“For what?”
“I need something to eat.” I pout. “Something to soak up the alcohol.”
Appeased at this response, he agrees to stop at the gas station, but once we pull in, my stomach clenches when I remember I don’t have my wallet, and I need to borrow cash from him.
“I don’t have any more bills. I gave Miranda the last of it.” Fletch grunts. “I’ll just come inside and use my debit card, no biggie.”
Shit. I wanted my fix for at home.
Inside, I grab a handful of greasy snacks and playfully sneak a liter of vodka onto the counter. The clerk rings it up as Fletch groans. “What’s that?”
“Just a little something for the road.” Putting my hands up, I say, “Don’t worry, I’ll share.”
“Oh, hell no, you aren’t drinking an open container in my cruiser.”
“But”—I offer up a sweet smile—“what if I wait until I get home to open it?”
“You don’t need any more magic potion tonight.”
Fixing me with a stern glare, he tells the cashier to remove the vodka and ring the other items up. After carrying my pretzels out to the car, instead of eating, I settle back against the headrest and close my eyes.
“Your face still looks like shit. You need to put something on it for the swelling.” I can feel Fletch’s gaze on me, his hot breath close to my face. “What did you mean back there?”
“When?”
“At the bar.” He remarks sharply, “When you said I take advantage of people?”
I shrug. “Who knows?”
“But you said it.”
“Just words, lots of words,” I slur. “I must’ve pointed out something I was feeling.”
“Nothing you ever say is ‘just’ words. You don’t say something without putting meaning into it.” He adds, “At least, you never used to.”
As I probe my frazzled brain, it’s hard to pinpoint exactly what I was trying to say, so I ask him to put my window down for some fresh air.
I keep my lids shut as the slight breeze whips my hair, and my elbow rests across the passenger-side door.
My eyes flicker open, and I slur my words. “I know what I wanted to ask. Why are you on an offer for a property in Florida?”
“What are you talking about?”
“My words aren’t that slurred.”
“No idea what you’re saying.” He raises a brow. “Florida?”
“I found a purchase agreement for a property in Florida that has your name listed and my mother as a coborrower.”
“Are you losing your mind too?”
“Cut the shit, Fletch,” I snap. “I heard about the union coffers. So you’re in a tight spot and coerced Deborah into helping you buy a place?”
“Someone must be talking in your ear. I don’t think that made the news out west,” he growls. “I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”
“What’s your vice?” I ask. “Gambling?”
“It’s not the same as yours, that’s for sure.” He slams hard on the brakes, causing me to jerk forward. “You’re nothing but a drunk.”
“When we had the fight in the parking lot after school that ended our friendship, why did you say my father might kill yours?”
“Because why wouldn’t your father go after mine if he’s sleeping with your mom?” He slaps his palm on the wheel.
“But what if they weren’t?” I ask. “Did you know your wife wrote my mother an apology letter before she passed?”
“No, she did not!”
“Yes, Kristin did.”
“You’re drunk and trying to start shit.” Fletch sticks his arm out the window. “Look, I know it’s not an easy time for you. Deborah’s struggling to keep it together, but that’s a blatant lie, and I’m not gonna tolerate it.”
“I read the letter. It’s in her handwriting.” I add, “And I know Kristin’s penmanship.”
“She would’ve told me,” he says defensively.
“You got together based on a lie,” I say gently. “That might’ve been a secret she felt she had to carry to the grave, at least from you.”
“You didn’t know Kristin like I did.” His voice quivers.
“Of course not,” I say. “But Nancy Guthrie said something about your mother . . .”
Fletch swerves off the road purposely, and we almost hit a ditch.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” I murmur.
“You! You’re what’s wrong. Everything turns to shit when you’re around.”
The uncomfortable silence lingers as we turn down the long driveway. I expect him to drop me off without another word, but instead, he lets the engine idle.
“If my mother hadn’t followed my father that night to the farm, she’d still be alive.” He jabs his finger angrily in the air. “There was no one else, period. Got it? All the police and fire were focused on your goddamn parents. They had the road barricaded, and my mom would be around today if she had just stayed home.”
“Wait just a second,” I object. “There was someone else there besides your mother.”
“Of course! My father.”
Slowly I shake my head, the pieces starting to fall into place. “Someone showed up earlier in the night, and I couldn’t make out who it was.”
A mosquito buzzes through the open window, and I swat at it in disgust. Waiting for him to speak, I peer out at the night sky, the twinkling stars the only road map out on the blacktop.
Hanging his head, Fletch seems troubled as he stares out the window.
“Is there something else?”
“Nah,” he says. “Well, maybe.”
I tense up, waiting.
“Have you talked to your husband?”
“No,” I sigh. “He won’t talk to me.”
“Is that so?” Miles points a finger at me. “Funny. I didn’t have any trouble getting ahold of him. In fact, ‘surprised’ doesn’t seem to accurately describe his reaction to hearing his loving and loyal wife never made it to rehab and she’s spent her time getting plastered out on the farm, stirring up trouble, a family trait.”
Unbuckling my seat belt, I ask, “How did you know?”
“You know, you shouldn’t be so careless. You left the intake papers in your unlocked car—hell, the keys were in the ignition—and his name was listed as an emergency contact. You really are a piece of work, Sibley Sawyer,” Fletch says snidely.
“What do you want from me?”
“I want you to go back home and take your mother with you.”
“Why?”
“Because your mother is causing trouble again.” He points to his head. “She’s sick up here, and now she’s telling people she and my dad are dating.”
“How do you know they aren’t?” I say haughtily.
“Because he’s engaged to another woman!” he explodes. “Be a good daughter and get Deborah the help she needs, Sibley.” He adds, steel in his voice, “But keep her away from my father.”
“Your dad’s engaged?” I’m flabbergasted. “Since when?”
“It’s none of your business, so get out.”
I try the door handle, but it’s locked.
“Guess this means we have time for one more question, and since dishonesty is a family trait, I’m guessing monogamy isn’t your strong suit. Did you really have an affair?”
The pointedness of his question annoys me.
“Why?” I snap. “Does it change your opinion of me?”
He retorts, “I’d just say, like mother, like daughter.”
My reaction is sudden and swift: a hard slap across his cheek. I don’t know who is more surprised, but we glower at each other, his tanned face turning fire-engine red.
Reaching a hand up, he strokes his whiskers, never diverting his eyes from mine. “That was uncalled for.”
“No,” I say. “It wasn’t. Let me out.”
“Apologize,” he demands.
“Seriously?”
A sinister look pins me to the se
at. “Or you could say you’re sorry in another way . . .” A hand reaches between my thighs. “When’s it gonna be my turn?”
“Jesus.” I slap his hand away. “Don’t start with me.”
“Don’t you think you owe me?”
“Is that the going rate of a ride and a fifty-dollar bill?” I spit out. “I should sleep with you?”
“Your mother never seemed to be picky when it came to men.”
“Really?” I raise my hand, and he grabs my wrist. “Your dad didn’t complain, and engaged or not, I bet he’s still coming back for more.”
His eyes bulge out of his head, his hand cutting off my circulation. “You know, I could arrest you for assaulting a cop.”
Reaching across his lap, I don’t bother answering, focused on hitting the door lock. After I stumble out, I hear Fletch gun his engine. If it were daytime, I’d see a cloud of smoke and a dust cloud as he sped off.
After wobbling up the steps, I wrestle with the front door. Usually the porch light is the only illumination, but it’s burned out. It’s not until I’m knocking on the door that I realize how badly I’m shaking.
CHAPTER 39
Deborah
Distracted by clunky footsteps on the porch, Deborah timidly creeps to the kitchen window to see who the culprit is, her tea waiting on the table.
It’s Sibley stumbling to the door, the laces on her sneakers untied, her face red and puffy.
Deborah’s confused—she thought she heard her come in hours ago and go upstairs to bed. When she checked earlier, her car was in the drive. “I thought you were in your room.”
“No. I went out for a bit.” Sibley winces. “But I am drained.”
“You didn’t drive, did you?” Deborah says worriedly. “You look like you could use some tea.” Deborah volunteers to make her a cup. “It might help you sleep. This is my kind of nightcap.”
Her smile is genuine, and Sibley is obliged to return it. “Sure. Are you feeling okay? You still look tired. You need more rest.”
“No. I’m fine, really.” Deborah waves a hand at her. “Sometimes, I think it’s these pills and the effect they have on me.” She gives Sibley’s arm a gentle pinch. “Now that you’re home, I feel safe again.”
“That’s good to hear.” Sibley sinks into a chair. “But all drugs have side effects. Are these even helping?”
“I hope so.” Deborah shuffles to the cupboard to get another mug. “I just want to stop feeling like I’m stuck in a nonstop brain fog. It’s like I never have a clear picture in my mind.”
“Maybe we need to get your meds adjusted,” Sibley suggests. “I’m happy to take you to the doctor. You know I’d love to see Doc Marshall.”
“That’s nice of you, but I’m good.”
“Is there someone else you’re seeing? I’m happy to tag along to your next appointment.”
“No, thank you.” Deborah sets the steaming mug down in front of Sibley. “You look upset, honey. Rough night?”
Sibley rubs the edge of the ceramic. “Oh, Fletch and I had a little fight.”
“Another one? You two are nothing but sparring partners, I swear.” Deborah chuckles. “Hope this tiff doesn’t last as long as the last one.”
“I thought you hated him.” Sibley examines Deborah over the rim, slowly drinking her tea.
Deborah shrugs. “I know his friendship used to mean a lot to you.”
Sibley opens her mouth to say something, then abruptly shuts it.
“Oh, honey, would you mind if I borrowed your laptop?” Deborah asks. “I’d like to look something up.”
“I think I left it in your bedroom.”
“Hmm . . . I checked earlier and couldn’t find it.” Deborah sips her chamomile.
“I don’t remember taking it back upstairs, but I’ll look.”
Sibley disappears upstairs for a few minutes, and when she returns, she insists, “It’s not up there.”
Deborah swallows her last drink of tea. “Let me search my bedroom again.”
“By the way, were you upstairs in my room?” Sibley leans against the doorjamb. “It smells like Jonathan’s old cologne.”
“No, honey. Not today.”
“Weird. Well, I’m going to bed. Night.”
After Sibley disappears back upstairs, Deborah washes out the mugs and sets them on the counter to dry. A wave of nausea settles over her, and unsteady on her feet, she hurries to the bedroom to collapse onto the edge of the bed. Not only is she queasy, but her eyesight also isn’t cooperating. Deborah must’ve taken too many pills earlier, and according to her stomach, she’s going to pay for it. Everything is out of focus, as if Deborah can’t hold her liquor and is about to pass out. She hasn’t felt this way since the first time she accidentally got drunk on communion wine.
Certain she’s about to throw up, she stumbles to the bathroom and splashes her face with cold water. Without bothering to turn on the light switch, Deborah sits alone in the dark for a moment, shutting her eyes against the brewing dizzy spell.
When she opens them, she swears she sees a mysterious figure. Something seems off, obscured, like a shadow puppet dancing across the bathroom wall.
Frantic, Deborah turns on the light, but it’s only her reflection lit up in the mirror. While she waits for her stomach to either expel or digest the contents, Deborah brings her face close to the chipped medicine cabinet, staring at her lined complexion.
How did this happen? she wonders. Where did the years go?
As she’s frowning at herself, Deborah hears a feminine voice ask, “Are you upset about the dress?”
When she doesn’t respond, a young blonde girl appears behind her in the glass. “Or the intruder?”
Stunned, Deborah whispers, “You’re not her, are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not Sibley.”
“Then who am I?” The cherubic face smiles at her, but it appears stiff and forced.
“You sent me those letters, didn’t you?”
“Of course. But you didn’t respond. I was never your favorite.”
“What was I supposed to say?” Deborah removes a smudge on the glass with her finger. “You tried to blackmail me, Soren.”
The blonde girl starts to fade from sight, her translucent skin and wheat-colored hair disappearing from view first, leaving nothing but two gaping black holes where her eye sockets should be.
Deborah squints her eyes closed, her fingers gripping the edge of the counter. “Just go away,” she urges. “Just leave me alone, Soren.”
“Soren?” a voice asks.
When Deborah opens her eyes, the girl has morphed into a woman with similar features. “Who’s Soren?”
“Don’t play dumb with me.”
“Mother, what are you talking about? And who’s Soren?”
“I thought you were dead.”
“Dead?” Now it’s the woman’s turn to vanish, except her voice is loud and clear. “Whatever gave you that impression? I know you tried to have me killed, but I guess my desire to live was stronger.”
“No!” Deborah says forcefully. “You died at the hospital. That’s what they . . .”
“Mother,” a different female voice interrupts, “you’re really freaking me out right now.”
“Oh, is that so?” Deborah groans. “What about what you’re doing to me? You thought you could show up now, when my life was improving.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Deborah slaps her hand on the counter. “You want money. You want me committed. You want to ruin me.”
A woman who looks like Sibley but must be Soren is blurred in the mirror. “Committed?”
“Just don’t.” Deborah holds up a hand, speaking to the reflection. “He told me what you were trying to do.”
“I don’t understand,” the voice pleads. “Who?”
“You can’t lie your way out of this. Pretending to be my daughter.”
“I am Sibley. I am your dau
ghter.”
“No, you just want to take over her life!” Deborah bellows. “Like a fucking imposter.”
“You’re deranged, Mother.” The not-so-nice voice releases a hideous cackle. “A crazy person.”
“I’m not crazy,” Deborah chants. “I’m not! Stop saying I am.”
Covering her hands with her ears, Deborah continues talking between hurried gasps. “I saw the paperwork. You told them I was losing my mind, that I couldn’t take care of myself anymore. You told them you were here to save me, except you’re not who you say you are.”
“That’s not true!” Then the calm voice whispers, “I’m worried about you.”
“You even got rid of my favorite cat.” Deborah points an accusing finger at the glass.
The woman’s voice retreats, now barely audible. “What’re you talking about?”
“I haven’t been able to find Esmeralda for days.” Screaming and jabbing her finger in fast pokes, Deborah emphasizes, “Days!”
The woman shouts as Deborah steps back from the sink, headed for a collapse. As the room begins to spin, Deborah closes her eyes, terrified she’ll be face to face with the evil doppelgänger if she opens them.
Unwilling or unable to open her eyes, Deborah stumbles toward her bed, her elbow yanked by a force greater than herself. Someone is leading her toward the comfort of her mattress. Without vision, she clumsily grabs one landmark after another—first the doorknob, then the dresser, then the bedpost—before sinking into the bed with a final sigh.
She’s pushed down, the comforter pulled firmly over her head. Shrouded in darkness, Deborah can’t be hurt. Soren can’t reach her now; her voice can’t penetrate through the blankets.
But sleep only feeds Deborah more nightmares, and she can’t stop picturing the blonde girl posing as a woman in her mind. She wakes drenched in sweat, and terrified she’s about to become a prisoner in her own house, she slinks into the wooden chair and slowly rocks back and forth.
The threatening letters Deborah received are too much of a coincidence so close to the unexpected visit of the woman claiming to be Sibley. Someone else knows what happened on the night of Jonathan’s supposed accident, and they’re sleeping under her roof.
The wolf isn’t at the door. She’s inside.
Deborah clenches her hands into fists at her sides. She knows what she has to do.
The Imposter Page 29
