The Imposter

by Marin Montgomery

  Alice puts her hands emphatically on her hips. “But you were like a feral farm cat, the way you struggled to break free of him. I hid in the loft, staring over the broken railing at the two of you on the barn floor, rolling and caterwauling. It was like a feature film. So, so good. Unfortunately”—Alice feigns sadness—“you got away from him, and you ran like hell. He chased you, but he was wasted, bobbing and weaving all over the place. I could tell it was not going to end well . . . for him. And that made me hella mad. I kicked my foot out and accidentally kicked a metal tin. Unfortunately for him, it clunked over the ladder and down below.

  “When he saw the rattling tin spinning like a top, he must’ve thought you’d climbed up into the loft instead of running back to the house. When he got up the ladder, he didn’t realize until it was too late it wasn’t you, when he attacked me.” Alice murmurs, “In his defense, it was dark, and why else would anyone be up there? He had me pinned down and was walloping me with his fist, bless his heart, before he took a good look at me. In self-defense, I had no choice but to reach for a glass bottle I found and break it over his head. When he stumbled forward, I took the opportunity to push his rancid ass out of the loft.” She sighs loudly. “But it was supposed to be you, dearest Debbie. I wasted a solid effort on him instead of you.”

  “Unbelievable.” Miles slaps the table hard, causing both women to flinch.

  Alice glances at the digital clock, murmuring, “I wonder how long it’ll take Sibley to go mad down there in the root cellar with her crippling anxiety. I wasn’t the best hostess. I should’ve put a couple of bottles down there to quench her alcoholic thirst.”

  Miles cocks his head to the side. “Excuse me?”

  Alice holds up her gloved hand, exposing a tiny gold stud. “And I’m so glad you found my missing earring. I must’ve dropped it when I was messing with that raggedy dress.”

  Looking at her watch, Alice says, “It’s about time for your next dose, Deborah.”

  Unexpectedly, Deborah yawns, covering her mouth with her hand.

  “I want to commend you,” Alice says as she pushes up her glasses. “You’ve been such a good girl taking your meds. Becoming just the person I knew you could be. And your patience with my mind games. You were so sure you had spirits and ghosts when I pushed you down the stairs. It was brilliant, if I do say so myself, how I could just come and go as I pleased, scaring the shit out of your drug-addled mind. In fact, I bet you feel really tired now. Why don’t you go lie down on the couch?”

  Too tired to protest, Deborah slowly obliges, limping to the sofa. Her mind should be on high alert, but she feels like she’s being pulled underwater, and everything is shifting and hazy, as if waves are crashing over her. She’s drowning, yet the pain in her body and mind subsides. There’s a clarity she hasn’t felt in a long while. On the couch, she curls into a fetal position with her mother’s old blanket draped over her. She isn’t scared any longer, and numb, she wiggles her toes, her limbs tingling, as if they are detaching from her body.

  Even though Alice and Miles are in the kitchen talking, they sound far away, and Deborah hears the chatter as if it’s coming through speakers and the volume keeps going down another decibel.

  Deborah doesn’t have the energy to listen anymore, and drowsy, she presses her eyes shut. The last words are muted, and she yanks the blanket tightly around her tiny frame.

  “Are you ready to play nice and help me, Miles?” Alice is saying. “Help me drag her body to the barn. I should’ve finished this last time, but your father wouldn’t let me.”

  CHAPTER 49

  Sibley

  The stench of smoke is filling my lungs, but the sound of rain has quieted; it’s now a light pitter-patter.

  I hear a loud yell, and before I jump up, I wait to find out if it’s my imagination or the wind.

  My name is called, and I rapidly abandon my corner for the steps. As I bang again on my side of the door, a man hollers from above. “Sibley!” the man’s voice screams.

  I’ve never been so relieved to hear my name called in my life.

  “I got a call!” the male voice yells. “Sibley.”

  “Help,” I scream weakly. “Please help me.”

  I can’t make out what the man says next, his muffled words too soft for me to hear, but he sounds familiar.

  I bang my battered fists against the doors.

  The voice is closer now. “Sibley.” The man’s voice is garbled above me. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes. Yes, I can. Help. Please help.”

  “I don’t have a key for the padlock. I’m going to use the bolt cutters. Can you tell me where they are?”

  “Uh, I don’t know, the toolshed, maybe?” I holler. I was blitzed the other day and can’t remember seeing them there, but it seems like an obvious location.

  “I already checked there—that’s a negative.”

  My next guess is the barn.

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “Are you still there?” I shriek.

  “I’m here, honey. Just stay calm.”

  “Don’t leave me,” I cry. “Please. I’m not going to make it.”

  “I’m going to get you out of there.” He tries to soothe me. “I’ve gotta go to the barn, so it’s going to be a couple minutes. I need you to trust I’m gonna come back.”

  “Deborah’s trying to kill me,” I yelp. “My own mother’s trying to kill me. I don’t wanna burn to death.”

  “This is the chief, Sibley. I’ll be right back.”

  “Help me, okay? I don’t wanna die.” My fingers claw at the wood. I hear footsteps crunch above me, and the smoke causes my eyes to water. I sit mournfully on the step, my jacket pulled up over my mouth and nose as I force myself to breathe under the fabric. My ears are perked for any sound of life.

  It feels like hours but in reality is probably a matter of minutes before I hear his voice again. I’ve been forcing myself to run through the alphabet, assigning each animal a letter, and then I moved on to listing the state capitals.

  His footfalls are solid and heavy, announcing his presence before he shouts out again, to signal he’s above me.

  I hear the clank of the chain first before the chief tells me to go to the bottom of the cellar. “We’re gonna splinter the rest of this damn thing, so get back. Don’t wanna get you in the crosshairs.”

  “Okay!” I holler. “Okay, moving down now.” I lower myself down the steps to the muddy bottom.

  “I’ll count to ten, starting with one. Count with me.”

  My voice is shaky against his loud baritone, and when we reach ten, I’m interrupted by the ferocious grunt of the chief as the padlock splits off the chain. If I were in a different kind of horror movie, the person standing outside the cellar with an ax would be the murderous killer instead of the petite, demented mother.

  Staring up at the chief of police, Robert Fletcher, I’m reminded of Paul Bunyan, except he’s in his black police uniform, the tip of the blade resting safely on the ground, the well-grooved handle cradled in his hands.

  He rests the ax carefully on the soiled ground, and wiping the sweat from his forehead, he envelops me in a hug. “Scared me for a minute,” he whispers. “Let’s get you to an EMT. You need to be checked out and treated for smoke inhalation.”

  “I’m fine,” I sob. “I’m okay.”

  Trembling, I’m aghast to see a massive cloud of smoke rising from the direction of the barn, the structure nothing more than a burnt-out frame, the partially dilapidated building nothing more than firewood feeding the underbelly of the flames.

  “The firefighters are on their way,” the chief says.

  I nod. I know it takes a lot longer to get emergency services out here on the farm. We rely on well water, which also poses a problem.

  “Where’s Deborah?” I whisper.

  “She’s in the back of the squad car,” the chief says.

  “Where she belongs.” Squeezing my eyes shut, I weep. “How did you find me?
”

  “You can thank your husband.”

  “My husband?”

  “Holden, that’s his name, right?” He touches my shoulder gently. “Your mother didn’t know where you were. Said you ran off.”

  “She’s a liar. I went to feed her cat for her,” I moan. “The fucking cat. Where is he? Where’s my husband?”

  “Holden’s inside the house. He alerted the authorities. I happened to be on call, and luckily I wasn’t too far from here.”

  Shakily, I walk by the police cruiser to get to the house, leaning heavily on the chief, and as much as I wish I could stare straight ahead and ignore her, I can’t.

  I have to take a peek at her.

  With her face pressed against the glass, she’s screaming something at me. Her fingers claw to get out; her palms leave smudge marks.

  I can’t understand her, and truthfully, I don’t even stop to listen.

  Disgusted, I turn away, the chief shielding me from a confrontation separated by glass.

  Holden is in the house when I walk in, as if he has always belonged here, but his nervous energy keeps him from standing still, his tall form fidgeting as he leans over the table.

  His blue eyes shift from troubled to stunned when he realizes I’ve walked in the house. Suddenly he becomes deathly silent, as if the air has escaped his lungs and he can’t breathe. After crossing the small space between us, he picks me straight off the ground and swings me around, his arms tight around my back, sturdy. Tears flow freely between us, and I nestle my face into his neck, soaking up his cologne instead of the stench of fire embedded in the strands of my hair.

  “Sibley! Oh my God! Oh my God, Sibley,” he keeps murmuring into my ear.

  “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you where I was going,” I moan. “I never thought my own mother would try to . . .”

  “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.” He presses his cheek to my face, both wet with tears. “I just need you safe with me. That’s all that matters.”

  CHAPTER 50

  Deborah

  Sibley walks by, nose in the air, chin up, and Deborah’s compelled to get her attention.

  The glare she shoots her is worrisome, and for a moment they lock eyes, and then . . . nothing. She turns on her heel and goes back to the house and her waiting husband.

  Deborah’s not quite sure what she did wrong.

  When she came to, she was lying outside near the barn, her clothes covered in soot and gasoline. She stared at her blackened fingertips, which looked as if she’d tried to char them on a grill.

  Distraught, she realized the smell of smoke and burning rubble was coming from directly inside the barn.

  Gasping for air, she crawled on her hands and knees toward the house. She felt like she was in some type of war zone. Not only was the barn on fire, but so was the toolshed.

  The detached garage was nothing more than scorched earth. The fire was spreading quickly toward the root cellar.

  A wave of dizziness hit her, and Deborah was slow to stand. She’d been on the couch, underneath her quilt, and that was the last thing she remembered.

  Suddenly, she was outside, drenched in mud, with no recollection of coming out there.

  And what about Sibley?

  Her confusion only increased as her dazed eyes searched the yard. There were no other cars in the drive.

  Had she imagined Sibley was there?

  Or was it Soren?

  Deborah shook her head, blinking rapidly.

  Soren’s dead, she gently reminded herself.

  When Deborah stumbled toward the house, she barreled into a tall, gangly man. Pushing his chest away from her, she backed up. “Who are you? What did you do to my property? Where’s Sibley?” she screamed. “Where’s Soren?”

  The man stepped toward her. “There you are, Deborah.”

  She looked over his shoulder. Robert Fletcher was behind him, sadly bobbing his head.

  The strange man, dressed in jeans and a tee, scratched his beard. He glared at the root cellar as if he’d lost something in there.

  What was Robert doing standing outside with an ax?

  Oh no, had Esmeralda gotten stuck down there?

  She fumbled in her pockets and clutched the small key to the padlock. As Deborah walked toward Robert, she held it in the air, but for whatever reason, he didn’t acknowledge her.

  Each step ignited a stab in her chest and was increasingly painful. Her hand flew to her bosom, and the key dropped to the ground, already forgotten.

  Before she could steady herself, Miles Fletcher appeared, grinning like it was the best day of his life, and placed handcuffs on her. “I finally get the pleasure of snapping these on, Mrs. Sawyer.”

  CHAPTER 51

  Deborah

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” Deborah protests weakly to the detective. “This is all a huge misunderstanding. I would never harm my daughter.”

  “How many daughters do you have?”

  “Two.” Deborah shakes her head. “I mean, one. I lost one.”

  “How did you lose one?”

  Deborah doesn’t like his flippant tone. “Childbirth. Identical twins.”

  “And your name? Ah, yes, I recognize it. Sawyer.” His clipped mustache catches spittle when he talks. “Your husband died under suspicious circumstances years ago, didn’t he?”

  “He was drunk and fell from the loft above. Out in the barn.”

  “Where were you?”

  “In the house.”

  “That’s not what the record shows, ma’am.”

  “It was a long time ago,” Deborah says bitterly. “I want to sleep. I have a pounding headache. I’m exhausted.”

  His eyes peer at her with disgust.

  “In fact, can I get some water?”

  “Just admit you did it, and I’ll get you an entire watercooler you can drink.”

  Deborah runs a tired hand through her hair. “Admit to what?”

  “That you were after insurance money, for starters.”

  “I did not set the barn on fire.”

  “Thanks for providing details on where the fire started.”

  “I’m not sharing anything. I want to go home. Where’s Robert Fletcher?” she mumbles. “He’s my boyfriend. He can tell you what happened.”

  The detective’s whole body shakes in laughter. “Oh, really? He’s engaged to another woman.”

  “It’s true,” Deborah insists. “We’re moving to Florida when he retires.”

  He thumps his hand on his thigh. “That’s funny. You’re a real firecracker, Debbie, no pun intended.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Deborah lowers her head into her hands. “Can I go home, please? I need to sleep.”

  “You just tried to murder your daughter, and you want to go home and get some sleep?” He mimics her voice. “Pull someone else’s leg, lady. Mine are long enough.”

  “I killed my daughter?”

  “You tried.”

  “Uh-huh,” she groggily moans into her hands.

  “So you admit you did attempt to murder your daughter?”

  “Uh-huh.” Lethargic, Deborah can no longer keep her eyes open. They slam shut, just as her case does in the detective’s eyes, and she’s once more taken away in cuffs.

  CHAPTER 52

  Sibley

  A few days later, Robert Fletcher, chief of police, sits across from Holden and me at the scarred kitchen table. Deborah claims she has no recollection of what happened, and I believe her, but I know she’s sick. Very, very sick. My eyes are red from crying, and a tissue is stuffed into my fist.

  “I wanted to update you on the gun you brought in, Sib.” The chief speaks softly, without his usual aplomb. “I put a rush into forensics on the gun, not expecting any miracles, since they are one of the most difficult objects to retrieve prints from. Frankly, they’re a pain in the ass because of the texture and ridges, and oils from cleaning tend to break down prints.” The chief keeps his eyeballs glued to mine, and my pal
m instantly sweats into the tissue. “Sib, the only prints on the gun are from Deborah.”

  Nothing in the room moves, not even the air, and no one takes a breath.

  Sitting in stunned silence, I finally whisper, “You think Deborah lied about being attacked?”

  “No. She was definitely ambushed that night. I saw it for myself,” the chief explains. “She lied about the night your father, or should I say Jonathan, died.”

  “I don’t understand.” My lips quiver.

  “The serial number on this gun isn’t recent. We were able to trace it back to Jonathan. He owned it. But there’s only one bullet casing missing.”

  “Okay . . .” I’m not following the chief’s declaration. “Jonathan died of injuries he suffered when he fell out of the loft and broke his neck.”

  “Correct. The coroner listed Jonathan’s death as an accidental fall. He was clearly intoxicated, and he died of a cervical fracture. In fact, three out of the seven vertebrae were severed. If he had survived the fall, he’d be paralyzed or a vegetable. His fall couldn’t have happened without severe force.”

  “Yes.” I close my eyes at the gritty details.

  “But there’s more.” The chief sighs. “When I went back through the case file, a shell casing was found in the wall of the barn, lodged in one of the pieces of wood. The one bullet discharged from the gun. And reading the report, it doesn’t look good . . .”

  “What’re you saying?” I gawk at him.

  “I was only an officer then, and though I was the first to arrive on the scene, I left to fill the other officers and emergency responders in on what happened. There was no bullet hole in Jonathan when I arrived. He was on his back in pain, your mother beside him.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “Because he was shot after we arrived. It looks like the bullet hole entered near his left kidney. This might not sound deadly, but when the intestines spilled into his abdominal area, it caused a deadly infection. By the time he got to the hospital, he was pronounced dead.”

  “Wouldn’t the gun be loud enough to hear, even if you weren’t in the barn?”