The Surrogate Mother

by Freida McFadden

  I feel a stab of guilt. The last thing I want to do is dredge up bad memories for her. But I need to know. “You told me you thought someone pushed you.”

  “I didn’t mean that though. It was just, you know, the usual pushing and shoving.” She laughs lightly. “Show me a young person who isn’t pushing or shoving!”

  “If I show you a photograph,” I say, “could you tell me if that person is familiar to you?”

  Gertie never had the opportunity to meet Monica. If she recognizes the photo, then that means there’s a chance Monica was in the stairwell that day. And maybe it will jog her memory about other things too.

  Like that Monica was the one who pushed her.

  I pull out my phone and bring up the one photo I’ve got of Monica, taken in the waiting room at our first OB/GYN appointment. I wanted to take a photo to commemorate the whole thing. In retrospect, it seems so stupid. Who knew it would all go so horribly wrong?

  Well, aside from Sam, Shelley, my mother… well, everyone but me.

  I slide the phone across the table to Gertie. Who then takes out her reading glasses. God, I forgot all about Gertie’s reading glasses. She has this pair of purple-rimmed giant reading glasses that she always keeps stashed away in her purse. Whenever she’s asked to read anything, she takes about five hours to pull out those stupid reading glasses. I’m beginning to remember how annoying Gertie used to be.

  Finally she gets out her reading glasses and peers through them at the image on my phone. She squints a bit, then lifts the phone up in the air to get more light. Then she turns it around. After about sixty seconds, I’m ready to shake her.

  “Well?” I say.

  “She does look a bit familiar,” Gertie admits.

  “So you think you’ve seen her before?”

  “Yes, I think I have.”

  My heart speeds up. “Do you think she’s the person who pushed you down the stairs?”

  Gertie looks up sharply. She pulls off her giant reading glasses and her eyebrows bunch together. “Abby, are you all right?”

  “No!” And now I can’t hold it back anymore. I really am sobbing. I had so much hope for this meeting, but that was stupid. How could Gertie remember something that happened a year ago, when she couldn’t even remember you had to press “send” on the fax machine before a fax would go through? “I’m not all right. Somebody slipped drugs into my coffee at work and I got fired and my husband thinks I’m a drug addict and…”

  Her eyes widen. She gawks at me for a moment, but then she pulls me in for a hug. “This is going to be okay, Abby. I promise you.”

  “No, it’s not! How can it be okay?”

  “Trust me,” she says so convincingly, I almost believe it. “You’re a good person, Abby. Everyone knows you didn’t do anything wrong. It will all work out in the end.”

  While Gertie is hugging me, I hear a buzzing noise coming from my purse. I pull away from her embrace and find my phone in my purse. My eyes widen when I see the name on the screen.

  Denise Holt is calling.

  Chapter 29

  Why would Denise Holt be calling me? It doesn’t make any sense. The woman already fired me. Does she want to fire me again?

  No, it’s probably something stupid. Like a complication with my final paycheck. Yet…

  “Excuse me,” I say to Gertie, who has a perplexed expression on her face. “I… I’m going to take this call outside.”

  I race out of the café with my phone, swiping to take the call just as I get outside. My heart is already racing. “Hello?”

  “Abigail?” There’s no mistaking Denise’s clipped voice. I can only imagine her ice-blue eyes shooting daggers at me from across town. “This is Denise Holt.”

  “Yes,” I say. “I know.”

  “Right,” Denise says. Then she hesitates, which is very un-Denise-like. Denise never hesitates. She has never questioned any decision or thought she has ever had in her entire life. Or so she’d like the rest of the word to believe. “Listen, Abigail… I… we may have made a mistake…”

  I almost drop the phone. A mistake? Denise Holt made a mistake? And she’s admitting it?

  This can’t be real. It’s got to be some sort of meth-fueled hallucination. I should pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.

  “All I know is I never took drugs, Denise,” I say. “I swear on my life.”

  “Yes…” She heaves a sigh on the other line. “It’s gotten a little more complicated than that, I’m afraid.”

  My breath catches in my throat. “How so?”

  “Well,” she says slowly, “I took Monica as my own personal assistant after you left, and… well, this morning I caught her going through my desk when I was out of the room. I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said she was looking for tape, if you could believe that!” Denise snorts. “I didn’t say anything, but the entire exchange made me incredibly uncomfortable. So while she was out at lunch, I searched her desk.”

  I almost laugh at the thought of Denise doing a search of Abby’s little cubicle. Not that any of this is funny. “What did you find?”

  “Well,” she says, “the part that pertains to you was the prescription bottle.”

  I frown. “Prescription bottle?”

  “She had a bottle of a medication called Adderall. I looked it up and it’s basically a form of amphetamine.” She clears her throat. “Didn’t Monica bring you coffee every morning? And she brought you your lunches too, didn’t she?”

  “Yes,” I breathe.

  Up until now, it was all just speculation. But it turns out, I was right. The drug test wasn’t a mistake. Monica drugged me to make sure I’d get fired.

  “This whole thing is an HR nightmare,” Denise groans. “I don’t know what we’re going to do, given her pregnancy and your little arrangement with her. She could sue the pants off of us.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  She’s quiet for a moment. I hold my breath, wondering if she’s going to give me one of her famous Denise Holt lectures.

  “No, I understand,” she finally says. “You were… you were going through a lot. And I… I might have handled it better. As your employer.” She pauses. “And as your friend.”

  My shoulders sag. I would never have called Denise my friend in a million years. I hated her. But before our fertility struggles carved a wedge in our relationship, we were friends. No—more than friends. She was my mentor. She was the person I admired most of everyone I had ever met.

  “Listen,” she says, “I want to talk to you about this in person. We need to strategize how we’re going to handle this situation, and your help would… well, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Yes, of course,” I breathe.

  “Could you come to the office tonight?”

  “Sure. What time?”

  “Eight o’clock will be fine—you know everyone will be gone by then.” I can almost hear the smile in her voice. “Those slackers are always gone by seven.”

  I remember all the late evenings in Denise’s office with a feast of Chinese food spread out along her desk while we worked. “That’s for sure.”

  “So I’ll see you tonight?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Denise hesitates for one more moment before saying: “Don’t worry, Abigail. We’re going to make this right.”

  _____

  As soon as I got off the phone with Denise, I made excuses to Gertie and got out of the café. My mind was spinning.

  Of course, maybe my mind was spinning because Monica had been slipping amphetamines into my coffee.

  When I got home, I sent off a text to Sam: We need to talk when you get home.

  He wrote back: Okay.

  I wanted to relay to him everything Denise had told me, but not over the phone. I wanted to tell him to his face. Except by seven-thirty, Sam still wasn’t home yet. I didn’t know where he was. I didn’t want to think about where he was. I figured I
’d deal with him after my discussion with Denise.

  I need him to believe me. More than anything.

  It’s nearly eight when I get to the office building, and most people have gone home for the day. It occurs to me for a moment as I hover outside the building that since I was escorted out by security, there may be some sort of note not to let me in. And on top of that, I’m not really dressed for work. I’m wearing a nice shirt and slacks, but it’s not a typical Abby Adler power outfit.

  Oh well. Here goes nothing.

  I stride into the building confidently. Like I’ve said, confidence goes a long way. I immediately recognize Patrick from all my late nights at Stewart. He’s the security guard on most nights—a gangly guy with an easy smile. I wait for him to challenge me, but instead he flashes me a big smile.

  “Hello, Abby!” He waves to me. “Working late again, are you?”

  “Yes, I am,” I say.

  He winks at me. “Well, don’t stay too late.”

  I used to think Patrick had a crush on me, back before my self-confidence was shattered by the woman trying to steal my job and my husband. Maybe I can get it back though. Denise is finally on my side again for the first time in a very long time. I’ve got hope I might come out of this with my career and my marriage intact.

  When I get up to the floor for Stewart Advertising, it’s very quiet. Everyone has gone home for the day, which is no surprise. As she pointed out, Denise and I were the only two people who regularly worked late. My heels click against the ground as I make the familiar journey to her corner office.

  The door to Denise’s office reads “DENISE HOLT” in shiny gold letters. I usually keep my door partially ajar, but Denise always keeps her door shut tight. So I knock.

  No reply.

  She wouldn’t have left, would she? No, never. If there’s one thing you can say about Denise, she’s conscientious. She wouldn’t tell someone to show up for a meeting and then flake. That wouldn’t be like her at all.

  On a whim, I try the doorknob—open. She probably went to the bathroom. I push the door open to wait inside.

  Except Denise isn’t in the bathroom. She’s sitting at her desk, her head in her arms. Like she’s napping or crying or something.

  “Denise?” I say.

  She doesn’t answer.

  What the hell is going on here? There’s no way Denise is napping at her desk. I’d sooner expect a pig to go flying past the window. But why isn’t she lifting her head? Why isn’t she acknowledging that I’m standing in front of her.

  “Um, Denise?” I say again.

  No answer.

  I approach the desk and put my hand on her shoulder, but she doesn’t even flinch. I shake her this time, but instead of sitting up, she falls to the floor.

  And that’s when I see all the blood.

  _____

  There’s yellow tape around Denise’s office, which has been cordoned off by the police that are now swarming the office. I’m sitting in somebody’s desk chair, hugging myself, unable to stop shaking.

  Denise is dead. I don’t entirely know what happened to her, but when I rolled her over on the floor, trying to help her, I found her lifeless blue eyes staring into nothingness. I’m no doctor, but at that moment, I knew it was too late for an ambulance.

  It probably sounds terrible, but for a moment, I considered making a run for it. After all the bad blood between me and Denise, the last place I wanted to be caught was at her murder scene. But Patrick had seen me come in—nothing would look guiltier than running. Also, there was the small matter of having her blood smeared all over me.

  But more than all that, I couldn’t leave her like that. Denise was my idol at one time. She had been trying to help me. I couldn’t let her body lie there all night, rotting on the floor of her office. She deserved better than that.

  “Mrs. Adler?”

  It’s the voice of a female detective, who told me her name but I promptly forgot it. She’s standing in front of me, holding up a plastic bag containing a shiny, metal object.

  “Yes?” I manage.

  “Does this object look familiar to you?”

  “Not really,” I mumble.

  “Could you take a closer look?”

  I squint at the blood-soaked object inside the bag. It takes a second for me to make out what it is. It’s a letter opener.

  With the name “ABBY” engraved on it.

  “That’s mine!” I gasp.

  Well, this is looking worse and worse. I’m starting to long for when my only problem was an alleged meth addiction.

  The female officer goes back to talk to the others. I don’t like the way they keep looking at me when they talk. And now they’re pointing at me. Great.

  Oh my God, what if they arrest me?

  The female officer comes back over to me. My heart is pounding in my chest. This is so bad. “Mrs. Adler, we’d like you to come down to the station to answer some questions.”

  “Am I under arrest?” I croak.

  Long pause. “No, we’d just like to ask you some questions.”

  “Should I…” I swallow hard. “Should I get a lawyer?”

  “You can if you wish,” she says. “But we’re just going to ask you some questions. We’d like to find out who killed Ms. Holt as quickly as possible, so we’d appreciate your cooperation.”

  “Okay,” I say dully. “I’ll go.”

  “Is there anyone you’d like for us to call to pick you up at the station?” she asks.

  “My husband,” I say.

  As I recite Sam’s number, I can’t even imagine what he’s going to say to all this. It was bad enough when it was just drugs. Now there’s a possible murder charge thrown into the mix.

  It’s obvious I’ve been set up. If there was any doubt about it in my mind, that letter opener confirmed my fears. Someone wanted me to be set up on murder charges. Someone who was worried Denise knew too much.

  And I’m afraid that someone is going to get their wish.

  Chapter 30

  At the police station, the female officer introduces herself again as Detective Sweeney. She gets me set up in an interrogation room, which, besides the name, isn’t nearly as scary as it sounds. It’s a small room painted sky blue with a metal table in the middle and a plastic chair on either side. I’d rather not be in here a long time, but it doesn’t frighten me.

  I sit down in one of the chairs and Detective Sweeney sits across from me. She has a pleasant face with a disarming smile, which I suspect might be the point. They’re hoping I’ll tell them something to incriminate myself. But I won’t.

  Because I didn’t kill Denise.

  “Mrs. Adler,” Sweeney begins. She hesitates. “May I call you Abby?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. Abby.” She flashes that disarming smile again. “I was hoping you could clear up a few things for me.”

  “Uh, okay.”

  She folds her hands in front of her. “You were fired by Ms. Holt yesterday, weren’t you?”

  I nod.

  “What was the reason for your termination?”

  I consider lying, but that would be stupid. It would be easy enough to find out the real reason. “I took a drug test that came back positive for meth. But it was a false positive—I don’t take any drugs.”

  “I see.” Sweeney nods, but something changes in her expression. “So given you were fired, why were you in the building?”

  “Denise asked me to come by.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “She said she thought someone had tampered with my drug tests and she wanted to discuss it.”

  Sweeney raises an eyebrow. “She called you and said that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she say who she thought had tampered with the test?”

  I hesitate for a moment before nodding. “Monica Johnson. My former personal assistant.”

  “I see. And why did she think Ms. Johnson tampered with the drug tests.”

  “She
found a bottle of Adderall in Monica’s… er, Ms. Johnson’s desk. That’s an amphetamine. She believed Ms. Johnson had spiked my coffee with it.”

  “Why was Ms. Holt searching Ms. Johnson’s desk?”

  I squeeze my hands together. “She told me she saw Monica snooping around her desk, and… I think she wanted to make sure she wasn’t stealing stuff.”

  Sweeney cocks her head thoughtfully. “You know, Adderall is a medication prescribed for ADHD. Why did she jump to the conclusion that Ms. Johnson was poisoning you? Couldn’t it have been a prescribed medication?”

  “I… I’m not sure…”

  “And are you aware,” she continues, “that Adderall is very unlikely to result in a urine drug screen being positive for methamphetamines?”

  I was not.

  Sweeney doesn’t wait for my response. She quickly jumps to an entirely new line of questioning, which makes me nervous the other line didn’t go very well for me. “So you say Ms. Holt called you on your phone…”

  “She did call me. I have the call in my history.”

  “Can I see?”

  I nod and pull my phone out of my purse. At least I have proof of the call from Denise. I bring up my call record and hand it over to Detective Sweeney, who studies it thoughtfully.

  “Did anyone else witness this call?” she asks me.

  “No.” I think about how I raced out of the café the second I saw Denise’s name on the screen. “But she called me. You can see it on the screen.”

  “Right.” Sweeney nods. “The question is, what did she say?”

  “I told you what she said.”

  “Yes,” she agrees. “You did.”

  What is that supposed to mean?

  “And did Ms. Holt tell her suspicions about Ms. Johnson to anyone besides you?”

  “Well, no,” I admit. “I don’t think so, at least.”

  “Don’t you think that’s odd though? If you believed one of your employees was poisoning another, wouldn’t you speak to HR?”

  My palms feel very sweaty all of a sudden. “Well, she thought it might be an issue because, you know… Monica is pregnant.”