As I make myself a drink, mostly to act as a painkiller for my shoulder, I’m on high alert when I hear Deborah creak slowly down the steps. I pray she avoids the kitchen and chooses instead to go to her room. At the bottom of the stairs, I wait with a pounding heart for her decision. Will she confront me again or retreat to her bed?
CHAPTER 41
Deborah
Deborah peers into the kitchen, and her stomach lurches when she hears the clink of a glass. She watches with horror as the blonde woman pours straight vodka into a glass.
A sigh escapes her lips.
Soren.
Trying to pass as Sibley.
Soren is not duping anyone with the vodka-filled water bottles or the liters of vodka. It’s dangerous how Soren blacks out with no recollection of what happened the night before. Just like Jonathan would. A flicker of unease crosses Deborah’s thoughts. If someone isn’t in their right mind when sober, the drinking will only magnify their emotions.
Does she think Deborah wouldn’t know every nook and cranny in this house to hide bottles? It’s a repeat of history, how Deborah would uncover Jonathan’s secrets, wrapped in towels in the hall closet, hidden underneath cushions on the sofa. Poor, innocent Sibley would have a tea party with her dolls and not think twice about the shot glass she used as a cup. It’s lucky Sibley isn’t stuck with Jonathan’s genes. She’s a successful attorney with a husband and a career and a life out west. Unlike Soren, who’s set on destroying her life.
Deborah must plead with Soren to go.
“Deborah,” the woman in front of her sneers. “It’s me. Your daughter.”
“I know,” Deborah says uncomfortably.
“I’m going to go outside and grab a breath of fresh air.”
Deborah waits for Soren’s footsteps to exit the house and the door to slam shut behind her.
After sinking into her reclining chair in the living room, Deborah rests her head in her hands.
Should she call someone? 911? Miles Fletcher? Robert?
She tries Robert, but his cell goes straight to voice mail. Now that she thinks of it, he’s been awfully silent lately. Deborah’s been more preoccupied than normal, and she doesn’t expect him to come around, but he’s been less attentive than usual. Unable to examine this at the moment, she decides on Miles. She doesn’t realize how late it is until a muffled voice echoes through the phone line.
“Hello?” his sleepy voice answers.
“Hi, this is Deborah.” Realizing he could know a million Debs or Debbies, she quickly adds, “Deborah Sawyer.”
“Uh . . . hi,” he says. “I know it’s you.”
“Hi, Miles.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Why do you ask?” she says timidly.
“The time. It’s after three a.m.” He moans. “Did Sibby ask you to call me?”
“Oh. Silly me. You’re right; it’s late. I’m sorry. And no,” Deborah whispers into the phone. “She doesn’t know that I’m calling.”
“Did something happen?”
“I think my daughter’s trying to kill me.” With a click, Deborah hangs up the phone at the same time that she hears the thud of the front door. Deborah leans forward, craning her neck to spot the intruder. Her hands grip the faded leather of the chair, and relieved, she exhales a ragged sigh.
It’s not a stranger; it’s her daughter.
Frantic, she asks, “Sibley, what’re you doing outside? It’s late.”
“I needed to clear my head.”
Deborah argues, “Nothing good happens this late at night.”
“It’s not nighttime; it’s after three in the morning!” she shouts. “And you know why I needed air.”
Baffled at her outburst, Deborah eyes her with curiosity. “Why are you up this late? Are you having trouble sleeping? My tea is the cure-all for that.”
“Your chamomile isn’t going to change the fact my own mother stabbed me!” Sibley throws her hands in the air. “You’re the reason I can’t sleep. You crept into my room like some bad dream.”
“Nonsense.” Deborah shakes her head in disgust. “What’re you saying?”
“I’m saying you tried to hurt me.”
“How could you accuse me of something like that?” Deborah’s awed.
“Let me guess,” Sibley says. “I just stabbed myself in my own shoulder?”
“What’re you talking about?” Deborah doesn’t know what to say to keep Sibley’s temper from rising. She’s unclear why she’s so angry with her right now. After her own assault, the episode with the stranger in the house, and the robberies, Deborah wasn’t surprised when she watched Sibley take a knife upstairs.
But how could she be so careless with it and bring it to bed with her, without covering it properly or keeping it out of arm’s reach? When Deborah saw her sleeping with it under her pillow the other night, she almost took it away. With the talk of home invasions, she wanted her to feel safe in her bed, especially since she couldn’t give that to her as a child.
“I’ve been stressed because of my failing marriage and career and imploding relationships, and now my own mother’s trying to make me her pincushion.”
Deborah feels crestfallen.
“There’s something evil in you.” Her voice quivers. “I just never wanted to believe it before.”
Deborah tries to grab Sibley’s arm, but she’s purposefully standing out of arm’s reach. “Let me see what happened.”
“You need help.”
“Do you want me to drive you to the hospital?” Deborah offers. “Maybe you need stitches.”
“No,” she protests. “I just want to fall asleep knowing I’m not going to be attacked.”
“Goodness gracious!” Deborah remarks. “Then stop sleeping with a sharp object in bed!”
“How can you accuse me of doing this to myself?”
“Stop yelling!” Deborah admonishes. “I’m sitting right here.”
“What is wrong with you, Mother?” Sibley’s lashes are wet with tears. “You kept calling me another name.”
“Go to bed.” Deborah relents. “We can talk about this after you get some sleep.”
“That’s what I was trying to do
