Imposter by Chanda Stafford Read Free Book Online Page A

Last time was horrible! That awful woman, she…”
    Eliot chuckles, the humor erasing the pain from her face. “It won’t be like last time, I promise.”
    “I hope so!  The last interview was a complete fake! They made everything up!” I tighten my hands on the armrests and start to rise.
    Eliot shakes her head, the motion almost imperceptible. “Shh, keep your voice down.” She jerks her head at the thick wooden door.
    “Sorry. It was awful, though.”
    “I’m sure it was. This one will be different, though. For one, it’s unscripted.”
    “So they won’t be telling me what to say and making it up if I don’t give them the right answer?”
    “Correct. I’m certain they’ll still do some creative editing if need be, but this interview is a great deal more informal than the last. The physicians already proved that you are Socrates, this is just a way to familiarize the people with your new personal before you make your political debut.”
    I lean back in my chair as the strength drains from my body. “I can’t get out of this, can I?”
    Eliot must read the fear on my face. “No, not unless you want to lose credibility and important momentum for the Bill. Any positive press we can garner could make a huge difference.”
    The short laugh escapes before I can stop it. “It all comes back to that, doesn’t it?”
    A smile appears at the corner of her lips. “You’ll do fine. Just remember what Socrates would do.” She stands up and gestures around the room. “And maybe, if you’re really worried about it, check out a book. It might help you forget for a little while. Socrates always used to do that when he was stressed out and this is, after all, your library.” She turns around and leaves me sitting there, mind whirling.
    I push to my feet as I scan the bookshelves. Maybe Eliot’s right, and if she’s not, at least it’ll keep my mind off things. I tap my fingers along the shelves until I find the one on history and the Immigration War.
    He had a small part in it, you know.
    I slip the book from the shelf and take it to the huge desk. The chair creaks as I lower myself into it and lean back, the leather cupping my body in a cool embrace. Antiques, from ballpoint pens to an old pocket watch on a long silver chain, cover the top of the desk. I take a deep breath. These antiques belong to Socrates, and now, I guess, they are mine.
    From his spot on the floor, Ben gives me his best doggie stare before dropping his head back down on to his paws. Poor thing. I wonder if he’ll ever see me as more than an interloper. I lean back, and the chair starts to slip out from under me. I hook my fingers onto a shallow groove under the desk’s surface, sliding a drawer open with a nearly silent snick . What is this, a secret compartment? I hesitate before looking inside. It feels as though I’m invading someone’s privacy. Socrates’s privacy. But Socrates is dead and you’re not. You’re Socrates now.
    Fingers trembling, I slide the drawer open. Inside are more trinkets of a man’s life that lasted way too long: keys, scissors, little scraps of paper yellowed with age, and a pair of silver disks connected to a round ring. I pull those out and turn them over in my hand. They’re blank, the surfaces almost soft, rubbed smooth by fingers that remembered what was imprinted on them long after the words were worn away. I run my fingers over the rest of the relics in the drawer, but for some reason, these stand out to me as the most important. Unable to put them back, I slip them into my pocket and close the drawer.
    Suddenly antsy, I grab the book and leave the library. To my left, a row of spotlights shining on the wall lights a long hall. Drawn to them, I wander over and discover a line of pictures stretch down the hall, all of them of kids. A sick feeling fills my stomach.
    Smiling youths, male and female, pose in each of the six portraits. Each of them smiles benignly at the camera. The sick feeling grows