Impostor (9 page)

Chapter Seventeen

A
fter dinner, I try to concentrate on my homework, but it’s no use. I put away my Introduction to Psychology textbook after reading the same page six times in a row and not comprehending any of the material.

I hear Lydia laughing downstairs.

What does she want from us? What was she doing with the picture of my mother?

My gaze falls on my laptop. Nothing came up when I searched for my aunt under her real name, but maybe that’s because she’s been using a pseudonym.

I get up and lock my door.

Sitting back on my bed, my computer on my lap, I pull up Google. In a moment of inspiration, I type in “Lila Harrington,” along with “San Francisco, California.”

A few dozen hits.

I click on the first one. It’s the faculty page for a high school in San Francisco. One of the teachers listed is Lila Harrington. I click on the link and see a picture of my aunt. She wears a pearl necklace and a half smile. According to the page, she has taught art at the school for the last five years. I wonder what the school is doing for a replacement in the middle of April. Did she tell the school she was taking a break, or did she just not show up one day?

Backtracking to my Google results page, I click on the next entry down. It’s an engagement announcement for Lila Harrington and James Sutton that appeared in the
San Francisco Chronicle
in late October. I scroll down and scan the biographical details about the couple. The article says that Lila comes from Iowa and has lived in California for twenty years. She received her degree in education from UCLA thirteen years ago and spent three years teaching at a school in northern California before taking a position at her current school. She enjoys rock climbing and pottery.

Lila met James while camping last summer. She describes the experience as “love at first sight” and knew that she’d spend the rest of her life with him. I roll my eyes. Farther down the page, there is a picture of the two of them. James is incredibly good-looking and muscular. He kind of reminds me of Brad Pitt. I wonder if Lydia told him about her family, who she abandoned years ago. At Christmastime, did he wonder why she didn’t have anyone to spend the holidays with?

I stare at the picture of the two of them. If only I could speak with him, he’d be able to provide so many answers. Navigating to an online phone book, I wonder,
Why not?
If I can find his number, why shouldn’t I call him and ask him what he knows about my aunt?

I find three listings for J. Sutton. Only one is under age forty, though, and James definitely doesn’t look much older than Lydia.
That has to be him,
I think, digging my phone out of my pocket.

I punch his number into my phone and hit the Call button.

“Hello?”

“Uh, hi,” I say, breathing hard. I probably should have put some thought into what I was going to say before I actually made the call. The poor guy will think I’m some pervert mouth breather.

“Who is this?”

“Hi,” I say again, cringing. “Um, my name is Sylvia Bell. I’m looking for Lila Harrington . . .”

His voice turns sharp. “Who did you say this was?”

I cough. “My name is Sylvia Bell.”

“Is this another reporter? I’ve already said everything I know. We were supposed to be married last Saturday, and she disappeared. Look, I’m really getting sick of this
Runaway Bride
bullshit. Something bad must have happened to her. Don’t you people understand?”

I am quiet.

So Lydia ditched her wedding to come to Iowa. Why would she do that? What happened to make her leave her life in California? One thing is clear. This man doesn’t know anything about her real life. He sounds genuinely broken, like he believes his wife-to-be has been kidnapped or something.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Sutton. I’m sure Lila is fine, wherever she is.”

I hear him sob on the other end. “No, she’s not fine. If she were fine, she would be here. With me.”

I hit the End Call button and drop my head into my hands.

Who
is
this woman?

Mattie gets home around five. I sit on my bed, watching her unbraid her hair in front of my full-length mirror.

“Lydia said she had a little talk with you,” Mattie says, examining her face for blemishes.

I consider telling Mattie what I’ve learned about Lydia. But she doesn’t know about sliding, so it would be hard for me to explain why I felt the need to go through Lydia’s things. My theory that Lydia has been sliding into me sounds insane, even to me.

“Yeah,” I say, rolling my eyes. “She thinks I’m on the verge of getting pregnant or something. It was weird, considering I don’t even have a boyfriend.”

“She can tell something’s going on. She just doesn’t know what it is. She’s trying to help.”

I shake my head. “When did you get so buddy-buddy with her?”

Mattie turns toward me. “We did a lot of talking last night. She told me all she wants is a family. She was lonely in California.”

“She could have had a family if she didn’t run away. It’s not our fault she’s been off doing God knows what for the past twenty years,” I say, closing my hands into fists. “It’s like she’s just decided to leech on to our family instead of making her own.”

Mattie’s face turns hard. “I’m going to take a shower.”

She makes it halfway out the door before she turns back and says, “I can’t believe you could be so cruel to our own flesh and blood.”

After Mattie slams the door, I flop back onto my bed and glare at the ceiling.
If only it were so simple,
I think. I envy Mattie, being able to open her arms and accept someone new into her life without suspicion.

Once, in school, we had this discussion about whether ignorance really is bliss. Everyone kept saying they’d rather know the truth than go on living a lie. But me, I just kept arguing that the only way to truly be happy is to
not
know the truth.

Because the truth is too complicated.

And, most of the time, the truth is too ugly.

Chapter Eighteen

I
’m on my way to the bathroom when I notice that Mattie’s door is ajar. Soft voices escape into the hall. Through the crack, I can see Mattie sitting on the bed. Lydia sits behind her, pulling a hairbrush through my sister’s long, blond tresses.

“Your hair is so much like your mother’s,” Lydia says.

“Yeah?” I can hear the pride in my sister’s voice.

“Mmmmhmmm. Your mother had the most beautiful, silky hair. I was so jealous. Mine frizzes up at the mere mention of rain, but your mother’s hair always behaved.”

Mattie sighs. “Can you tell me a story about her?”

I lean against the wall, barely breathing.

“Let’s see,” Lydia replies. She combs through Mattie’s hair thoughtfully. “Well, when we were little girls, your grandparents took us up to Lake Okoboji for a week every summer. Even though it was expensive, we always rented a boat. One of us would go out waterskiing with your grandfather, and the other would stay on the dock, sunbathing with your grandmother. We took turns.”

“Anyway, there was one summer . . . Your mom must have been about twelve. She was out skiing, and I was sitting on the dock, reading some terrible fashion magazine. I happened to look up, and I noticed that I couldn’t see your mom. Your grandfather was out there on the boat, zipping around, but I couldn’t see anyone on the skis behind him. Well, I stood up and started shouting at him, trying to get his attention. After a minute or so, he turned around and saw that Susan was down. Thank God she was wearing a life jacket, or he never would have found her.”

I let out a puff of air.

“Wow,” Mattie says. “So Mom just passed out? Did she do that a lot? That must be where Vee gets it from.”

“She was never diagnosed,” Lydia says, setting the hairbrush on the bed. “But I strongly suspect she had narcolepsy.”

“That’s one trait I’m glad I didn’t inherit,” Mattie says.

I back away and duck into the bathroom, locking the door. When I look in the mirror, I realize that I’ve been crying.

Later, I am sitting in my mother’s rocking chair in the corner of my room, a blanket draped around my shoulders. I think about the story Lydia was telling Mattie.

It sounds like my mother definitely struggled with the same condition that I have. I wonder if it was as torturous to her as it is to me. If she was always learning things she didn’t want to know. If she longed to just be normal.

I roll onto my side and prop my head up with my hand. My eyes fall on the clothes I wore last night, and my thoughts turn to Scotch. Did the police figure out who he was with? Did they find our footsteps in the dirt? Can they tell there was a scuffle? If only there were some way to find out what’s going on.

I stop rocking.

There
is
a way.

Back in October, when I was investigating Sophie’s death, I picked up a glove that Scotch dropped. I thought I could use it to slide into him and find out if he was Sophie’s killer. But when I used the glove, I didn’t slide into Scotch. I slid into his
father
. The glove belonged to his dad. Somehow, I knew better than to throw it away. I stashed the glove in my bottom drawer, beneath my collection of concert T-shirts.

I jump up and rush over to my chest of drawers. I throw T-shirts everywhere in my hurry to find the glove. There it is, at the very bottom. I seize it and slam the drawer shut.

I shut my door and then return to my bed. For a moment, I just stare at the glove. Do I really want to do this? Do I want to slide into the man whose son’s death I might be responsible for?

I don’t have a choice.

I have to know what’s going on.

Ignorance is not an option anymore.

Heart pounding, I lay my fingers on the glove, rubbing it softly. The room starts to fade away. I let go of myself.

I’m sitting in the cab of a pickup truck, driving down a busy street.

The driver carefully navigates through traffic, letting his foot slowly lower onto the brake when he sees a yellow light up ahead.

A phone on the seat beside me buzzes.

When the light turns red, he answers the call. “Hello?” he says gruffly, glancing in the rearview mirror. I’ve never seen Scotch’s father before, but he looks like his son, except for the worn, leathery quality of his skin and the receding hairline.

Someone is sobbing on the other end of the phone. I can’t make out what the person is saying. “Calm down,” he says gently. “What’s going on?”

“Honey, the police are here,” a woman finally gasps. “Please. Come home.”

I awaken abruptly. Mattie is above me, holding my shoulders, shaking me. When she sees that I’m conscious, she breathes a sigh of relief. “Are you okay? You passed out. Why are you holding this dirty old glove?”

I crumple the glove into a ball and hide it behind my back, thinking belatedly that will only make Mattie more curious. “What?” I ask stupidly.

“Rollins is on the phone,” Mattie says, holding it out.

I accept the phone and bring it to my ear. “Rollins?”

He coughs. “Hey, I looked for you after school. I’m getting the feeling that you’re avoiding me.”

Mattie watches me curiously. I shoo her out of the room.

Switching the phone to my opposite ear, I try to think of something to say, anything other than the truth—which is that I don’t want to hang out with Anna.

“I’ve just . . . had a lot on my mind.”

“Is this about your aunt?” Rollins asks.

I get off my bed, walk over to the door, and peek out to make sure no one is listening. “I’d rather not talk about it right now. Tomorrow?” I push the door closed, but even then I’m paranoid about Lydia hearing our conversation.

He’s quiet for a moment. Finally he says, “Sure. I guess.”

I know that tone of voice. Rollins is pissed that I won’t open up to him. But there’s not much I can do about it now.

“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” I say, and then I push End Call.

Where was I?

Picking up the crumpled glove from my bed, I remember Scotch’s father’s phone call. My heart starts to pound as I remember his wife’s words:
Honey, the police are here. Come home.

This time I lock the door.

I’m sitting in the living room in Scotch’s house. His mother, wearing a bandanna on her head, sits next to me. I recall what Regina said about his mother having lung cancer and feel terrible. This woman has been through enough. Should she have to bury her son, too?

Sitting across from us is Officer Teahen, the policeman who investigated Sophie’s murder. I actually haven’t seen him since he came to our door to tell us about Zane’s accident. He looks like he’s aged since then. Lines have appeared around his eyes and mouth. I wonder how many of them are due to dead teenagers.

Officer Teahen speaks. “Do you remember the name of the girl he said he was going out with?”

I feel Scotch’s father shake his head. “He dates a different girl every week, almost. There’s no way we can keep track of them all.” I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, but there’s a slight undertone of pride in the man’s voice that makes me feel ill. Still, I’m glad that Regina’s name doesn’t come up. She’d crumble if she had to talk to the cops.

“We’re wondering if the girl who made the call from the school today is the same one Scott went out with last night. Tomorrow we’ll send an officer to ask around and see if Scott mentioned his date to any of his friends.”

Scotch’s mother coughs into a Kleenex. I see a splotch of blood on it. “I don’t understand why the girl didn’t call
last night
. Just thinking of my boy, lying there, all by himself . . .”

I have never felt guiltier in my life.

“My guess is that she’s afraid of getting busted for underage drinking. We found a bottle of rum in Scott’s car.”

Scotch’s father curses.

His mother speaks again, her voice getting louder than I’d ever guessed it could. “Who would care about getting a ticket for underage drinking when a boy’s life is at stake? He could have died last night.”

Huh?

Hold everything.

Is Scotch
alive
?

For a moment I feel relief. But then the implications of this possibility swirl around my head. If Scotch is still alive, did he see what happened before he fell? Did he see
me
?

“I agree, it’s a very strange situation. But sometimes teenagers don’t make very rational decisions,” Officer Teahen says. “Luckily, the paramedics got there in time. I understand your son is in stable condition.”

“Yeah, no thanks to the bitch who left him there,” Scotch’s father says.

Scotch’s mother starts to cry. His father scoots closer to her and takes her hand. He speaks sternly to the officer. “I think my wife has had enough. Can we cut this conversation short?”

Officer Teahen, looking like he would very much mind cutting the conversation short, opens his mouth, seems to think better of it, and then shuts it again. “Of course. We’ll be in touch as soon as we have more information.”

The two men stand and shake hands. The officer walks to the front door, gives a polite nod, and then shows himself out.

Scotch’s father settles back down with his wife, who is doubled up and coughing into her handkerchief. He pushes her hair out of her eyes tenderly. “It’s okay, honey. It’s all going to be okay.”

Someone knocks on my door. I glance at my clock and note my father won’t be home for another hour or so. I heave a sigh and open the door, expecting Mattie to be on the other side, ready for another round.

But it isn’t Mattie.

It’s Lydia.

Her face is grave.

“Something has happened,” she says.

I don’t move. Don’t speak.

“You should probably be sitting down for this.”

I shuffle toward my bed and pull the comforter around my shoulders. Lydia lowers herself into the rocking chair. She leans forward, sympathy etched into her face. Sympathy, and something else.

“Sylvia, I have some . . . news for you. An acquaintance of yours has been in an accident. It was on TV.”

“Scott,” I say. She raises her eyebrows. “How did you know?”

“He, uh . . . wasn’t at school today.”

“They found him at the bottom of Lookout Point. He’s in stable condition, but he’s comatose.” She seems to scrutinize my face closely to judge my reaction to this news.

“Well, at least he’s alive,” I say.

Lydia clears her throat. “You know, Mattie told me what Scott did to you last year. I understand that you must be experiencing some conflicted feelings right now. I want you to know that it’s okay if you’re not devastated by this news.”

I gasp.

“Mattie told you that?”

I can’t believe this. Mattie divulged my most guarded secret to a woman who robbed our mother and skipped town twenty years ago, a woman who—it seems—has been screwing with my head ever since she got into town. How could she?

“I didn’t want him to get hurt!” I scream. “Get out of my room!”

“We’ll get through this together, hon. We really will, okay?”

“Get out!”

Lydia slowly rises and goes to the door. There, she lingers, and she can’t resist one last comment. “Don’t worry, Sylvia. I’ll do whatever I can to protect you girls.” And then she’s gone.