Jill Hathaway - Imposter

She opens the glove compartment and takes out a package of Kleenex. “Why don’t you press some of these on your cut, just to be sure?”

I grab a few tissues and hold them to my wound. “Thanks. I really appreciate you giving me a ride. What’s your name?”

“Diane,” she says, returning the package to the glove compartment. After looking over her shoulder, she pulls the car back onto the road.

“I’m Sylvia,” I say.

She nods, keeping her eyes on the road.

We ride in silence for a bit. I start to doze.

Before long, we pull into my driveway. Every light in my house is blazing. As I get out of the car, the door opens and my father’s silhouette appears. He steps onto the porch in his slippers and robe. I know that I’m in deep trouble.

“Thanks again,” I tell Diane.

“Anytime,” she says.

I shut the door, and she pulls out of the driveway.

It is only then that I realize I never gave her directions to my house.

ithout a word, my father holds the door open for me.

“Where the hell have you been?”

I stop and turn to face him. I haven’t seen him this angry since the time he found out Mattie went to an all-night kegger instead of going to a movie.

“Do you know how worried I was? I called the police. They asked whether I wanted to report my car stolen. But—they wouldn’t go out and look for you until you’d been gone for twenty-four hours.”

I think of how mangled my father’s car is and wince. “I’m sorry.”

He crosses his arms. “I can’t wait until you have kids of your own and you wake up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night and realize one of your kids has snuck out of the house. And taken your car. Jesus, Vee, you don’t even drive.”

“Dad. I didn’t sneak out.”

“Then what happened?” he demands.

“Maybe we should sit down so I can explain,” I say. Sitting down might be a very good idea for this conversation.

He eyes me warily, then follows me into the living room. I fall onto the comfy plaid couch, and he perches at the edge of his recliner.

“Now. Tell me.”

I take a deep breath, knowing how crazy my story is going to sound, even if I leave out any references to sliding.

“I fell asleep in my room, listening to the radio. When I woke up, I was driving. I thought it was a dream. But then I realized it was your car, and it was all real. That’s when I . . . sort of lost control and crashed into a telephone pole.”

“Oh. My. God.” My father lifts his hand to his mouth.

“I’m really sorry, Dad. About the car, I mean. I don’t know what—”

I stop talking when he rushes over and sweeps me into a hug.

“Vee. My baby. Are you all right? Are you hurt? Let me see you.” He holds me at arm’s length and looks me over. “Your head.” He brushes my hair away from the gash and inspects it carefully. “You might need a stitch.”

I wiggle out of his grasp. “It’s okay, really. It’s stopped bleeding.”

My father stares. “So who drove you home?”

“This woman who happened to be driving by.” I neglect to tell him the creepiest part, that she knew where I lived without any directions. He’s already freaked out enough as it is. Besides, I was so out of it on the car ride home, it’s possible I told her my address and don’t remember.

“Sylvia,” my dad says firmly. “You shouldn’t have gotten into a car with a stranger. Why didn’t you call me?”

“I didn’t have my phone,” I say weakly. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“My God. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you had been . . .” His voice trails off, and we avoid eye contact, each of us thinking about what could have happened.

“You’re my heart,” he whispers, and I’m startled to see that he’s crying. I reach over and wipe away a tear that’s trickled down by the side of his mouth.

“Don’t worry, Dad. I’m okay.”

He manages a shaky smile.

“Is it okay if I go up to bed now? I’m exhausted.”

He kisses my forehead. “Of course, honey. Go get some rest.”

I leave him alone on the couch. He doesn’t follow me up to bed. That’s good because I have no intention of resting right now. Not after the night I’ve had.

Upstairs, my phone is right where I left it, on my nightstand. I grab it and punch in Rollins’s number. He answers before the phone even finishes its first ring. He sounds frenzied. “Vee! So glad you called. The show was so amazing. You listened, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, you were really great. But I’m actually calling about something else . . .”

Rollins is suddenly all business. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

I suppose I can’t blame him for assuming the worst after the craziness I put him through six months ago. I called him one night, begging him to help me save my sister from the killer who’d already murdered one of her friends.

“I’m okay,” I say, making my voice calm, trying to reassure him. “I just . . . kind of . . . crashed my father’s car.”

“WHAT WERE YOU DOING DRIVING YOUR DAD’S CAR?” Rollins bellows into the phone. I have to hold it a few inches away from my ear.

“I don’t know how to explain it. I fell asleep listening to your show. And then I thought I was having that dream again . . .” I swallow. “But it wasn’t a dream.”

“What are you saying, Vee?”

“I thought I was dreaming about riding in a car, but this time I was driving . . .” My breathing becomes labored as I find myself living through it all again. “I pulled the wheel to the right and went off the road. Right into a telephone pole. Slammed my head into the window.”

“Wait. So you woke up driving your father’s car?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think this is a symptom of your condition? Like sleepwalking or something? Sleepdriving?”

“It’s never happened to me before,” I say, pulling at the hem of my sweatshirt. “It was so strange, how I blacked out and found myself in the car. It was almost like—”

“Like what?”

I shut my eyes tight, knowing how crazy I sound.

“Like someone slid into me. Like someone forced me to get into that car.”

I can almost see Rollins frowning. He only recently learned about my sliding. I suppose it’s a little much to expect him to believe there are others like me out there, much less those who live in Iowa City.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he says. “Don’t you have to be touching a physical object that someone’s imprinted on in order to slide into them? If what you’re saying is true, someone in this town with the same power as you would have had to touch something of yours to force you to take your dad’s car. And they’d need a motive to do such a thing. It just seems a little far-fetched to me.”

“I know it doesn’t make sense. It’s just a feeling I had.”

He rushes to say, “It’s not that I don’t believe you. I do. I’m just wondering if you’re misinterpreting exactly what happened tonight. I know you haven’t been sleeping well. Maybe you started to have that nightmare about Zane dying, but this time you acted it out. In your sleep.”

I think about it. Rollins’s explanation seems plausible, but I just know that’s not what happened. Something deep down inside me keeps insisting that I was manipulated somehow tonight.

“So how did you end up getting home?”

“That’s another weird thing. This woman . . . Diane, she said her name was. She happened to be driving by and she gave me a ride home. But . . .”