Maps estimates we’re about a hundred and twenty miles away. We stopped for gas, so I wanted to call you since reception’s getting spotty.”

  “That’s not a surprise. You’re heading up into the mountains. I always lose my signal not far from there.”

  “I’ll check in when I can.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Sib.” I can tell he’s struggling with finding the right words. “Just focus on your recovery, okay?”

  “I will.”

  “Be safe.” He adds, “And put Adrienne on the phone, please.”

  As I hand Adrienne back her phone, the screen feels damp against my fingers. Confused, I realize it’s from the tears sliding down my cheek. I hear Holden ask her to call him once she’s dropped me off. Adrienne looks at me and squeezes my arm after hanging up. “It’s going to be fine.”

  “I’m risking a lot.” I bite my trembling lip. “Holden’s never going to forgive me for this.”

  “And you’re never going to forgive yourself if you don’t make amends back at home.” She tugs on a strand of my hair. “You know I would never agree to cover for you if I didn’t think it was important.” She stares at the house up ahead. “I’m going to tell myself the end goal is to help save your marriage and your health. Now, here’s your replacement phone. Don’t get excited,” she warns. “It’s basic as fuck.”

  “Wow. You aren’t joking.” The one time I lost my phone, it was a wake-up call, since I realized I hadn’t bothered to memorize anyone’s number but Holden’s.

  This time, I only program in a couple of contacts, bypassing Tanner’s with an angry sigh. I’m supposed to be off the grid, so I don’t need many.

  Grinning, I see Adrienne saved me the trouble of adding her contact info. She’s saved as Wingwoman. She’s definitely my partner in crime; her status is at a whole new level with our covert operation.

  “Thank you,” I whisper. “I’m lucky to have you as a friend.”

  “Now go, or you’re gonna make me cry.” After Adrienne helps unload my suitcase, she gives me a tight hug. “Let me know when you’re safe.” Pointing to a duffel bag, she nods at it. “I packed what you asked me to in here.”

  I open the zipper, and there’s an envelope filled with cash, a refurbished laptop, a map, and a few other requests I made.

  She also hands me another envelope with a money order inside.

  “Did you have any problem getting the cash or money order?”

  “No,” she says. “I withdrew it from my account, just in case.”

  “You’re the best.” I wink. “Wingwoman.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Sibley

  I walk toward a small house where an elderly man is waiting near a used car. Barely able to contain my excitement, I’ve never been so thrilled to buy a car, not even when I purchased my Tesla. The man is shocked I don’t want to go on a test drive, but in the interest of time, I do my due diligence and inspect the car, not letting on I know the bare minimum. It’s had a recent oil change, he’s kept impeccable records on any repairs, and even though the outside has seen better days, the interior is clean.

  Adrienne doesn’t drive off yet, ensuring I’m not about to be swindled by this unknown seller from a vehicle marketplace and then get stuck in the middle of nowhere.

  Giving her a thumbs-up, I present the man with a money order. He hands me the keys to my very used and over-a-decade-old white Toyota Corolla, with striped window tint and rock chips that have dented both the windshield and the body of the vehicle.

  But I don’t care. It’s mine, and it’s freedom.

  With one last fleeting smile and a heavy wave, Adrienne leaves me standing in front of my “new” used car.

  Clenching the keys in my hand, I throw my luggage in the back, ready to start my cross-country drive.

  Adrienne was right
the other night. Before I can rehabilitate myself, I have to confront the demons of my past head on, and that starts with my only living blood relative.

  I have to go back to my childhood home, a farm in the middle of the country, square in the center of the state.

  It’s time to confront my mother about my father’s death and what really happened on that night sixteen years ago. The details have startling clarity, even after all this time.

  This will take patience and understanding, since my mother and I have never had what most would consider a typical mother-daughter relationship. But then again, I can’t even say what that is. I grew up as an only child, a tomboy who preferred to be outside, my father’s small shadow.

  Our relationship became strained in high school, when I found out some unsavory details about her, and it only culminated in an estrangement after my father’s death and my move to the desert. It hurt my mother when I left after my high school graduation, but we’d suffered too much tragedy to make it less than a painful goodbye.

  I never looked back as my tires squealed out of the drive so fast gravel sputtered.

  The problem with time, I contemplate, is that it passes, and you tend to get stuck in the minutia, right or wrong.

  I’ve tried to reach out to her, but she’s been unresponsive. She’s never visited, not even to attend my wedding. Previously, her minimal interactions included an occasional phone call or card in the mail, and bizarrely, the greeting wouldn’t match the holiday. As she was unresponsive to emails, I extended multiple offers for her to visit over the years, but the plane tickets went unused.

  Eventually, our communication dried up, and the years became a long gap of estrangement.

  When I reached out recently, nothing but crickets.

  As I start the long haul back to my humble beginnings, the thought of facing her now terrifies me. With so many lingering questions, it makes sense to go back to where it all started, to the environment that shaped me, for better or worse. But I have to be prepared for the possibility that she doesn’t want to see me, especially since I didn’t come home when she was hospitalized for a nervous breakdown after my father died. Though she was stoic for his funeral, she buckled a couple weeks later under the immense strain.

  I feel tense even with twenty-plus hours on the road between us, and I know I need to give her a heads-up. Deborah hates surprises and isn’t the type to appreciate spontaneity or an unplanned visit.

  I keep throwing her curveballs, starting with my conception.

  An uneasy feeling settles in the pit of my stomach as her house phone rings and rings. I assume my mother has more than a house phone now, but I don’t have another number to reach her on.

  How do you not have your own mother’s contact info? I think ashamedly. What if something happens to her?

  But you’ve tried to reach out, my less critical half argues internally.

  On your terms. Always on your terms.

  Disgusted, I grip the wheel. I might be a shitty daughter for leaving, but my mother made her own choices, and I suffered the consequences as a result.

  Lowering the window for some fresh air, I crank up the music as the landscape changes from cavernous mountains and narrow roadways at high elevations to rolling hills and valleys.

  During the long drive, my mind wanders, and I drift aimlessly to a memory from a few weeks ago, the night Nico and I were seated side by side in a booth, our only distractions each other. Did he rest his hand on my thigh?

  Absolutely.

  Did I let him?

  I’m not a saint.

  He made me feel sexy, wanted, vulnerable, tempted—all the emotions that wane after multiple years of marriage.

  I twist my hair around my finger in contemplation. Nico and Holden are complete opposites. While Holden is tall and willowy, with shaggy blond hair and a matching beard, Nico is shorter than six feet and built solidly, with dark hair and mostly a clean-shaven face, except when he lets it grow out a little, presumably because he’s forgotten to shave.

  Holden’s blue eyes are pools of intellectual depth hidden behind spectacles. Nico’s stunning green ones are fringed with dark lashes, and volatile emotions change their colors.

  When I compare the two men, I’d have to say if Holden were my professor, I’d flirt with him, enamored with his ability to have intense and lengthy discussions on a variety of topics. His passion for history is a turn-on, his recitation of facts impressive. He’s the kind of guy your parents hope you bring home one day—steady and reliable.

  Safe, though somewhat predictable.

  Nico, on the other hand, oozes confidence and sex appeal. He’s a fire you’d want to burn your hand on, just once, because of the intensity. His passion sizzles with power and dominance. He’s the epitome of a Tom Ford cologne ad. Spicy and sensual.

  And in our small booth that night, Nico’s hand brushed my hair . . .

  Involuntarily, I mimic him now, my cheeks blushing at the thought of my reaction when his fingers went from my head to my hands.

  Maybe I should’ve, but I didn’t protest when his fingers strangled mine.

  A loud honk startles me out of my reverie, and I glance over at a van carrying a carload of teenagers. Laughing and carefree, they’re speeding toward their destination, and I wonder where that is. I’m somewhat envious; it makes me long for my youth and the limited responsibilities of being a teenager.

  But as an adult, you have limited freedoms as well.

  I drive for about ten hours before I’m forced to pull into a rest stop and crash. When I wake up a few hours later, my neck’s strained from the uncomfortable position in the back seat I was curled up in. Rubbing my tired eyes, I stop for a gas station coffee before continuing on through a rainstorm in New Mexico and a tornado warning in Kansas.

  After taking a quick nap at a truck stop, I need to be caffeinated, and my gaze drifts longingly to the large display of alcohol. I sigh, settling on an energy drink that gives me a rush of adrenaline and a headache.

  With shaking hands and no more resolve, I stop at a big box store to pick up a cooler and some supplies. I tell myself just having it in the car will help with my cravings.

  By the time I reach the welcome sign at the entrance to my hometown, population 1,250, the slogan of We move slowly as molasses in these parts couldn’t seem more appropriate. Especially for someone who has driven on little sleep, slogging toward a bed and a shower.

  Whether an acknowledgment or a humblebrag, it’s evocative of a time that moves listlessly, without the pressures of the big city. Even though sixteen years have passed since I drove out the same way I just came in, the two-lane highway remains unchanged.

  I promised Adrienne I would call and update her on my progress. She answers on the first ring, and I can hear the trepidation in her voice. “Did you make it there yet?”

  “Almost.” My yawn interrupts my unfinished thought. “Only a few more miles.” I’m curious to know how everything went after she “dropped me off” at the rehab facility. “How did it go when you got to the clinic?” Adrienne drove all the way there, bless her heart.

  “Fine. I sent Holden a picture of the outside of the building. I even dropped a pin at the facility so he knew I was there.” She gives a nervous giggle. “And I gave them the updated medical records with your recent injuries.”

  I thank her for getting her friend, a doctor, to write a letter to the rehabilitation clinic regarding my car accident and subsequent course of treatment. I’m off the hook, at least for now. The facility thinks I’m recuperating from my injuries and will be joining them after I’m cleared to by my doctor.

  “You’re the best,” I say.

  “And don’t you forget it,” she teases. “What do you think your mother will say when she sees you after all this time?”

  “I’m more worried about what she’ll do.”

  Adrienne starts to ask a question when a news bulletin on the radio interrupts the music.

  CHAPTER 14
/>   Sibley

  “Breaking news: a manhunt is underway this morning for two inmates who escaped from the local prison around eleven a.m. ‘Deputies have established that the inmates had assistance in escaping from at least one individual on the outside,’ said Thomas Delaney, the director of the medium-security correctional institute. State troopers said that both inmates are believed to be hiding out in the vicinity of the prison. Deputies are canvassing the area. Updates will be provided as they become available.”

  “Holy shit,” I whisper. “When did they build that?”

  “What’s wrong?” Adrienne’s voice echoes, cutting in and out. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. There’s just such crappy reception out here,” I say. “But I made it.”

  “Phew. That takes a load off my stress. Glad to hear it. Let me know how it goes with your mom.” Adrienne’s voice lowers. “Just know I want to be here for you.”

  I’m about to thank her when I hear the unmistakable blare of sirens in the distance.

  My lids jolt open, and sneaking a glance in the rearview, I expect the cop car to speed up and maneuver around me, headed for someone or somewhere else on the endless highway, but there’s no sign of life out on this open stretch of the road.

  Peering at my speedometer, I realize I’m driving faster than the limit. Like, way faster.

  Holy shit. I ram my fist on the wheel. You’ve got to be kidding me.

  This Toyota isn’t new enough to have Bluetooth, and a distracted-driving ticket is the last thing I need, along with a citation for speeding. The police car slows from behind, which means I’m the culprit.

  So much for not drawing unnecessary attention to myself.

  It would be my luck that less than two miles from the farmhouse I grew up in, I might be put in handcuffs before my mother knows I’ve arrived, unannounced, of course.

  I wonder how far back the cruiser spotted me. Was it lurking in one of the overgrown fields, or has it been following my progress, and I never noticed, even though the scenery is flat and predictable?