“In that case, I better take my medicine.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she adds, “And now I’ll have to tell my doctor I’m missing some drugs.”
I touch her bony shoulder gently. “Want me to go get them?”
“No, I’ll get ’em.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what are they for?”
“Oh, the usual things people my age deal with. Arthritis. Creaky neck and back pain. Getting old’s a pain in the ass.” She’s lying. Another fib to add to the ever-growing list.
“You’re barely fifty, Mother! Are you still seeing Doc Marshall?”
“Yes.”
I want to bring up her noticeable limp, but I decide to wait until she’s settled down a bit. She’s acting like a frightened mare right now, jumpy and confused.
After removing my hand, I find a box of unopened crackers and pour us both glasses of water. Out here, the tap water comes from a well, and it’s unpalatable and murky, so we make do with a filtered pitcher from the fridge.
She takes a sip as I maneuver around the kitchen, ladling the stew she’s made into two bowls and setting the silverware and napkins on the table.
“Are you sure you want to get up?”
“Yes, honey, I’m fine.” She slowly rises from the table and disappears from the kitchen.
I hear the bathroom door shut and the medicine cabinet open.
She returns momentarily with a handful of pills and swallows them down.
We settle uneasily into our usual places at the table and start to eat.
The empty chair between us belonged to my daddy, and we’ve never used it since his death, as if it would be sacrilegious. I swear I can taste smoke on my lips from his Marlboro Reds, as if he’s still smoking next to me like when I was a child.
The only sound is the scrape of our spoons against our bowls and the devouring of food. Our silence isn’t companionable, but I wouldn’t go as far as to call it unbearable.
We’re two people who, before today, haven’t spoken a full sentence to each other in years. We’re family, desperate for a connection but unable to find the right words to fuse a conversation.
I can tell by the way she pauses after every spoonful to stare up at the ceiling that she’s preoccupied.
Finally, she peers up at me over her soup spoon.
“Awfully quiet,” she muses. “I figured you’d have a lot to catch me up on in your life.”
“Just enjoying a home-cooked meal.”
“You stop cooking?”
I don’t bother to point out I never started. A Crock-Pot filled with frozen chicken and vegetables is the extent of my capabilities. “I’ve been on the road, so it’s been crap food.”
“You have big circles under your eyes.” She fixes me with a concerned-mother look. “I hope I didn’t wake you up when I was banging pots around in the kitchen.”
“Not at all.” I offer a small smile. “I did wake up with my mouth watering for a home-cooked meal, though.”
“I’m glad you missed something about home.” She eyeballs the oversize sweater hiding my shrinking frame. “Looks like you could stand to gain a few pounds.”
I have a good reason for losing weight with the amount of stress I’m under, but I ignore her comment, asking where the missing salt and pepper are, a staple at the center of the table.
“Next to the stove.”
I spot them knocked over from the near disaster. I want to ask my own burning questions about the farm and her health, yet both subjects seem incredibly delicate. I decide to tread lightly.
“Do you want me to cut the grass and clean up the yard?” I offer. “Or get someone out here to help with the yard work?”
I’m met with a blank expression.
“It’s starting to look like a jungle.” I keep my voice monotone, not wanting to come off as accusatory.
“Is that why I saw a tiger the other night in the yard?”
I’m terrified she’s serious, but I relax when she cracks a small smile. Humoring her, I add, “I wouldn’t be surprised if jungle cats did appear. They’d hide fairly well in the tall grass.” Narrowing my eyes, I get to the crux of the matter. “Is this about money?”
“Money?”
“Are you short on cash? Do you need money for repairs?”
Her spoon clanks in her bowl. “What’re you doing?”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“You haven’t been home in years. Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“Mother . . .”
“Don’t ‘Mother’ me,” she protests. “I haven’t seen you since practically birth.”
“Always a flair for the dramatic.” I pause, letting the soup spoon sink into the bowl and drown in the thick sauce. “Why does it look like you gave up on life, then?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Church. Volunteering.” She shrugs. “The usual.”
“Mother, you were always so proud of the farm.”
“And I still am.” Her voice has an air of finality, signaling an end to the discussion. “But I’m tired and worn out. I told you about the disadvantages of getting old.”
“You’re not that old.” I roll my eyes. “But seriously, do we need to think about selling it?”
Her eyes flash in anger. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Huh?” I wave a hand around the room. “Besides the condition of the property, I’m worried you can’t keep up with the housecleaning inside. You mentioned a rodent problem, but there are piles everywhere.”
“That’s because I want to donate most of it to the church.”
“Really?” I raise an eyebrow. “The church?”
“Yes. I have no need for it.”
“Fine, then. I bet there’re some storage bins or empty boxes around we can use.”
I chew on a couple of saltines, watching her shakily grip the handle of her spoon, the patterned handle bobbing up and down.
Abruptly, she abandons the metal, and I’m positive it’s because of my steady gaze. Giving me a small smile, she asks, “Did you see the old diner’s got a drive-through now?” She dabs her mouth with a napkin.
I’m about to respond when she cocks her head to the side as if listening intently to something only she can hear. Frantically, her eyes dart around the room, as if chasing a mosquito on its flight path.
“What’s wrong?”
She motions with her finger for me to be quiet.
I crane my neck impatiently. “Mother?”
“Shh . . .”
“Are you okay?”
She nods her head, but it’s as if she doesn’t hear me, her body twisting in its chair to face the front door, then the window.
She stands up slowly, and her uneven steps reach the stove. Her hands deftly touch the black knob, checking to make sure the burner is off.
I’m confused; I thought I had moved it to the off position. “Did I forget?”
“Nope. I just wanted to check. You know how OCD I am about leaving the stovetop on.”
I don’t, so I say nothing. When I was growing up, I was the one worried about leaving the curling iron or my hair straightener on, scared I’d accidentally burn down the house.
“Do you want anything while I’m up?”
“No. I’m good.” I study her anxious face and quivering lip. “Did you see something?”
“I thought I heard a noise.” She dismisses it with a wave. “Must’ve been a car driving by on the highway.”
“Probably.” There’s not much noise out here on this stretch of road. It’s mainly used for farm equipment or local traffic. “You have every right to be on edge,” I offer.
“That must be it.” Settling back in her chair, she kneads her hands together. “Does Holden know you made it safely?”
“Yes,” I hurriedly reply before she can ask another question.
“You still haven’t said the purpose of your visit.” Deborah rubs a hand over
her face. “Though it’s clear you want to move me out of here.”
I try to formulate a response, but I’m yanked out of my pensiveness at the earsplitting sound of her chair scraping backward. It happens so fast that I’m confident black marks are stretched across the floor.
Standing up, my mother screams, “Someone’s in the window! Someone’s watching us!”
CHAPTER 24
Deborah
“Who?” Sibley jumps up in response, her eyes darting toward the kitchen window. After crossing the room in a few strides, she peeks out the smudged glass, holding the curtain to the side. Without turning to face Deborah, she murmurs, “Which direction did they go? I don’t see anyone out here.”
Deborah’s face flames red, and she’s suddenly embarrassed, worried her daughter is convinced she’s lost her mind. Strained from her session with Dr. Alacoy and the unexpected visit from Sibley, she lets out a long exhale, trying to slow down her breathing and subdue her rapid heart rate.
“Was it a man or a woman?”
“Looked like the build of a man.” Deborah thinks out loud: “I hope it’s not the man from before.”
“Did you catch how they were dressed?”
Deborah musters a shrug but says nothing, a weary look crossing her face.
“Are there any suspects in the robberies?”
“No.” She sighs. “Another reason Miles Fletcher is useless. Doubt he knows how to dust for fingerprints. I swear he could learn a lot from watching Law and Order. The actors have more experience with a crime scene than that idiot.”
A pout tugs at Sibley’s mouth. “Look, Mother, if it makes you feel better, I doubt someone’s going to try anything when there are clearly people at home and it’s not even dark yet.”
“Then how do you explain what happened in January?” Deborah says, bristling. “One of the coldest days of the year didn’t stop them.”
“At least my car is in the drive,” Sibley muses. “I’d hope a visitor would scare away someone with bad intentions.”
“Doubtful,” Deborah counters. “The Clancy family was tied up and left in their shed in broad daylight.”
Sibley recoils as if she’s been slapped with the serving spoon from earlier. “How about I make us more tea?” she offers gently. “I know you said you liked it at night.” Sibley pulls out chamomile and busies herself with boiling the water.
Without a word, Deborah barrels into the living room, her limp more pronounced as she tries to scurry toward the double picture windows that face the highway.
Sibley asks, “Could it be the delivery guy? Or maybe the mailman?”
“You know the mailman only stops at the end of the drive.”
“What about packages, though? Are you expecting anything?”
“No.” Deborah wrings her hands. “Not until I hear from my lawyer.”
She didn’t mean to let that slip, and glancing over her shoulder, she’s relieved Sibley is removing two mugs from the cupboard. If she heard, she doesn’t say anything.
Gingerly, Deborah tugs aside the faded curtains, careful not to pull them too far away from the glass lest she meet someone’s prying eyes. She intently scans the overrun yard as the sun fades behind the clouds. The burnt orange fades in and out of sight as if playing a game of peekaboo. She’s uncertain whether to be relieved or annoyed when her eyes don’t spot anything out of the ordinary.
In the background, the microwave beeps, signaling the water is ready for their tea.
Sighing loudly, Deborah tucks the blanket from her mother around her shivering frame. When it’s wrapped around her shoulders, an immediate sense of calm envelops her like a hug until the antique grandfather clock startles both women with a boom as it chimes eight o’clock.
A loud thud interrupts the final ding, and at first, Deborah thinks Sibley has dropped and broken her mug, but she’s got one in each hand as she sets them down on the side table.
Sibley’s face registers surprise, and her eyes dart nervously around the living room. They make eye contact as pounding indicates someone’s at the front door.
“At least they knocked.” Sibley tries to act unbothered, but her jaw is tense. “Unlike me.”
“Did you tell any of your old friends to drop by?”
“No. I didn’t.” She suggests, “Maybe it’s just the neighbor.”
“Maybe.” Now Deborah worries Robert has shown up unexpectedly, but if he did, he would have a good reason. Otherwise, he wouldn’t barge in, out of respect for Deborah.
“I’ll see who it is.” Sibley starts to go to the door, but Deborah holds out a hand to stop her.
Ignoring Sibley’s protests, she unlocks the dead bolt. “It’s okay. I’ll answer the door.”
She swings it open with a shaky hand, and her hand flies to her heart.
Standing on the other side of the screen door is Miles Fletcher, with damp hair and no uniform, his mouth in a tight line.
“Miles.” She tilts her head. “You scared the living daylights out of us.”
“Hi, ma’am.” He wrinkles his nose in confusion. “I rang the bell.”
Deborah isn’t a fan of this particular Fletcher. In her mind, he’s a lying crook. Her refusal to address him by any title relevant to his position on the police force doesn’t deter him from addressing her respectfully.
If he catches her hateful stare, he ignores it, choosing to remove his ball cap and wave it in her direction. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“What’re you doing sneaking around on the porch?”
His eyes betray a hint of guilt, and he refuses to meet her penetrating gaze. “Is Sibby here?”
“You could’ve called first to check, but yes.”
“I didn’t think she’d split this fast.” With a tug on his ear, he says, “I wanted to check up on her. Make sure she’s getting settled all right.”
“I assure you, she’s fine, except for the heart palpitations you caused us.”
Sibley appears behind Deborah at the door. “I can speak for myself, Mother.” As she leans against the doorjamb, Sibley’s voice betrays a hint of unease. “Two times in one day. To what do I owe this honor?”
Miles chuckles, but it’s strangled. “The pleasure is not mine, unfortunately.” He shifts his weight to the other leg. “You got a minute to talk?”
Sibley hesitates for a beat, then agrees, “Sure.”
Deborah doesn’t make a move to usher Miles into the house, instead shooing them like she used to when they were teenagers. “Why don’t you kids catch up outside on the porch. It’s such a nice night, and that way you can have some privacy.”
“Fine, Mother.” Sibley rolls her eyes, first at Miles, then at Deborah. “Can I put some shoes on first?”
“Actually, as peaceful as sitting outside sounds, this is a conversation I want to have with both of you ladies.”
“Is it about the string of robberies?” Deborah asks. “Do you have a suspect?”
“I wish.” Miles shakes his head. “But no, this is unrelated.”
Deborah huffs. “If this is official police business, why aren’t you in your uniform?”
“You’re going to be glad I’m not in my uniform.” A hint of irritation laces his tone. “Mind if I come in first? I need a drink.”
“You know I don’t keep alcohol in the house.”
“Water. Just a glass of water,” Miles clarifies.
Both women peer at the sweat dripping down his forehead. Deborah would bet it’s nerves and not the temperature.
Sibley locks eyes with him. “I’ll come outside. No need to stress my mother out.”
“Stop it, Sibley,” Deborah says acerbically. “You act like I’m fragile. If Miles thinks I need to know, then it must be important.”
“Actually . . .” Miles looks forlorn. “It’s about you, Sibby.”
“Exactly,” Sibley pleads. “So there’s no reason to upset my mother.”
Miles angrily stomps over to the counter. Neither wom
an mentions he shouldn’t drink out of the tap. Deborah assumes he should know better by now, so she lets him.
He slams down a glass. “I want to know what happened so—”
“So you can puff up your chest and put your police hat on?” Sibley grumbles.
“So I can try and help,” he finishes. “I want to help you.”
“After all this time, you want to help?” Sibley sounds dubious.
Without waiting for an invitation to sit, Miles slinks into a chair, seemingly aware that both women are eerily fixated on his choice of seating. Apparently supposing he chose right, since neither resists, he settles on the patterned chair cover.
Glancing at her daughter’s flushed face, Deborah says, “What’s going on?”
“I pulled Sibby over this morning on her way to your house. I didn’t run her plates then, but I did this afternoon. It seems our girl doesn’t have a valid license or insurance for that Corolla out there.”
Before Sibley can hide her expression, Deborah watches her jaw drop in horror. Then she regains her composure.
Even though she’s not a fan of Miles, Deborah’s grateful he came to both of them, although it might have been out of spite or to gloat.
A whimper escapes Sibley’s lips. Fists curled into balls, she takes a menacing step toward Miles.
Openmouthed, Deborah and Miles wait for Sibley to take a swing at him or start hollering.
She does neither.
Instead, she crumples into the closest chair.
CHAPTER 25
Sibley
“Fletch,” I shakily demand. “What do you want?”
My question confuses him. “What do I want?”
“You can’t ever leave well enough alone. You clearly wanted to prove a point.”
Defensively, he crosses his arms. “I thought Deborah should know.”
“Oh, really?” I grit my teeth. “Like you care.”
“She deserves to know why you really came home.”
“And what business is it of yours?” I snort.
“When you drive into my town”—he thumps his chest—“I make it my business.”
“Look at you, sounding like a future chief of police.” I roll my eyes. “This is nothing more than a misunderstanding.”
The Imposter Page 19
