With the earsplitting cacophony signaling me to stop, a bottomless pit of apprehension gnaws in my stomach. The day-old coffee I threw back like a shot of tequila sends a warning signal to my intestines. Sour tummy is what my father used to call it when I was a child.
Not only are my nerves shot, but my eyes dart anxiously to the rearview mirror. I didn’t expect to glimpse the bumper of a squad car, especially on this open and desolate road.
I grew up out here in rural America, and even though there’s an endless supply of soybean and hog-confinement lots, the opposite is true of uniforms and crime. The occasional break-in or bar fight is at the top of the news hour and shared via the gossip chain of the phone or your closest neighbor. It’s unimportant to those outside the parameters of small-town life who have kidnapping and murders to contend with, not that we’re completely immune to those.
If the policeman has run my temporary plates, I’m in trouble. Driving on a suspended license in a vehicle with a title I haven’t switched over is frowned upon.
I’ll be in big trouble.
With white knuckles, I take my foot off the accelerator and put it on the brake, slowing so I can pull off onto the gravel side. I turn on my hazard lights out of habit, not a necessity since there are more people in the city I live in now than in this entire state. Cattle outnumber residents here.
Sucking in a deep breath, I wait for what’s next, running through illogical options in my mind. If I speed off, it’ll result in a chase, negative publicity, and an imminent arrest.
So as I stare at my fair skin and freckles in the mirror, the lingering cruiser crawls to a stop behind me. When the dust settles, I make out the slightly balding head of a man staring down at something in his hand.
His phone, I assume.
Hopefully, his wife or his captain texted him, and he’s in a rush to leave. Maybe he’ll peel off toward the scene of something more exciting than a wannabe drifter. Aren’t the prison escapees a more pressing concern at the moment?
A fingernail goes to my mouth in nervous anticipation.
He’s about six feet tall and stocky, and his bulging biceps are glued in place by an even tighter uniform. His purposeful stride and swinging arms remind me of someone I used to know, but his eyes are protected in the sweltering June heat by his sunglasses.
Quickly, I move my hands back to the steering wheel so they’re clearly in the officer’s line of sight.
My window’s down by the time he appears to my left, yet I’m reluctant to lower my own shades to unveil my apparent signs of distress. I prefer to struggle with my fragility internally. I want to seem amenable when, in reality, a considerable weight hangs over my head. They say eyes are the windows to the soul, and fortunately, my swollen, tearstained ones are shielded.
The cop pauses for a moment, examining my worn tires, the dented hood that looks like someone took a hammer to it, and the peeling window tint.
His stare lingers on my now-reddened cheeks.
“Good morning, ma’am.” He rests a hand on his hip, presumably wanting to appear casual, as if we’re two people who’ve stopped to chat for a friendly conversation, not a traffic violation.
“Morning, sir,” I sputter.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?”
Should I try for contrition or humor?
Sarcasm and a timid smile win. I fix him with my best grin, albeit a tired one. “I’m guessing I lost track of the speed limit due to the fact I’m really into the new T-Swift record.”
He chuckles, and instantly, I recognize who the voice belongs to. Without being able to see his eyes, I peer into the face of my former friend Miles Fletcher. His family grew up in a neighboring town less than ten miles from mine, and because of the size, most kids were bussed into one central high school.
We were platonic except for an awkward kiss at a barn party one night after drinking a brand of off-label vodka that caused residual pain and the threat of puking long after we’d imbibed. You know, the type that tastes like gasoline as it cauterizes your throat and burns down your esophagus to churn uneasily in your stomach. It’s cheap and easy to score or steal and sold in liter bottles that cost substantially less than other brands; you pay for it with the repulsiveness of the substance you can barely swallow.
Miles Fletcher has aged since I last saw him at the end of our senior year of high school. I can tell he’s rocking a farmer’s tan by the sallow skin sticking out from his shirt sleeve that draws a sharp contrast to the rest of his arm. It reminds me of my father’s uneven tans from his time in the fields.
“License and registration, please.” He says it politely, but I catch a steely undertone.
I fumble for my purse on the passenger seat.
“This a new ride?”
“Oh, you mean because of the temporary plates.” I smirk. “Yes. It beats putting miles on my lease.”
His eyebrows rise sky high, and I get the impression he’s flabbergasted at who would willingly purchase this junker, bald tires and all.
A girl on the run, that’s who.
I pull out the flimsy plastic of my license, biding my time. How could I be so stupid and careless, allowing myself to speed across the rolling prairie? I drove over miles and miles of pavement, surrounded by tall cornstalks and blue skies, without exceeding the limit.
I motion to my plugged-in phone. “Let me pull up my insurance information for you.” I don’t bother to add that my current policy is for a black Tesla I wrecked. Or that I no longer possess a valid license or the accompanying insurance.
“You don’t have a paper copy?” As if reading my mind, he says dubiously, “Doubt you’ll get reception out here.” He points to a pothole straight ahead. “You have to cross that before it works.”
“I’m sorry, Officer.” I shake my head. “I don’t.”
“Let me guess—you’re saving the environment by not printing it out, just like those damn paper straws that dissolve before I can drink a sip of my pop.” The sneer I give him makes him add, “And yes, lady, I have been out west before.”
My lip quivers, and I try for a woman in distress. “Do you by any chance have a tire pressure gauge?”
“You don’t have one, with tires this shoddy?” He scratches his chin. “I hope you didn’t pay much for this clunker.”
“It’s a Toyota. They run forever.” I cross my arms defensively. “Plus, I couldn’t afford much.” Desperately, I add, “And certainly not a ticket.”
“You should’ve thought of that before speeding like a bat out of hell, uh . . . Mrs. Bradford. Seventy-nine in a fifty-five!” He slaps my license against his palm. “Are you moving here or just passing through?”
“Visiting,” is all I give him.
“Tell you what. I’ll bring a gauge back when I’m done writing you a ticket. You’re going too fast to get off with just a warning.”
I decide now’s not the right time to joke about a rumor in high school about how he couldn’t satisfy his girlfriend and she cheated on him with the quarterback.
Again he scans my license before his eyes drift to my ring finger.
“Sibley, eh?” He taps a finger at the smiling picture of me from three years ago, when hitting my thirties seemed like I’d hit my stride. If only I’d known what was in store for me. “I knew a girl. . .”
Except my last name is no longer Sawyer, and I’m no longer the girl he used to know.
I take a cursory glance at myself in the mirror. How have I aged compared to my classmates, to the general population? I’ve always thought I’ve done well, or at least faked it, able to afford some of the pricier creams and skin procedures to keep a youthful glow that lets me pass for my late twenties.
I decide to test him.
“Fletch?”
“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t notice his nickname, or if he does, he pays it no mind, laser focused on every detail of my out-of-state license.
And just like the thought of discount vodka, it makes my stomach seethe like
I’m back in high school, a red plastic Solo cup pressed to my lips, drinking the vile liquid named after our state. It seems to be the only way to generate brand loyalty for liquor that tastes like an oil field.
His phone buzzes in his pocket, and impatient, he says, “We can skip the insurance. Just need that registration, and I can get you on your way.”
“Fletch,” I plead. I hadn’t planned on announcing I was back home, but it looks like I have no choice.
“What?” he says automatically.
“Why’re you such a dumb shit?”
With a swipe, his sunglasses land on top of his head. Narrowed slits regard me with disdain. “What did you just call me?”
I lower my glasses, and our eyes meet. Flicking my index finger and thumb against the license in his hand, I bellow, “Miles Andrew Fletcher, since when did you stop answering to your self-appointed nickname?”
His head instantly bows, a knee-jerk reaction to his mother screaming his full name whenever he was in trouble, which was often. My parents did the same with me.
I grin when his face lights up with recognition. A whistle escapes through the pucker of his mouth. “Wait! Sibby Sawyer?” His eyes drift again to my bare ring finger.
“Duh. How many Sibleys do you know?”
“None but you, thank the Lord.”
“I see you’ve taken the town slogan to heart.” I roll my eyes. “You always this slow on the uptake?”
“Well, we lost the only fast pony we had.” His green eyes dance as he chuckles. My face must give something away because he’s quick to point out, “I meant your wild streak. It’s sorely missed around these parts.”
“Oh, I know what you mean, Fletch,” I tease. “I grew up beating you at every game we played. Even girls’ softball.”
“And broke every heart in the process.”
“’Cept yours.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Sibby.”
Sibby. My nickname rolls off his tongue just as quickly as it did back then. It’s surreal to hear it after all these years.
“And last I knew, you were some kind of fancy doctor now.” He pretends to try to remember my occupation. “What do you call it, a juris doctor?”
“That silly title? It’s just a fancy piece of paper I hang in my office.”
If I still had an office, I don’t bother to mention.
My face burns at the memory of being escorted off the premises of my employer, a potted plant in hand, my navy suede Jimmy Choos clomping down the back staircase so I didn’t have to take the elevator and risk the curiosity of more inquisitive eyes.
I focus on the holster that contains Fletch’s gun and the handcuffs dangling from his waist while he examines my bare finger again.
It’s coming.
“I thought you got married.”
“I did.”
He doesn’t mention the noticeably absent jewelry but prods, “Everything okay?”
I don’t bother to tell him I’m supposed to be at a rehabilitation clinic, and wearing jewelry isn’t allowed. Or that I left my diamond engagement band and matching ring on my husband’s dresser at his behest.
“We’re taking a break.” It’s somewhat of a truth, somewhat of a lie. “Trial separation.” I’m embarrassed at the thought Fletch is going to mention the plethora of crumpled, mascara-streaked napkins I’ve soaked from crying at the breakdown of my marriage and the silent rejection from my own mother.
“Marriage is hard,” he says, commiserating. Without thinking, he blurts out, “I hope you picked a better guy than your father.”
Both of our faces redden.
Ouch.
Refusing to engage with this subject, I stare at the absence of a band on his finger. “You were smart not to bother.”
“Who said I didn’t?”
“Miles Fletcher, who was the unlucky girl?”
“You know her. You guys used to be tight. Before the drama started.”
That’s one way to put it, I guess.
I unhinge my jaw, knowing exactly who he’s talking about. I try not to throw up in my mouth at the thought of my archnemesis. Kristin used to be what is now called a “frenemy,” and we had our spats, whether it be over boys or other friends. A drama seeker, she loved being the center of attention at all costs, no matter who got hurt. I learned this the hard way.
When Kristin and Fletch started dating our senior year, I figured they deserved each other. It was after an unforgettable Halloween party, when Kristin spread a vicious rumor without regard for anyone involved. And after she dumped her boyfriend, Josh, for the umpteenth time, she and Fletch decided to give it a go. I never paid attention to see if their relationship fizzled or made it down the altar.
“Kristin and I were married for twelve years,” he says proudly.
He would marry her, especially since she did everything in her power to destroy my family. Stop making it about you, I warn myself.
“You made it longer than most.”
“Would’ve made it longer, but she, um, she, uh . . .”
I can’t help myself. “Cheated?”
“Of course not.” Crestfallen, he takes a deep breath. “How could you even ask that, with what . . .”
Shit. Foot, enter mouth. I’m royally screwing up my chances of getting out of here without a ticket, not to mention without a beautiful garnish of silver cuffs that can’t be ordered from the Home Shopping Network.
“I’m sorry.” I sigh. “It’s been a long drive, and I’m not thinking clearly. I’m in desperate need of sleep.” Sniffing my armpit jokingly, I confess, “And a shower.”
I stare into the same wounded-animal eyes he gave me the afternoon of our earth-shattering fight, one that caused a close friendship of ten years to end promptly and, at the time, felt like an amputation of a necessary limb.
I extend an olive branch in the form of a small smile. “What happened with Kristin?”
“She died. I became a widower, not by choice.”
I’d rather puke than say this, but I force it out. It’s not like I haven’t embellished or lied through my teeth for the majority of my career. “That’s awful, Fletch. I’m really sorry to hear it.” I touch his hand for a fleeting second. “I wish I would’ve known. Even with all our differences, that’s not fair. And so young.” I whisper, “Life is so unfair sometimes, isn’t it?”
A rush of anger colors his cheeks. “It certainly is.”
“I’m really sorry.” I chew my lip. “I know you’ve had a tough go of it over the years.”
“How would you know?” he rebukes. “You up and left. We could’ve leaned on each other.”
Once again, I’m not taking the bait. I mustn’t run my mouth right now. I might win the argument, but I’ll lose the war. I’m thinking about how much more Fletch could do, like arrest me and haul me off to jail. I’ve already done a piss-poor job of blending in.
I need to keep him talking so he doesn’t mention my plates again. If not, I’ll be the headline by tomorrow morning, and if you think people don’t read their newspapers in these parts, you’re wrong. I can hear my mother now, worried about being the town gossip again.
“How’s the farm?” His dad uses six acres of land to grow Christmas trees of different pine variations, including Scotch, white, and red tree species. We used to go there as a family tradition for the choose-and-harvest method, where we would cut down our own, in early December.
“Dad’s still chugging away at the tree business.”
“Seriously?” I screech. “I figured he’d have handed that off to one of you boys by now.”
“He says he’ll try for next year, but he always has to have multiple irons in the fire.”
“Is Bryce taking over, or are you quitting the force?” His brother is two years older than him, and both are in constant competition to be the favorite child. The sour expression on his face tells me that hasn’t changed.
“He’ll have to, since I’m about to get a promotion.” He shrugs like it’s n
o big deal, but his posture straightens in an attempt to puff out his chest. “The police chief’s finally retiring next year.”
“Congratulations!” I joke. “I’ll send you both a bottle of room-temperature vodka.”
“Hmm . . .” He taps a finger against his chin. “I don’t trust your brand preferences. I’d sooner siphon gas from the tank than drink that poison.”
With another glance at my driver’s license, he motions to the squad car. “Let me go run this, get the tire gauge, and I’ll be back.”
“You know, you’re only prolonging my arrival,” I say. “My mother’s going to be all over your ass for keeping me.”
“I should be over hers. Deborah never told me you were coming for a visit.” He shakes his head sadly.
I’m aloof. “It’s a bit of a . . . surprise.”
“Surprise?” He fixes me with a stern look. He knows my mother hates surprises. Then he softens his gaze. “Though truth be told, I’m glad to see you. You must’ve come home because you heard the news.”
“What news?” I pop my sunglasses back over my eyes to conceal my bewilderment. “Did something happen?”
Narrowing his eyes at me, Fletch asks when we last communicated.
I shrug. “I wrote her a few letters, and I didn’t hear back . . .” My voice trails off. “Was this recently?”
He shifts his weight onto his other leg. “I think you’ll see that the farm doesn’t look quite the same.”
“What do you mean?”
He scratches a mosquito bite on his arm. “She’s having a hard time.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“She called into the station a couple weeks ago.”
“About what?” My stomach drops. “Is she okay?”
“I took the call.” He motions in the opposite direction. “Deborah almost crashed into the ditch a couple miles from the farm.”
“Was she avoiding a deer or coon?”
“No. She thought she saw an animal, though.” He adds, “She was pretty shaken up. Said she’d been having trouble with her eyesight.”
“Hmm . . .” I offer, “Maybe she just needs an appointment with her optometrist. I’ll ask her. Speaking of poor judgment, I bet she wishes she could have avoided seeing you.” I whistle. “If I remember correctly, you hit the Eisenburgs’ award-winning heifer and our mailbox.”
The Imposter Page 13
