The Imposter by Marin Montgomery (ebooks online reader txt) 📕

“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 daughter.”

“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.

CHAPTER 40

Sibley

It took all I had to support myself going up the stairs. I gripped the railing for both physical and emotional stability. I wanted to confront my mother about the property in Florida, but her erratic behavior and mood swings made me too uncomfortable to bring it up. I need to know if she’s suffering from some terrible condition.

I’m weary and tired, and tears start to stream down my face. I blow my nose into a tissue on the nightstand.

Even though I hate the grogginess that accompanies sleeping pills, and even though it’s unadvisable to take them after drinking, I need to knock myself out.

Tonight is different; tonight is necessary.

Lying on my stomach, I don’t know how long it takes for me to slip away into my subconscious, but a fight has broken out between Jonathan and Edward. I’m in the middle, one on either side of me. They tug at my arms until they stretch out like putty. I scream at them to stop, but they don’t, their shouts growing louder as they drown my horrified cries. My limbs eventually fall completely off my body, and I stand there in shock, my protracted arms lying on the floor. Neither man apologizes. Instead, they glower at me and say simultaneously, “I hope you’re happy.”

Though I wish I could recount all the sordid details, I only know that when I wake, I think I’m still in the middle of a nightmare my brain hasn’t entirely shut off yet.

I don’t hear the door opening or the quick steps coming to my bed. What I do feel is a sharp object being shoved into my shoulder, where my old birthmark used to be, before I had it removed.

Numbing shock impales me, and my body comes alive with a burning sensation, as if I’m on fire. My first thought is that a baby scorpion stung me, since they live in the desert and close to mountains, and their fast-moving and potent stingers release venom straight into your bloodstream.

Half-asleep, I try to lift my head, but it’s useless, since someone or something is holding me down. There’s a heavy weight pressing down that won’t release me, as if someone’s sitting on me.

Assuming I’m paralyzed from the neck down, I flail my arms. Whatever went into me severed my ability to move. I can hear my ragged breathing in the charged atmosphere, but I’m not alone. My attacker’s exertion is huffed out in quick bursts.

Fearful I’m going to be suffocated underneath my pillow, I kick my legs out behind me in vain. I try to turn over from my stomach or roll off the bed, but the sharp edge of something is being ground into my shoulder.

Screaming before I’m fully aware of what’s happening, I reach a hand back to the source of the pain, and my fingers are met with sticky wetness. It takes my brain a moment to catch up and realize the fluid is blood.

My blood.

I can feel the culprit of my pain—a bony wrist connected to a smooth blade. I shove it as hard as I can, and a thud indicates the perpetrator’s fallen off the bed. Hurriedly, I turn over,