The Imposter

by Marin Montgomery

  I stare down at my dirty feet. I’ll never admit to him I have the same concerns.

  “She’s stopped taking care of the yard,” Fletch continues. “And don’t think I didn’t notice the mess inside the house.”

  “What do you expect?” I snap. “She was attacked. I think she’s scared to be outside by herself.”

  “What about inside?” Fletch asks. “The old Deborah never would’ve let her house become a pigsty.”

  “She had a mice infestation,” I argue. “And she’s . . . she’s redecorating. I’m helping donate a bunch of shit, and we’re cleaning it up.”

  “She calls the police all the time, paranoid someone is watching her.”

  “Obviously, with good reason!” I yelp. “She got the shit beat out of her. Besides,” I add, glaring, “you’ve always thought she was crazy.”

  “And was I wrong?” He stares me down with his green eyes. “We’re all worried . . .”

  “Let me guess, the folks in town?”

  “Yeah, people.” He lets out a frustrated sigh. “I heard through the grapevine she told some people she’s moving to Florida with her boyfriend, yet no one has seen her with anyone.”

  “What business is it to you who she dates?” I retort. “Maybe I’m helping her enter the dating pool!”

  “Nice try, Sibby. This was before you arrived.”

  “Fletch, I appreciate the concern,” I say pointedly. “But in your position, I’d be worried about the rash of home invasions. It’s like you’re deflecting because you don’t have any suspects.”

  Snorting, he seems incredulous. “Oh, is that so?” He rests against the hood of his souped-up truck. “I wasn’t happy when they built that men’s prison a couple miles outside of town, no. But we think the suspect or suspects were seeking money or drug paraphernalia.”

  “And that makes it any less scary?” I argue. “Having someone that’s erratic and high is a relief?” A trickle of cold sweat creeps down the back of my ripped camisole.

  “I’m not saying that, Sibby. Just trying to be straight with you.”

  “Oh, I get it!” I hold up my index finger. “You’re still angry about the past.”

  He crosses his arms defensively, his jaw set.

  “Spreading useless gossip already ruined two families.” I move closer so I can lean into his face. “Sure you wanna do it again?”

  “Dammit, Sibby!” He grasps my shoulders. “Not everything is an attempt to get back at you. Look . . .” He shakes me for a moment, then drops his hands to his sides. “None of that matters anymore. I’m not mad at your recollection, and you shouldn’t be upset at mine.”

  The trembling staccato in my head takes a turn for the worse. I close my eyes for a second, drained and bitter, filled with misdirected hatred toward him.

  “Believe me,” he says, his voice soothing, “I just want to leave that in the past.”

  “Not true. You just want to convince everyone Deborah’s always had a screw loose.”

  “I know what I heard, Sibby.”

  “But I was actually there! I know what I saw!” Sickened by the sliver of doubt piercing through my own deep-seated belief of what I knew at the time, especially since reading the letter, I wonder if I’ve hung on to the ironclad truth of my own convictions for too long. Refusing to think about what Fletch angrily told me back in high school, I suck on my bottom lip.

  All these years, I was convinced Fletch wanted to hurt me because of the damage done to his own family. But how much hatred would you have toward someone who made you get rid of your child? And someone who raised their hand to you?

  My own instincts tell me my mother had justification for wanting Jonathan dead, as well as a legitimate motive.

  I shake my head—and shake the memory loose. “It was an accident,” I say sharply.

  “If that’s what you want to believe, then so be it.”

  “You think I wanted to lose my daddy?”

  His eyes glower. “You think I wanted to lose my mama?”

  “Of course not. I think you relied on someone else’s accusations.” I don’t bother saying Kristin’s name out loud.

  “Mark my words—there was nothing accidental about it. Your mother made sure your father paid the price.” He spits on the ground. “And not that he didn’t deserve it, but she didn’t care about dragging my family through the mud on her quest to break free of Jonathan.”

  Sometimes when you take a step too far, there’s no way to pull yourself back, and you’re forced to fall off the cliff, hoping it won’t lead to your demise. This feels like one of those times.

  “If it wasn’t an accident,” I taunt, “then blood’s on your hands too. You got your own mother killed.”

  “Stop,” he growls in warning. “Don’t you dare, Sibley.”

  We stand in uncomfortable silence, our bodies stiff with tension. He seems to forget my pain isn’t any less real than his. I had to live with a mother constantly scrutinized and under attack, and though some felt sorry for her, many thought she’d gotten what she deserved.

  He’s gawking at me, and I redden at his intense stare. “You know, your freckles get more pronounced when you’re upset,” he says. “I forgot how they seem to spread over your face.”

  My hand moves across the bridge of my nose as I fan my flaming skin. Poking my shoeless foot in the dirt, I fight the urge to jump into my beater and head back west. Maybe I was wrong to think this trip would help assuage my own bottomless pit of grief.

  “Everything okay, Sibby? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

  I put my hand up. “I’m fine. I think I need to go inside and lie down.”

  “You better go inside and take care of that face.”

  I nod, needing to be alone as quickly as possible.

  “Oh, and here’s Deborah’s mail. Thought I’d save her the trip to the mailbox.” Handing me a stack, Fletch fixes me with a solemn salute. His eyeballs penetrate my back as I walk away.

  I want distance between us and our heated conversation, but inside the house is no better, since I’m equally reluctant to confront my mother. I wish I could slink inside without her knowing I’ve been out in the barn. I’m not ready to look her in the eye, talk about what I found, or explain my battered face.

  I’m also not ready to ask the hard questions about my father. Or fathers, in this case.

  Everything I believed is now suddenly false, outdated, or irrelevant. Lies stacked upon more lies, a house of cards about to fall.

  Inside the house, I sink into a chair to sort through the mail. I should put ice on my face, but my inquisitive nature takes over. If I weren’t an attorney, I’d be a private investigator, as I’ve always found researching and digging deep into people a fascinating endeavor. Everybody has a past, and my mother is making me question her innocence the night Jonathan died.

  A freak accident is one thing, murder another.

  Reading Deborah’s mail isn’t exactly on the up and up, but after I’ve sliced the envelope with the mail opener, I can’t believe what I’m reading.

  My shoulders tremble, then my whole body, and I envision myself at the epicenter of an earthquake, a seismic shift beneath me.

  Biting my tongue, I jump out of my chair for an explanation.

  CHAPTER 30

  Deborah

  With the vile dress in hand, Deborah marches outside, planning to take it straight out to the burn pile. She changes her mind when she spots the lifted truck Miles Fletcher drives, but he’s not in sight. He must be out here looking for Sibley, she thinks, groaning. She doesn’t want to tell him Sibley’s inside sleeping, and she silently prays he won’t knock on the door.

  It makes her uncomfortable to have him snooping around the farm. Hopefully, he’s gotten the hint he’s not welcome here. He’s a troublemaker, and he’s the reason for so much of Sibley’s anger. Deborah is clutching the fabric, but she can’t stand the thought of its presence, even for a few minutes. After shoving it in the corner of th
e pantry, Deborah spends an inordinate time at the sink, furiously scrubbing her hands. The mere thought of them touching the dress causes her to vomit.

  Wiping a hand across her mouth, Deborah scurries to her bedroom, light headed and dizzy. After swallowing down a couple of pain pills, Deborah immediately lies down in bed. Even though it’s still morning, she’s tired and drained, never fully rested after a night’s sleep.

  When she’s barely conscious, a loud banging startles Deborah. She’s frozen underneath the covers, then yanks them over her face, cringing beneath them in fear. A high-pitched cry comes from the other side of the wall, and she realizes it’s Sibley.

  “You’re not alone anymore. There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Deborah says softly to soothe her nerves.

  From her hiding spot, she’s shocked when she hears the thud of her bedroom door and Sibley’s angry voice beside her. “What’re you doing, Mother?”

  “Resting,” she says weakly as the covers are snatched off her.

  “Mother!” Sibley shrieks. “What the hell is this?”

  “I can’t see.”

  “Open your eyes.”

  Deborah slowly acquiesces. Sibley’s hand is raised in the air, waving something around like it’s the starting flag at the beginning of a race.

  “I don’t know what you have in your hand, honey.” Deborah lies there listlessly, the shades drawn. “I can’t see it. Hand me my glasses.”

  Sibley quickly presses the spectacles into Deborah’s palm while she struggles to sit up in bed.

  “Will you flip on the light, please?”

  With the room now bathed in a soft glow, Deborah gasps at Sibley’s face. Staring at the harsh bruise and redness, she asks what happened.

  “I don’t recall.” Sibley becomes defensive, crossing her arms across her chest. “But maybe you remember this?” She pushes the unsealed envelope into Deborah’s hand.

  “First, where do you get off opening my mail?”

  “You should be thanking me. You’re entitled to much more than what this letter from the county’s legal counsel is proposing. They’re condemning your land, with the intent of building a roadway for the damn prison.” Sibley wrenches a hand through her hair. “Not to mention, this is a ridiculously lowball offer so that they can justify destroying farmland to build roads. This is bullshit.”

  “I don’t need to consult you when it comes to the farm, Sibley,” Deborah reminds her. “This farm has been in my family for generations.”

  “Exactly! That’s my point.” Sibley snaps her fingers. “How could you even think about selling the farm to these imbeciles when it should stay in our family for future generations? At least, that’s what Jonathan talked about.”

  “Jonathan talked about a lot of things,” Deborah says sharply. “I don’t care what he told you. The farm wasn’t his to keep or sell. It belonged to my ancestors. He’s not here to make more false promises.”

  Sibley sulks. “I can’t believe you have the audacity to sell our farm without even consulting me. I presume you weren’t going to tell me until after the fact.”

  Deborah fingers the lace bedspread. “I would’ve let you know, eventually.”

  “How thoughtful!” Sibley retorts sarcastically. “There’re ways around this. I can do some research. I can read up on eminent domain laws.”

  “I don’t want you to.”

  “What do you mean?” Sibley’s eyes become slits. “Don’t you care about them bulldozing our land and thinking they can use that shady legal maneuver to wrestle it from a poor, feeble woman?”

  “I’m hardly helpless,” Deborah protests. “And it’s their business what they do after I sell it.”

  Sibley draws her mouth into a tight line but says nothing.

  “And after what happened . . .” Deborah’s voice trails off.

  “But where are you going to go, Mother?” Sibley frowns. “You’re not well.”

  “How dare you!” Deborah narrows her eyes. “I’m not an invalid. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  “It’s more than that, Mother,” Sibley pleads. “I worry about you. You always used to take such good care of the place. I hate to see it so run down.” Sibley sighs. “And you—you seem to be . . . so . . . frazzled.”

  “It’s too much upkeep for me, which is why I feel comfortable selling it,” Deborah affirms. “And I told you I’m fine.”

  “It’s more than that, Mother.” Sibley balks. “I need closure.”

  “From what?”

  “My past.” Sibley sinks onto the edge of the mattress.

  Deborah groans. “You have to stop blaming me for Jonathan’s death. Just let it go.”

  “That would be convenient, wouldn’t it?”

  “I wasn’t truthful about a lot of things when it came to him, and it’s blown up in my face.”

  “You do seem to struggle with honesty,” Sibley says slowly.

  Deborah retorts, “You’ve gone through life thinking an affair caused all this pain. It didn’t.”

  “The day he died. You fought.” Sibley pointedly adds, “I remember.”

  “We always fought, just not in front of you.”

  Deborah knows both of them have their versions of events regarding the night in question. The significant difference is she was there in real time, while Sibley was in the house. She couldn’t have been aware of what was happening in the barn.

  “That afternoon.” Sibley chews her lip. “You were arguing in the kitchen.”

  “How could you know?” Deborah says exasperatedly. “You were upstairs listening to music.”

  “I can hear everything through the floor vent in my room.”

  “Then you must’ve heard Jonathan tell me to get to the barn.”

  “Yes.”

  Deborah says accusingly, “I saw you standing at the window later.”

  “And I saw you run out from the barn and throw something on the burn pile before Daddy spotted you.”

  “It was a cell phone I threw on the burn pile.”

  “After my father, uh, Jonathan . . . dragged you to the barn, I watched someone sneak onto the property, headed in the direction of the barn.”

  “You mean Cindy,” Deborah says.

  Vehemently, Sibley shakes her head. “No! Not Cindy. This person was wearing dark clothes from head to toe, trying to go undetected. I don’t think they noticed me watching from the upstairs window.”

  “Honey, no one else was at the house until the police arrived. You must have imagined someone.”

  “Who did you call that night, Mother? I wonder.” Sibley puts a finger to her chin.

  “What do you mean?” Deborah wrings her hands in her lap. “I called 911.”

  “No, you didn’t!” Sibley protests. “That’s impossible. The phone cord was cut, and when I ran to the neighbors to call the police, they hadn’t been aware of any problems at the house.”

  Deborah’s face scrunches in disgust.

  Sibley continues. “And you came inside to change your clothes. You went from wearing your church dress to jeans and a tee.” She sucks in a breath. “It was all very suspect.”

  “I was covered in blood, Sibley.” Deborah sniffs. “It wasn’t like it was going to come clean in the washing machine, so I burned it. Or at least, I thought I burned it.” Deborah swings her legs off the bed. “Until I found it in your room today.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Why is my dress from that night upstairs in your bedroom?”

  “It’s not.” Sibley raises a brow. “At least not that I’m aware of.”

  “You had it hidden in some secret hideaway, which I never permitted you to drill into the floor. For Pete’s sake, when did you make a cubbyhole in our flooring? You’re lucky your father didn’t find out. He would’ve tanned your hide. And mine too.”

  “I don’t know anything about your dress.”

  “Then let me show you.” Deborah motions to the door. “I don’t like liars.�
��

  “That’s funny!” Sibley snaps. “Seems you have a lot of truths to tell me about my childhood. Maybe you can start with what happened the night two people died!” Sibley’s voice rises in agitation. “Do you understand why something’s not adding up? Who was there that night, Mother? Why won’t you tell me what really happened to Jonathan?”

  Deborah’s petite frame becomes smaller as she hunches over.

  Sibley’s lip starts to quiver. “It’s because you killed him, didn’t you?” She rests her head in her hands, defeated. “I’m not mad, but you owe me the truth, just like you owe me the truth about my father.”

  Deborah sits in stunned silence, her head bowed.

  “Robert Fletcher came to help get rid of Jonathan, didn’t he?” Sibley whispers. “He was the one who showed up unexpectedly. He just didn’t expect his wife to follow him.”

  “No.” Deborah reaches for her hand, but Sibley yanks it away. “That’s not what happened. I didn’t call 911 because I didn’t want everyone to know I was trying to leave Jonathan that night. That’s why Robert showed up. To help me.”

  “The two of you were having an affair. I saw you.” Sibley keeps her tone neutral. “So Robert was going to leave Cindy for you, and you were going to leave Jonathan?”

  “No.” Deborah sighs in frustration. “You have that completely backward. You and the majority of the town. Always spreading lies and rumors.”

  “You have room to talk.” Sibley jumps up, stalking out of the room. Deborah moves more slowly, rising to limp behind her.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Deborah follows as Sibley stomps into the kitchen. “Since we’re in here”—Deborah points toward the pantry—“go in there and explain to me why my dress mysteriously appeared in this house.”

  “Who cares about your damn dress?” Sibley explodes. “Or are you worried it’s evidence pointing to your guilt?”

  “Now! Show it to me.”

  Sibley stalks into the pantry and comes right back out, empty handed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I see nothing but coats.” She rolls her eyes. “I watched you burn it, and the cell phone I’d never seen before. And you did it before the cops and ambulance ever arrived, so why would the dress make an appearance now?” With a whisper, Sibley adds, “You’re losing it, Mother.”