SIXTY DAYS WITH THE IMPOSTOR

Marlowe. The first time someone told me I killed my husband, it was across a twelve-foot mahogany boardroom table in front of the entire board. “What happened in Miami?” Harlan asked, rising to his feet slowly. “I don’t understand,” “No. I think you do. And guess what? " You should be behind bars and not running his company,” Harlan Ashford snapped, teeth clenched, “You’re the last person who saw Dominic alive, so tell us, what really happened?” His words stung like air pollution. Yet I didn’t falter; I stood my ground, even though I already knew the truth didn’t matter here. No one would believe a word I say. I was the enemy to them. The social climber. So it made no sense to argue. Pairs of eyes were resting on me now, waiting for my response or even something close to a reaction. It was now the widow versus the brother of the missing man. I let the silence sit for a while before clearing my throat softly, “The meeting is cancelled!” I said calmly as I began to make my way to the door. “You don’t get to cancel anything, Marlowe,” Harlan cut in. “Until Dominic Ashford is officially pronounced dead, I remain his wife,” I said calmly, “ and as long as I’m his wife. I remain in charge.” Harlan’s jaw tightened as he stared at me, I could see the rage flickering in his eyes. I didn’t wait a second for a response; instead, I stepped out of the boardroom and out of the Ashford maritime building. It was there that I saw a bunch of reporters rushing towards me, flashing cameras in my face, voices overlapping, and countless questions being thrown at me. For a moment, I felt like I was about to pass out, but my legs won’t stop moving. Maybe I should have waited for my security detail before leaving the building but Harlan had pushed me too far and I knew if I stayed one more minute in that boardroom, I might explode in front of everyone. I reached my Toyota Supra and pulled the door open, “Mrs. Marlowe Ashford,” a reporter asked. “Is it true that you were just an assistant before you seduced your missing husband, Mr Dominic, and that’s why you’re promoted to CFO?” “Mrs. Ashford,” another one called out. “Sources say the last time Mr. Dominic was seen during a vacation in Miami with you. What happened?” I didn’t answer. I slid into the car, slammed the door shut, and started the engine. The damn cameras were still flashing when I drove away, and my hands trembled on the steering wheel. I pressed harder on the accelerator than I needed to, and my eyes remained on the road. I didn’t slow the car till the traffic light turned red. That's when I realized I was breathing loudly. Panic attacks had started to creep in. I clutched my chest, and I could feel my heart hammering against my ribs, not from fear, but from the sickening pressure of being haunted with questions I didn’t have. Or answers no one would ever believe. It’s been thirty days since I last saw Dominic Ashford smile. Thirty days of reporters camping outside Ashford Maritime. Thirty days of waiting for him to return home finally. The traffic light turned yellow, then green, and I eased my foot onto the accelerator again, driving at a calmer pace this time. Ten minutes later, I pulled into the driveway of the penthouse. The engine hadn’t even fully died before I noticed it. KILLER written on my door. My breath stuttered. And I just sat in my car like some dummy. Then I moved, got out of my car, no, ran out of my car. I rushed forward, hands already pressing against the surface, trying to wipe it away like it wasn’t real. It could be undone. “No… no, no,” I muttered under my breath. My palm rubbed harder against the letters, smearing them slightly but not erasing them. The paint had already set. It wasn’t fresh enough to simply wipe off. I stepped back for a moment, staring out at the empty street. This wasn’t random. This was a message from someone who thinks I was behind what happened to my husband. “It’s too risky to be out here,” I thought to myself. When I stepped in, my eyes fell on the pair of brown leather shoes resting neatly in the foyer, I hadn't moved them or anything of his. Not because I was lazy but because moving them would mean that I’d accepted that Dominic wasn’t coming back. I walked to the living room, not even bothering to take off my heels before crashing onto the plush sofa, and before I knew it, my eyes closed, and sleep got the best of me. When I finally opened my eyes again, the city outside the glass walls was already dark. “s**t!” I groaned. “I overslept.” I stretched for a bit, and then I managed to get on my feet. It was even scarier at night, and I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to stop thinking, and for once, I wanted to live my life and forget about my problems. Without thinking too much about it, I walked out of the house and slipped into the car, started the engine, and began to drive around. My phone began to buzz. The name Eleanor Ashford is displayed on the screen. “Marlowe, I’ve been calling for a while now. You need to come in tomorrow for the reading of the will.” “What?” I blurted out. “Dom is not dead. He’s only missing. The police haven’t found a body.” “Yeah I wonder why,” she said in her usual judgmental tone. She paused and then continued, “You need to accept Dom is gone and not coming back. See you tomorrow, Marlowe. And seek professional help.” The line went off, and I rolled my eyes. “F*ckkk!” I muttered, tightening my grip on the steering wheel. Now I need a drink. A strong one. Without hesitation, I turned onto a narrow midtown street and pulled over in front of the first bar I saw. It wasn't the kind of place someone of my calibre would step into. But tonight, I didn't care. I pushed the heavy iron door open and stepped in. The place was crammed. Music buzzing from the speakers, glass clinking, and the smell of alcohol and cigarettes thick in the air. I slipped into a corner seat at the bar where the noise was less terrible. “I need vodka,” I said to myself, scanning the room for a bartender. That was when I saw him. The man behind the counter poured a drink into a glass cup, smiling at a customer. My heart skipped a beat. It's the same sharp jawline. The same jet black hair. My bag fell from my hands and hit the ground. “What?” I whispered. My voice is barely audible. “This can't be possible!” Because the bartender standing a few feet away from me looked exactly like my missing husband. Dominic Ashford.