The Surrogate Mother Page 17

I know it will come out eventually, but I can’t tell the detective that Monica is our surrogate. I can’t even imagine how that revelation will make me look. I don’t want to think about it. I’ll deal with it when it happens.

  “Now Abby,” Sweeney says, “when is the last time you saw that letter opener?”

  “A few weeks ago?” I feel my eyebrows bunch together. “I thought I lost it.”

  “Lost it?” She cocks her head at me. “Would you have taken it out of your office?”

  “No. But… it wasn’t in the drawer where I usually keep it. Maybe someone borrowed it.”

  Or stole it because they wanted to frame me for murder.

  “Prior to your termination yesterday,” she says, “how would you categorize your relationship with Ms. Holt?”

  “Um, it was fine.”

  “Did you get along with her?”

  “More or less.” I’m finding it hard to swallow and I feel like I’m choking. “Everyone has their differences, right?”

  She smiles at me. “That’s true.”

  How long will it take for her to hear the story about the “bitch” email?

  “Is it typical for Ms. Holt to stay at work that late?” she asks.

  “Uh, yeah. Usually.”

  “Is the office usually otherwise empty at that time?”

  “Mostly. That’s why she wanted to meet at eight.”

  “Did you ask Ms. Holt if she would meet with you?”

  I frown. “No, I told you. She asked me.”

  “So you didn’t send her an email, requesting to speak with her?”

  “No…”

  My heart is pounding as Detective Sweeney reaches into the inside pocket of her jacket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. She carefully unfolds it and examines the contents. “So you didn’t send Ms. Holt an email saying, ‘I have information about you that could ruin you. If you don’t want it to get out, I suggest you meet with me tonight at eight.’”

  I stare at her. “No. I definitely didn’t.”

  She pushes the printout across the table so I can look at it more carefully. I see the return email address at the top as my own, addressed to Denise. And then the words Sweeney just read to me. Threatening words. Words I never wrote.

  Unless I’m going crazy.

  “I didn’t write that email,” I say with as much conviction as I can muster.

  “Would you give us access to your work email account, so we can look for it?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  But I have a sick feeling what they’ll find when they check my email. Because it occurs to me now that I’m not the only person with access to my email account. My former assistant also had access to my email. Monica.

  I’m about to tell Sweeney this detail, but then she leans forward, as if to tell me something in confidence. She flashes me that disarming smile of hers. “Listen, Abby,” she says. “I know it was very hard on you losing your job yesterday. That’s devastating for anyone. And when something like that happens, people can do desperate things.”

  I freeze. What is she saying?

  “I get it,” Sweeney continues. “It’s rough enough to find another job in this economy even without the drug accusations hanging over your head. And even if it wasn’t their fault, you tend to blame the person who swung the ax.”

  “I… I didn’t blame Denise…”

  “Didn’t you?” She raises an eyebrow. “I’m going to be honest with you, Abby. The evidence is overwhelming right now. You are going to go to jail for this—I guarantee it. But if you confess now, maybe we can work out a deal.”

  I stare at her. “I didn’t kill her.”

  She gives me a pitying look. “I’ve been doing this a long time, Abby. I’m telling you what’s going to happen. You seem like a good person who made a really bad mistake, and I want to help you.”

  “I didn’t kill her,” I say again.

  “Now we both know that’s a lie.” Her eyes connect with mine. “If you confess now, I can offer you a deal. But the second you leave this room, that deal goes away. And when we arrest you, it will be for first degree murder. That’s life in prison.”

  I feel sick. I literally feel like I’m going to throw up all over this nice, clean table in front of me. She thinks I’m a murderer. All the police think I did this. And so will everyone else in the world.

  “I want to speak to a lawyer,” I say.

  _____

  It’s nearly midnight when I get out of the police station. They haven’t arrested me, which I’m taking as a good sign. They must not have enough evidence, if that’s the case. And maybe that’s why they were pushing so hard to get me to confess. After Sweeney, another officer came in to talk to me, then a third after that. But I kept my mouth shut. I wasn’t saying one damn word without a lawyer.

  An officer leads me into the waiting room in the station, where there are two long rows of plastic uncomfortable-looking chairs. I’d imagine during the days that the chairs would be mostly filled, but right now, there are only a few people there, including one guy who looks like he’s passed out drunk. In the middle of the second row, I see a familiar figure, slumped forward, his head in his hands.

  Sam.

  “Mr. Adler?” the officer calls out. “Here she is.”

  He lifts his head from his hands. There are purple circles under his eyes like the ones I had this morning. He doesn’t smile when he sees me. He doesn’t even look at me—not really. He struggles to his feet, fumbling with his jacket.

  “I parked down the block,” he says in a hoarse voice.

  “Okay,” I mumble.

  I follow him wordlessly to his Highlander. I have no idea what they told him exactly, but by his reaction, it’s clear he’s heard a lot of the details. I wonder if they questioned him. If they did, I wonder what he told them.

  My wife has a drug problem. I tried to get her help, but she’s refusing to admit she has a problem. She hated her boss and probably killed her.

  We don’t say another word to each other on the entire walk to the car. When we get inside, I expect Sam to start up the engine, but instead, he drops his head against the headrest, his eyes glassy.

  “Sam,” I say.

  He rubs his face with his hands. “What?”

  I don’t know what I want to say. I want to ask him if he thinks I killed Denise, but I’m afraid of the answer to that question. So instead, I say, “Did the police question you?”

  He shakes his head no. “They just told me what happened. They wanted to question me, but I told them no. I’m not talking to anyone without a lawyer and I wish you hadn’t either.”

  “Yeah,” I breathe. “I didn’t realize how bad it was till I was in there.”

  “We’ll find you a lawyer tomorrow,” he says.

  I feel a twinge of hope. He’s saying “we” will find me a lawyer. That means he’s still on board. He’s not packing up my belongings and throwing them out the window.

  “I didn’t kill her,” I say. “I swear to you.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “I didn’t. Do you honestly think I did?”

  He shakes his head. “If you had asked me a few months ago, I would have said no. Definitely not. No way in hell. But now…”

  “Sam!” Tears spring to my eyes. “You’re saying you think I’m a murderer? You really think I’d do that?”

  He’s quiet for a moment. He rubs his face again. “No. I guess not.”

  My shoulders sag with relief. He believes me. “I think I was framed, Sam. Apparently, someone sent an email that—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “But you need to know that—”

  “I don’t want to hear it right now.” His Adam’s apple bobs. “I just want to go home, okay? We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  Silence fills the car. I don’t say another word. Even though Sam claims he believes me, I’m not so sure. At the very least, there’s doubt in his mind.

  I always f
elt like Sam was a man who would stay by my side no matter what. Somehow, in eight short months, we’ve lost that.

  Chapter 31

  “These charges are absolutely ridiculous. What you need is a good lawyer.”

  My mother, in stark contrast to my husband, is absolutely convinced of my innocence. So much so that she thinks if they do arrest me, the police will have a wrongful arrest lawsuit on their hands. My mother is very into lawsuits. Last year, she got a pants suit she didn’t like from Saks Fifth Avenue and she called her lawyer to see if she could sue. (The answer was no. But she was able to return it. It’s unclear why she didn’t do that in the first place.)

  We’re sitting in the bistro a block away from my apartment building, where my mother is treating me to lunch. The place is packed from the lunch rush, but my mother slipped the hostess a bill of some denomination, and we got a table pretty quick. I’m glad for the low buzz of conversation in the restaurant, because I don’t want anyone to overhear what we’re saying.

  “Sam already got me a lawyer,” I say.

  “Oh, did he?” she snorts. In her eyes, Sam is still that twenty-six-year-old kid who backed into her mailbox with his clunky old Honda and knocked it over. I’ll never forget the crestfallen look on Sam’s face when he did that—it was as if he knew that single act had cemented her dislike of him forever.

  “The lawyer is really good,” I say. And I add, because I know it will garner her respect: “He’s costing us a bundle.”

  “You mean he’s costing you a bundle,” she corrects me, peering at me over the rim of her water glass.

  “Sam and I don’t think about our money that way.”

  She laughs. “Well, that suits him, doesn’t it?”

  “Stop it. You know Sam doesn’t care about money.”

  “Abby, everyone cares about money.”

  I grit my teeth and scrunch up the napkin on my lap between my fingers. I’m not about to have a tantrum in this bistro, but it’s tempting.

  “So,” my mother says, “tell me about this ‘wonderful’ lawyer Sam got for you.”

  I pretend like I didn’t hear the scare quotes in her question. “He’s been a criminal lawyer for thirty years. He has an incredible trial record. Sam says he’s the best there is.”

  My mother isn’t listening though. She’s distracted by something across the room. I follow her gaze to where an attractive man in a pin-striped business suit and red power tie is seated alone at a table for two, his eyes pinned on his smartphone.

  “What do you think of him?” my mother asks.

  I raise an eyebrow at her. “What do you mean?”

  The man straightens out the collar of his pin-striped jacket. Brioni, I believe. Pricy. He lifts his eyes and catches me staring, and my cheeks grow warm. Before I can look away, he winks at me.

  “He winked at you!” my mother cries triumphantly.

  “So?”

  “So you should go talk to him.”

  I gape at her. “I’m not going to do that!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m married to another man?”

  “Yes, well, it’s good to have a backup, isn’t it?”

  I wish I could say this is the first time my mother has said something like that since Sam and I tied the knot. I don’t get it. And honestly, I’m sick of it.

  “Why do you hate Sam so much?” I blurt out.

  She blinks a few times, taken aback. “I don’t hate Sam.”

  “Then why are you suggesting I date another man?”

  My mother considers this question. She takes another sip from her water glass, still thinking it over. Finally, she says, “I always thought you could do better. You’re wealthy, you’re beautiful, and you have an amazing career. You could have had any man you wanted.”

  “But I wanted him. And he’s been a great husband.”

  “Has he?”

  “He absolutely has.” I suppress the urge to pound my fist on the table. “And he got me a great lawyer. He’s going to help me fix this terrible mistake.”

  “Well,” my mother says. “I hope you’re right.”

  Chapter 32

  “Fifteen years would be a gift, Abby.”

  The words of my attorney, Robert Frisch, echo in my ears. The walls of his office feel like they’re closing in on me. Obama’s smile in the photo is mocking me. This can’t be happening. Fifteen years. No. No way.

  “I didn’t do it,” I say for what feels like the millionth time.

  Frisch sighs. He so clearly doesn’t believe me. I know he’s one of the best criminal attorneys in the city, but right now, I’d trade him for a newbie lawyer who at least believed my story. But nobody believes me. Sam doesn’t. Frisch doesn’t. Even Shelley, my best friend, isn’t returning my calls.

  And Monica… well, she’s the only one who knows the truth.

  She killed Denise and planned to pin the murder on me—the final nail on my coffin. It wasn’t enough that she got me fired for the drugs she planted in my urine. It wasn’t enough my husband texts with her morning and night. None of that was good enough for her. She wants me behind bars, where there’s no chance I can take back what’s mine.

  “I think you should take the plea,” Sam says. “This is your best chance.”

  “I’m not spending the rest of my life in jail for something I didn’t do!”

  “It’s not the rest of your life.”

  Is he kidding me? “It’s fifteen years!”

  I’m thirty-seven now. In fifteen years, I’ll be fifty-two. Any chance of becoming a mother will be gone forever at that point. My career will be gone. And my marriage…

  Sam is staring straight ahead at Frisch’s desk, refusing to look at me. If I go to jail, it’s over between us. Some people make marriage work behind bars but we won’t—he thinks I’m some kind of monster. If I take this plea bargain, he’ll end up moving in with Monica. Maybe not right away, but eventually. The two of them will raise their son together. Happily ever after ending for both of them.

  Maybe I should let them have their happily ever after. Sam stuck with me through all the infertility, even knowing it was all my fault. He’s a good guy. He deserves to be happy.

  But not with Monica.

  Forget everything she’s done to me, even though that’s pretty damn hard to do. If I care about Sam at all, I can’t let him get involved with Monica. She’s a psychopath. She’s a murderer. The second he burns her toast, she’ll probably stab him in the chest.

  “Think about it, Abby,” Frisch says to me. “This option won’t be around forever. The police have a really solid case against you.”

  My head is spinning as I sit in Sam’s car, riding back to our apartment. He has to go to work now, but I’m home for the day since I’m home every day now. He waits until we’re halfway back before he says, “I think you should take the plea.”

  “Yes, I know what you think.”

  “Frisch knows what he’s talking about.”

  I stare out the window, at the storefronts whizzing by. I’ll miss this if I go to jail. If that happens, all I’d see around me are bars and the prison courtyard and guards and…

  Oh great, now I’m crying.

  “Abby.” His voice softens. “Don’t cry.”

  Nope. Still crying. I don’t think I can stop.

  It’s funny because I’m not a crier. I never cry. Maybe once a year, I have one big epic cry just to get all my frustration out of my system, then I’m good for the next three-hundred-and-sixty-four days. I hate the loss of control I feel when I’m sobbing. But lately, I feel like a leaky faucet. All I do anymore is cry.

  Sam probably thinks it’s from the meth. And maybe it is.

  “Listen,” he says gently, “if you want to go to trial, then… let’s do it. Okay?”

  I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “If I went to jail, you’d move in with Monica.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “You would.”

  “Stop i
t. I wouldn’t.”

  I don’t believe him though. I can see in his eyes that he’s done with me. All the kindness is gone. Who could blame him—he thinks I did something horrible.

  I wipe my eyes again with my shirt sleeve. I stare out the window again, trying not to think about what’s likely going to happen in the next few days. Jail. I can’t wrap my head around it.

  I wonder if they’ll handcuff me. Do they always do that? If I agree to go quietly, do they have to put the handcuffs on? I really don’t want to be handcuffed. It seems so… medieval. Maybe I should just go to the police station and turn myself in. In fact…

  Wait.

  Holy crap.

  “Sam!” I cry. “Stop the car!”

  “What?” he says. “Why?”

  Fortunately, he’s already slowing to a stop at a red light. The second he comes to a complete stop, I unlock the door and leap out of the car. I don’t even give him an explanation. At this point, I’m sure he’s chalking this up to my erratic drug-fueled behavior. Whatever. This is more important than the possibility of Sam thinking slightly less of me. You can’t get lower than zero, after all.

  Or maybe you can. Negative numbers and all. Sam would know about that one.

  Once I’m out of the car, I’m tearing down Broadway as fast as I can run. It’s not easy because I’m wearing heels, but if I lose sight of this girl, I’ll never forgive myself. This is my only chance to clear my name.

  “Chelsea!” I cry out when I’m within earshot.

  The girl doesn’t turn. Her blond hair gets tossed by the wind as she strides down the street, clutching a Hot Topic bag. I’m getting seriously out of breath chasing her. Also, my heel gets jammed in a crack in the pavement and I nearly go flying, but I miraculously manage to right myself. It takes me another second, but I finally draw close enough to seize her arm.

  “Chelsea,” I gasp.

  She turns, blinking her blue eyes in surprise. It’s the same girl, all right. Same one who talked to me about what a wonderful, selfless person Monica Johnson is. And then her phone line inexplicably got disconnected.

  “Excuse me?” she says.

  “I…” I’m still gasping to catch my breath. Wow, I’m really out of shape. Good thing I’ll have fifteen years to get buff in prison. Isn’t that what people mostly do in prison? Work out and get tattoos of skulls? “I’m Abby Adler. We… we talked a while ago about Monica Johnson.”