The Imposter

by Marin Montgomery

  The root cellar is nothing more than a partially underground pantry used in centuries past to store produce when the farm was an efficient operation and they had to freeze, dry, process, and can their own food. When I was growing up, it doubled as a storm shelter, and there were many times we took cover from tornadoes cycling over the prairie.

  The lock that kept it safely shut before has been cut, the chain dangling loosely off the double doors. The chief did say he had put a lock on it to avoid someone using it as their private hideaway.

  Fearfully, I hesitate at the double doors. If it weren’t for my liquid courage, I wouldn’t consider entering the dark abyss. I tell myself it’s because I’m scared to find a convict using it as their living quarters. In reality, the dungeon-like quality of the large room has always made me afraid, since my mother accidentally locked me down here as a child when I was playing hide-and-seek with the neighbor kids.

  My bare-bones phone doesn’t have a flashlight, so I’m forced to settle with my liquor in the dank atmosphere. The wooden steps are uneven, and it’s a rough descent, just like the staircase in the house, except this one delves into the sodden earth.

  It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. My hands are squeezed at my sides, and I tell myself I can turn and run back up the stairs if I’m confronted with someone seeking shelter.

  I scan the rickety wooden shelves, which hold mason jars of various types of fruits and vegetables, now collecting dust. Relieved I’m not face to face with a living, breathing person, I take tentative steps toward the center of the room, focused on staying calm.

  A wave of panic consumes me. I’m glancing over my shoulder, double-checking that the door hasn’t closed behind me, when I trip over a sleeping bag rolled up on the floor. There’s a lighter next to it, as well as a couple tins of food, but nothing else.

  I wish this convinced me that my mother isn’t off her rocker, but there’s a nagging unease that I can’t put my finger on. Originally, I questioned my mother’s story of a stranger in the house. It’s understandable that she’d be paranoid, with the rash of home invasions. There are so many hiding places and outbuildings on these farms; it’s no surprise escaped criminals would use the cornfields for cover and skirt the authorities by seeking refuge this way.

  But the likelihood of one just mutely hanging out in her living room?

  Infinitesimal.

  I stumble back up the stairs to the open air, and even though it’s sweltering outside, I feel immediate comfort at being out in the open. If I got stuck down there, my chances of being found would be limited.

  There’s so much, too much, in the way of unwanted surprises and strange incidents, and it unnerves me—all of it. My mother’s behavior has gotten increasingly erratic, or I’ve been so far removed from it that it’s evoking old memories. This trip has been a minefield, and explosives keep detonating.

  Not ready to go back inside the house and feeling suddenly restless, I start kicking gravel as I head down the driveway toward the highway.

  In the middle of the rolling acres of farmland and cornfields, there’s peace and quiet.

  If only my childhood home felt that way.

  This visit back isn’t what I expected. I came home for answers and have developed more questions. I deserve to know what happened that night in the barn, why my mother is acting strange about her health and personal problems, and if there’s some kind of medical diagnosis to soften the blow. And suddenly, a chill runs down my spine, my stroll no longer relaxing.

  I have a decision to make when I reach the open road. Keep walking or turn around. I don’t want to go back to my mother, because she’s not her anymore. It’s a painful realization, and it hits me like a ton of bricks.

  I’m spooked when a vibration comes from my pocket before I realize it’s my cell.

  I expect it to be Adrienne, but the number is unknown, and I frown. I don’t want to give up my secrecy, and only my best friend has this number.

  It continues to buzz, and I’m torn with indecision. I don’t have voice mail set up for obvious reasons, so I have to either answer the call or burn with curiosity. I remind myself I can always hang up if it’s a crank call.

  “Don’t hang up,” the female voice pleads when I answer. “This is Leslie.”

  Shit.

  My paralegal, or should I say former paralegal, got ahold of this number.

  Since I haven’t given my identity up, I’m about to disconnect, but Leslie quickly tells me she and Adrienne had a chat, and Adrienne gave her my number to call me.

  Why in the hell would she do that? I fume to myself.

  For once, I don’t know how to act or what to say. I’m ashamed about my exit from work and afraid to learn Leslie’s opinion of me now, but I’m also worried I can’t trust her. Even though she was one of my closest confidantes, I can’t be too careful. Mainly because I used to count Tanner in that category, and he turned out to be a conniving douchebag.

  For all I know, Leslie might be helping Tanner to oust me from the firm. She could be gathering information for him, and if she tells the partners I’m not at rehab, I’d be out on my ass in a heartbeat, which would be precisely what he wants.

  Leslie must sense my indecisiveness. Without waiting for a greeting, she starts babbling. “I cannot believe what happened to you, and not only that, I can’t believe that someone would want to hurt you. He’s a master manipulator, and I had to tell you.”

  “Who?” I play dumb.

  “Tanner,” she whispers. “They reassigned me to his desk.”

  “Are you in the office?”

  “Not right now,” she says. “But did you know they gave him the Marcona case?”

  “Really?” I act surprised.

  “But when Tanner met with Nico, Nico hated him and wanted to fire him on the spot. Tanner told Nico you botched his case, which is part of the reason you were asked to take a leave of absence. He actually said your drinking problem became severe enough to land you in rehab because you can’t display mental acuity with clients.”

  “And Nico bought it?”

  “Not at first. He demanded a meeting with the partners. Obviously, Tanner begged Nico not to breathe a word of his confession, since he wasn’t supposed to share such personal information regarding you.”

  “So much for that NDA,” I mumble. Great. Now Nico knows I was forced out and sent with my tail between my legs to rehab. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  “Another thing, Sib. Tanner thought I was at lunch, and I heard him raking you over the coals to the partners. He said you’re a costly liability that needs to be cut loose.” Leslie takes a deep breath. “I heard the partners and Tanner discussing a bar complaint being filed against you.”

  I try not to scream and pull my hair out. “Nico filed a complaint?”

  “No. Worse.” She exhales a long breath. “His wife, Christine, did.”

  “For what?” I squawk.

  “Unprofessional conduct. Sleeping with her husband, who was your client.”

  I silently instruct myself to take a few deep breaths so I don’t scream or burst into sobs, and Leslie patiently waits for me to regain control.

  Maybe my mother and I aren’t so different when it comes to persistent rumors.

  “Thanks for letting me know, Leslie. I really appreciate it.” This is the proverbial icing on the cake. Clenching my hands into fists, I’m lost in a whirlwind of emotions—shock, anger, and disappointment. At some point, I need to call Chuck and tell him where I am and what I’m doing, but I fear he’ll tell Holden and revoke our agreement regarding my ninety-day license suspension and replace it with a harsher punishment. Not that I don’t deserve it, but I’m not ready to face him or further consequences. I still have to figure out what to do with my mother.

  “Of course.” Leslie sighs. “I want you to know I have your back. This isn’t what I wanted.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But Sibley?”

  “Uh-huh?”


  “I love you to pieces,” she says, “but I need you to get off your roller coaster and refocus. You’re a lush. A brilliant lush. And I know this complaint is bullshit. But please don’t come back until I get the old Sibley back, the one who’s a fighter.”

  Overcome with emotion, I trip over my feet. Before I can respond, a loud blare interrupts the silence.

  “Thanks, Leslie,” I say hurriedly. “I appreciate you calling . . . and what you said. Talk to you soon.” Hanging up, I realize the vehicle honking belongs to our old family friends, the Guthries. I raise my hand in greeting as it grinds to a halt, spewing gravel and a cloud of dust.

  Grateful for the ride, since a blister’s rubbing against my dirty tennis shoes, I happily jump in the front seat to converse with Nancy Guthrie, the woman who threw the infamous Halloween shindigs. Retired, she’s on her way to meet some other ladies for bridge.

  “I haven’t seen you for ages, Sib!” Nancy exclaims. “Oh dear.” She puts a hand to her mouth, aghast. “What happened to your face, honey?”

  “I fell down those awful stairs.” I touch my face gingerly. “It looks worse than it feels.”

  “You better ice that.” She helps me buckle up my seat belt. “Your family sure knows how to fall. I swear, you’re all a bunch of klutzes.”

  I’m peeved at this comment, but I know she doesn’t mean any harm. “I know. I’m surprised I learned how to walk.”

  “What brings you home, honey?”

  “I figured I’d check on my mother,” I say. “Do you know if she ever has any visitors?”

  “You mean, like a male friend?” She winks at me. “Not that I’m aware. I never see anyone parked in her driveway, least not from the highway. Poor thing, she’s had a rough go of it.” Nancy sighs. “Getting attacked like that in the middle of the night. This prison stuff has me on edge.”

  “The county offered her money to sell her place,” I say. “What about you?”

  “They haven’t approached us yet, and I hope they don’t. We certainly have no intention of selling.”

  As we drive into town, I decide now is my chance to ask about Edward Pearson. Casually, I bring up his name.

  A look of surprise registers across Nancy’s face. “Oh yes, Edward. He graduated from high school with my husband. Dropped off the face of the earth when he enlisted. One of the armed forces, I can’t remember which.”

  “Did you know his wife or kids?”

  “No. They never lived that close, probably a good half hour from here. It ended in a nasty divorce, and she moved with the kids to another state. Maybe New York? Or Rhode Island?”

  “He died, right?”

  “Tragically, yes. He had a lot of problems.” Nancy points to her head. “Up here, and well, they destroyed him. He killed himself, and he wasn’t that old. Maybe late thirties?” She muses, “I remember my husband said his ex-wife was distraught because she got nothing. Zip, zero, nothing.”

  “From what?”

  “His life insurance policy didn’t pay out because it was classified as a suicide. They had a nasty breakup, and after they were divorced, he cut her and the children out of his will.” Pursing her lips, Nancy says, “There was a rumor it wasn’t suicide, that maybe she poisoned him or someone else had it out for him. I guess he had left her at some point for another woman.” Nancy whispers, “I heard that he and Cindy Fletcher were an item.”

  “What!” I say, shocked.

  “Someone even told me years ago that Cindy drove into that tree on purpose because she was mortified everyone found out about it.” A guilty expression crosses Nancy’s face when she realizes who she’s speaking to. Quickly, she adds, “But that’s probably just a vicious rumor. You know how people talk.”

  Turning to me, she says delicately, “The night your father died, supposedly Cindy and Jonathan had talked at church. I know a lot of people thought your mother had an affair, but I heard Cindy got a call from her friend Alicia, and she went to the farm to confront Jonathan because she thought he had something to do with Edward’s death. Edward died only a few weeks before Jonathan, and that in itself was suspicious.”

  “Wow,” is all I can muster, my anxiety at an all-time high. My hands fidget nervously, desiring something to take the edge off.

  Another car honks at us, and Nancy’s relieved by the interruption. She mentions it’s one of her friends from bridge club.

  I lie when she asks where I want to be dropped off. I am in need of a drink, but I feel weird about asking her to drop me at the Bar on Main, so I choose the corner by the drugstore instead. I leave her after a quick hug, and when I glance over my shoulder, I’m relieved she isn’t watching what direction I go.

  I walk the short distance to the bar. It’s not until I’m seated on a barstool in the dimly lit Bar on Main, finishing my third vodka cranberry, about to cash out, that I realize I don’t have any money. My wallet and purse are back at the house.

  Murmuring an expletive, I debate who to call, as the options are limited. It’s either my mother or Fletch. I choose the latter, not wanting to wake my mother or ask her to pick me up from a bar. I’m sensitive about Jonathan’s alcoholism, and I don’t want a lecture. She certainly doesn’t need added stress from my drinking.

  Scanning through my few contacts, I realize I don’t have Fletch’s number.

  Tapping my fingers, I dial the station, praying he’s working a shift tonight. The operator says he is, so she patches me through to his phone. But when he answers, he doesn’t understand my jumbled words.

  “Where are you?” he asks.

  “Why do you have such a bad signal?” I whine.

  “I don’t. It’s not that I can’t hear you.” He sighs. “You’re just not making sense.”

  Now it’s my turn to ask where he is.

  “The police station. You called me here, didn’t you?” He’s annoyed. “My shift started a couple hours ago.”

  A pregnant pause follows, and we’re quiet for a moment, both unsure why I bothered to call him. Miranda’s the lone bartender tonight, and she pushes a paper tab toward me, a gentle reminder.

  Reaching for my credit card, I come up empty handed, and realization dawns again that I have no way to pay for my drinks.

  “Oh, that’s right.” I slap a hand to my forehead. “I need money to pay. I didn’t bring a wallet.”

  “Pay for what?” he asks. “Where are you?”

  “A bar.”

  “Which one?”

  “Guess!” I want to turn it into a game, but he’s losing patience with me. “Fine,” I concede. “I’m at one of the two.”

  “What do you expect me to do?”

  “Pay.” I giggle. “And shuttle me home. You know if your job doesn’t work out, you should consider being a ride-share driver.”

  “Hand the phone to Miranda,” he instructs.

  “Miranda?” I holler at her back.

  “Uh-huh.” Indifferent, she’s focused on wiping down the mirrored wall that stretches across the bar. When I tell her she has a call, she spins around and wants to know who.

  “Fletch.” My voice slurs. “Miles Fletcher.”

  She grabs my cell out of my hand, and I watch her lips move in conversation until she swiftly hands the phone back to me. “Your ride will be here soon.”

  “Who?”

  “Miles, your police officer friend.”

  “Why’d you call the police on me?” Feigning hurt, I press a hand to my heart. “I’m not hurting nobody.”

  “No one said you were, darling.” She chomps her gum in my face. “But you gotta pay your tab.” Motioning around the empty bar, she says, “I got three kids to feed, and as you can see, you’re it for tonight.”

  “How ’bout one more?”

  She shakes her head in annoyance and goes back to wiping down the bar and cleaning. A loud screech from the front door interrupts the eighties music, loudly suggesting a good rubdown with oil is needed.

  Miranda’s dirty-blonde head bo
bs to greet the patron. “Ah, Miles, it’s about time you came in here without an agenda.”

  “Hi, Miranda,” Fletch says in greeting. “I can’t always be arresting the town drunks.” He motions to me. “On second thought, never mind. She’s an out-of-towner that don’t belong here anymore.”

  “Fletch!” I half stand, losing my balance. If it weren’t for the counter, I’d have face-planted. Settling back down precariously on the edge of the stool, I offer to buy him a round.

  “With what?” His voice betrays his frustration. “I didn’t come here for a drink. I came here to pay your tab.”

  “That’s sweet,” I stutter.

  More to Miranda than to me, he mumbles, “Clearly going to need a ride home.”

  “Yeah,” Miranda agrees. “She’s tapped out. Say, what happened to her face?”

  “Catfight,” he jokes.

  I snort. “Can Fletch have one drink, pretty please?”

  “I’m on the clock, Sibby.” He yanks a fifty out of his pocket. “How much I owe you, Miranda?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “I’m a cheap date. Liquor’s cheap here.” I clap. “Back home, it would’ve been three times as much.”

  “Guess you better keep at it, then,” Fletch mutters under his breath. Handing Miranda the fifty, he tells her to keep the change.

  I elbow him in the ribs. “Look at you, baller, giving your hard-earned money away. Guess you can when you take advantage of your neighbors in the spirit of kindness.”

  Miranda thanks him profusely, and both of them ignore me.

  Yanking my elbow, he plucks me from my barstool.

  “Ready,” he asks, except it’s not a question.

  I cajole him to sit down and relax as he pulls me out to the waiting police cruiser. After he buckles me into the passenger seat, I inform him I hitched a ride into town.

  “You did what?”

  “It was Nancy Guthrie. Calm down.” I grab his arm. “You’re such a stiff.”

  “And you’re a pain in the ass.”

  “You wanna go to the other bar, grab a drink?”

  “I’m working, Sibby. I’m gonna take you home.”

  Rolling my eyes, I ask, “Can we at least stop at a gas station?”