Imposter

Chapter 33

Jericho woke up, naked, in his bed. Disoriented, he sat up, clutching his head.

"What the fuck?" he muttered.

Whoever he'd been with had left quickly, and left no trace of her presence—

Who had he been with? The last thing he remembered was talking to Katrina in the tavern. It had been a long night, riddled with nightmares.

In the afternoon, they'd gone out for drinks, and then. . .

There was a blank space in his memory.

When Jericho picked his jeans up from the floor, something clattered to the floor.

It was small and shiny, and with a frown, he bent down to retrieve it.

Turning it over in his hand, he observed the tiny, silver shield. It fit perfectly in the palm of his hand.

"Where'd this come from?" He glanced around his room, dressing as quickly as he could before tucking it safely in his pocket.

When he walked into the kitchen, his mother was standing over the oven, stirring a pot.

"Afternoon," she said. "Do you want to tell me who the woman I ran into outside was?"

"What?"

"Earlier," she prompted. "Who was she? You know how I feel about strangers in the house."

Jericho scowled. "Mom, I didn't have anyone over."

She didn't have any right to harp at him about keeping people away from Viviane, not when he was the only one taking care of her.

"Really?" Marie asked, propping a hand on her hip. "Then why did I see her walking out the door?"

"Mom. . .what did she look like?" he asked, a cold pit of dread settling in his stomach.

Marie shrugged, waving a hand in the air. "Tall. Held herself like royalty. Red hair."

Jericho folded his hands together, squeezing them in an attempt to stop the tremors.

"Is everything okay?" she asked. "You look pale."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll. . .I need to talk to Kat," he said. "I'll be back in time for dinner, I swear."

"One day, you'll stop running around with that stupid girl," Marie muttered, turning back to the stove. "She's nothing but trouble."

"Funny," he commented, pulling on his boots. "Her parents say the same thing about me."

When he got to Katrina's house, he found her down at the barn.

She was in the loft, tossing haybales down into the stall below her.

"Hey," she said, wiping sweat off her forehead. "What's up?"

With makeup on, Katrina was a cruel type of beauty. Without it, she was simply beautiful.

"Are you going to stand there, gawking, or are you going to come up and help me?" Katrina asked.

"I'm not your slave," he scoffed, but started to climb up the ladder.

Katrina laughed. "It's okay," she said. "I'm just about done."

He stood back and watched as she strained to get the last two bales over to the edge of the loft, where she pushed them down.

When she scampered down the ladder, she shook her hair loose from its bun.

"Well?" Katrina gave him an expectant look. "What's wrong?"