The Imposter

by Marin Montgomery

  That was why it was out of character when he erupted in anger at Sibley on the way home when she asked him about getting her own car. They only had one vehicle, Jonathan’s truck, and he refused to let anyone else drive it unless he was riding shotgun.

  Slumped in the back seat, Sibley glumly stared out the window.

  Jonathan went quiet, which usually meant he was irritated, and it typically resulted in anger being directed at her. This riddled Deborah with anxiety. She had grown used to the calm before the storm, and her body anticipated it now.

  Clutching her small purse on her lap, Deborah’s clammy hands left perspiration marks on the fabric as she watched him sneak glances in the rearview mirror at Sibley. His forehead creased as if he was deep in thought, and his dark eyes looked like he was watching a tennis tournament, lobbing stares back and forth.

  Her distress only increased when they got home to the farm. Though Jonathan was a heavy smoker, he had made a solemn oath never to smoke when he was dressed in the suit he reserved for church. When they clambered out of the truck, he pulled his carton out of the console and lit up without bothering to change.

  Their daughter preferred the outdoors and helped Jonathan around the farm and with the animals when they had them. She often imitated him, becoming his miniature shadow. But today, he wanted nothing to do with her, shooing her into the house with Deborah.

  Usually, Deborah would change out of her dress as well, but this afternoon, a premonition filled her with dread.

  By this point in her marriage, their daughter was a buffer between her and Jonathan. She had been hopeful that Jonathan’s mood would mellow as he grew older or with having a child, but it hadn’t helped. Other mothers would have wanted a girlie girl, but Deborah felt freed from his constant scrutiny, since Sibley was a tomboy who preferred to be near her daddy. This gave Deborah time to read and quilt, and even though the household chores never ceased, her husband’s prying eyes left their target for a while, preoccupied with teaching their daughter about the farm.

  With frazzled nerves, Deborah watched through the window as her husband frantically paced outside. Then, needing a distraction, she busied herself at the stove while Sibley helped cut up vegetables.

  As Jonathan stomped toward the house, Deborah told Sibley to go upstairs. Sibley gave her a questioning glance but didn’t argue, as if she could sense the strain.

  Deborah was hit with a cloud of smoke as soon as the squeak of the door signaled Jonathan’s presence.

  Her hand trembled around the spoon, but she didn’t turn around to face him.

  In a conversational tone, he addressed her back. “I heard some interesting news today.”

  Stirring the pot on the burner, Deborah didn’t reply.

  As Jonathan’s footsteps approached her, her natural reaction was to hunch her shoulders. She never needed to make eye contact to tell what kind of a mood he was in. It was obvious from the heaviness of his footfalls.

  This afternoon, they were forceful, a shift from the casual strut this morning. Her husband was a crouched tiger ready to pounce.

  As a preview of his temper, he rewarded her with a jab between her shoulder blades.

  Wincing, she didn’t react.

  “Don’t you wanna know what I found out today?”

  “I don’t have an interest in gossip.” Irritated at these stupid games he liked to play, Deborah was tired of feeling like a helpless rabbit ensnared in a trap while he dangled a carrot in front of her, hoping she’d try to bite back so he could justify his anger.

  “Even if it’s about you?” Jonathan sneered. “And your daughter?”

  The timer on the stove beeped.

  Deborah watched a tear evaporate in the gravy pan.

  “I talked to Cindy,” he said. “You know, Robert’s wife.”

  “Okay.” She shrugged noncommittally.

  “She and I had the nicest little chat.” The way he said “chat” made her insides churn, and she knew far worse was coming. “Apparently, Cindy and I are the last to know.”

  Deborah didn’t respond, which evidently wasn’t the reaction Jonathan wanted, so he slammed his palm against her lower back, causing her to lurch forward.

  Gritting her teeth, she said, “I’m not following.”

  “Is that so?” Jonathan’s body shifted to check that Sibley was out of sight. “Cindy filled me in on secrets you’ve been sharing with her husband. Since the two of you are sleeping together, she said you’ve been telling her husband many things you haven’t bothered to tell me.” He pointed upstairs, hissing under his breath, “Like that girl up there I’ve been raising ain’t really mine.” Yanking Deborah away from the stove, he pushed her into a far corner.

  Gripping her elbow roughly, he ordered her outside to the barn, his words menacing. When she didn’t move, he honored her with a sharp kick to the ankles.

  “Come on, Jonathan, I made a nice meal. We’re about to sit down to—”

  A sudden slap across her cheek caused her to flinch. “Don’t you dare say a word, you filthy whore.”

  She lowered her stinging face, her vision blurring as she stared at the linoleum.

  “Hurry up and get out there.” Jonathan shoved her toward the door. “I’ll tell Sibley to finish the potatoes.”

  Jonathan hollered for Sibley, but she didn’t answer.

  His footsteps hurried up the stairs, and Deborah was terrified, sure he was going to lose his temper on her.

  The vent to Sibley’s room was above the kitchen, and Deborah could hear her murmur something about having headphones on. Jonathan’s tone had fortunately returned to normal, the anger boiling underneath the surface. It was his next statement that made her stomach bubble with acid. “Honey, if we’re not back in fifteen minutes, come out and check on us. I might need help with the cleanup.”

  Fleeing for the barn, Deborah didn’t wait for Sibley’s reply.

  She stumbled outside, half running as she reached the imposing structure. She climbed into the loft, where an old sleeping bag was shoved out of sight on a rafter, and unrolled the fabric. Inside, Deborah had ripped an opening she could use as a secret compartment.

  She reached in to yank out the bulky cell phone, which weighed as much as a brick, since seventeen years ago, they were still in their infancy. Cell phones hadn’t replaced landlines or become a necessity at this point, and it wasn’t like Jonathan would let her have one.

  Fingers quivering, she powered it on, praying it would work. She was still wary of its reliability, as out here, this relatively new technology and lack of cell towers often proved problematic.

  During her earlier drill, Deborah had been instructed to find where she would have the best reception, and unfortunately, it wasn’t the barn.

  Knowing Jonathan would be looking for her at any minute, she sneaked toward the toolshed next to the house. She didn’t want to bring Jonathan’s wrath anywhere near Sibley, since her job was to protect her daughter.

  The first call rang once and then dropped.

  When she spied Jonathan stomping out to the barn on a rampage, she crouched down. His fist was curled around something, but she didn’t know what it was. Unable to control her shaking legs, she watched him with wild, unfocused eyes.

  The cell rang a second time in her trembling hand. Impatiently she whispered, “Pick up, please pick up.”

  Tears of joy streamed down her face when the ringing was replaced by heavy breathing. “I’m ready,” she choked out. Nothing more needed to be said.

  Powering the phone down, she commanded herself, You can do this. He deserves every bit of what’s coming to him. Stay strong, Deborah Lee, stay strong.

  Standing up, she buried the phone in the burn pile, where they got rid of sticks and litter, as it was now a liability to be disposed of.

  She exhaled a ragged breath as she watched it disappear under a pile of garbage. Deborah was starting to turn when, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a shadow’s outline.

  Sible
y stood stock still, peering through the window in her bedroom.

  How much had she seen?

  Deborah went as far as gesturing with her hand for Sibley to get away from the window, but she didn’t move. With only a pane of glass between them, Deborah could no longer spare Sibley the wrath of Jonathan. She didn’t think her daughter knew what he was capable of. If Jonathan found out what Deborah was planning, all bets would be off. She worried she was never going to see her daughter again. When footsteps approached from behind, Deborah locked eyes with her daughter. She screamed for her to run as Jonathan’s sinewy arms reached out to choke her, but Sibley was still standing there, as if comatose.

  As he dragged her toward the barn, Deborah was sure this would be the last image her daughter would have of her, which would be worse than the violent death she knew was coming.

  A loud moan snaps Deborah out of her recollection, and her eyes dart toward the bed. She realizes she’s crying, and the wetness dripping down the collar of her shirt and onto her cross pendant is from tears.

  Hurriedly, she hoists herself back up, using the dresser as leverage. Noticing the coffee mug, Deborah removes it, not wanting to disclose she was in Sibley’s room.

  Bile rises in her throat as she stares at the dress, unsure what to do with the evidence from that night.

  Deborah intends to shove it back into the hiding spot. But she can’t force herself to put it back there. Instead, she crumples the fabric into a ball. This time, she’ll watch it disintegrate on the burn pile until it becomes soot.

  CHAPTER 29

  Sibley

  Carefully, I slide the paper back between the pages of the yearbook as a male voice announces Fletch’s presence.

  He’s not going to leave the barn until he finds me.

  “You hiding in that damn loft?” Fletch says it jokingly, but we both know it was our go-to place as kids when we wanted to hide. Our loft privileges were suspended indefinitely after that birthday party.

  Not to mention the images the loft conjures up now.

  I can tell he’s climbing up into the loft by the rustle of the ladder and the thud of his boots.

  Tilting my head, I wait for the telltale signs he’s above me, his heavy steps crossing the creaky boards. When his stomps are overhead, I replace the yearbook and the snugly wrapped gun in the chest and close the lid.

  I hear him call my name again. “Sibby, you in here?”

  With a small groan, I shove the chest back against the wall. The last thing I need is Fletch poking around the tack room, using his investigative skills to be a pain in the ass.

  Even though we used to be close, I don’t feel comfortable giving him the gun. After years of tension and then silence, I know how strongly he dislikes my family. He might pretend to be a good neighbor and a law-abiding citizen, but his actions from the past are front and center in my mind.

  I reach down to my lower calf, my fingers tracing the small imprint of the scar from my senior year of high school. It was a couple days after the god-awful Halloween party, after Kristin had started the rumors at school, making it impossible for me to walk down the hall without the other kids shaming me about my mother. Fletch confronted me about the allegations that afternoon in the parking lot, and it turned ugly. I was already having a bad enough day, my face red and puffy from crying.

  His beet-red face matched mine, but from anger. After slamming his truck door, he got close to me, his nose practically touching my face. “Why didn’t you tell me you saw them together?”

  “Because I didn’t see them doing anything, you know . . . sexual.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He spat on the ground. “You knew.”

  “Think about it, Fletch,” I begged. “It’s only Kristin’s word.” I said it like it was ridiculous to trust her, but he cut me off.

  “Why on earth would she lie about your mom and my dad?” He fixed me with a cold stare, and it made me long for his puppy dog eyes. “What possible motive could Kristin have to want to spread that kind of a lie?”

  “To hurt me. She’s always starting drama.”

  “But why would she purposefully hurt you?” He rubbed his hand gingerly, and I noticed skin peeling from his knuckle. “You guys were friends.”

  “Because you and I are close.” I cringed. “Whoa! Did you punch something?”

  “Yeah, my father.” He sighed. “We ain’t close no more, Sibley.” The lack of my teasing moniker hurt. “You can thank your whore mom for that.”

  “Why is my mom the one to blame?” I shouted. “Your father probably took advantage of her.”

  “You can’t take advantage of the willing.” He kicked a piece of gravel hard, and it hit me in the leg. I flinched, not because it hurt but because he didn’t apologize. It became a permanent tattoo on my skin.

  “Just because you finally got a girlfriend doesn’t mean you have any right to hurt me,” I cried.

  “You’re just jealous because I have a girlfriend, and it isn’t you!”

  “I can’t believe what a horse’s ass you’re being.” I shook my head disgustedly. “You and Kristin deserve each other.”

  His icy glare penetrated mine, and his next comment made my blood run cold. “I’m gonna have to tell my mom about it.”

  “About what?” I sighed. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “She deserves to know.” He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Hell, maybe she already does.”

  “Fletch,” I pleaded. “This isn’t the right thing to do.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re gonna get a lot of people hurt.”

  “Poor Sibley, always thinking about herself. You’re so damn selfish.”

  “You want to hurt your mama?”

  “No. But she’s a strong woman; she’ll know what to do.”

  “What about my mother?” I beseeched. “What about my daddy?”

  “That’s their business.” He shrugged. “Who knows, maybe your daddy will shoot mine.” With an evil glint in his eye, he winked. “Or hell, maybe I’ll kill both your parents.”

  It was a horrendous thing to say, and now, reflecting back on it, I shudder.

  Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me. Whoever coined that phrase didn’t understand the power of language. His words still haunt me to this day, especially with what transpired after our parking lot fight.

  As I shake my head to rid myself of the memories, Fletch’s voice echoes from above. “Sibby, is that you down there?”

  After exiting the small, closet-like room, I quickly shove the door shut and brush my dusty and sweaty palms on my thighs. “I’m here.” I stand at the foot of the ladder.

  His head pops over the loft. “I thought I’d come to check on you. Had no idea I’d find you in the barn.”

  “I was looking for the pregnant cat,” I offer dumbly.

  “You coming up, or am I coming down?”

  Fletch doesn’t know about my terror of climbing into the loft and being so close to tragedy. It’s pointless to tell him now.

  “Down, because I’m not feeling so great.” I wipe a hand across my sweaty, pained forehead. “It’s like a hundred degrees in here. Feels like a steam room.”

  “You’re from the desert. This heat shouldn’t rattle you.”

  “It’s a dry heat,” I murmur. “This is humid and hot.”

  Slinking down the ladder, Fletch says, “You’re lucky I came out here.”

  “I am?”

  Before he can respond, his eyes latch on to my injured face. “Shit.” He whistles. “What happened to you?”

  I feign ignorance with a shrug.

  “You look like you got in a catfight.”

  “That’s a real possibility out here.”

  “Seriously, are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I tripped over a lamp last night.” Conscious of my bare feet and perspiration, I move toward the outside and sunshine, giving us some distance. “Guess I’m still clumsy.”

 
Fletch passes me a bandana out of his pocket, and I gratefully dab the sweat and tears from my face.

  Checking out my reflection in the side mirror of his jacked-up truck, I can see the welt on my forehead, red and angry. I lightly touch the purplish bruising, which highlights my right eye.

  I flinch. “Did I get in a bar brawl last night trying to protect you?”

  “It certainly looks that way.” He prods, “You need to put some ice on that head of yours.”

  “Speaking of protection, why no police cruiser? Do you usually pounce around like a mischievous cat looking for barn mice on your off time?” I lean against his truck.

  “If you must know”—he drags his toe in the dirt—“I came to make sure you were okay.”

  “You mean babysit,” I moan.

  “We used to be best friends,” he offers. “I’ve never liked to see you upset.”

  “You ruined that.” I push his snot rag back in his hand.

  “Two-way street, honey.” Tucking the red fabric back in his pocket, he says, “And crazy as this sounds, I wanted to check on Deborah.”

  “I’m confused.” I narrow my eyes at him. “You blame her for everything that happened in the past, and now you’re a friendly neighbor? What’s the catch?”

  “She dialed 911 this morning and hung up. I told the officer on duty I’d check on her.”

  “About what?” I’m suddenly fearful.

  “I don’t know.” He cocks his head at me. “When I pulled in, I noticed the barn door was open. Thought I’d check it out first just to be on the safe side.”

  “I’ll go in and check on her.” I shrug. “She probably forgot I was home.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m telling you, you need to talk to her. I think living on the farm is becoming a little much in more ways than one. She’s losing her grip out here. Maybe a change of scenery would do her some good.”