Page 1 of The Surrogate Mother
PROLOGUE
In the next twenty-four hours, I will be arrested for first-degree murder.
I don’t know how this could be happening. I’m not the kind of person who goes to jail for murder. I’mnot. I’ve never even gotten a speeding ticket. Hell, I’ve never even jaywalked before. I’m the most law-abiding citizen who ever was.
“They have a pretty solid case against you, Abby.”
My lawyer, Robert Frisch, does not sugar coat things. I’ve only known him a short time, but I already know he’s not about handholding and gumdrops and lollipops. He has spent the last twenty minutes enumerating all the police department’s evidence against me. And when I hear it all laid out for me like that, it sounds bad. If I were some neutral third party listening to everything Frisch was saying, I’d be thinking to myself,That woman is definitely guilty. Lock her up—throw away the key.
The whole time I was listening to Frisch, my heart was thumping wildly in my chest. It actually made it a bit hard to hear him for stretches of time. To my right, my husbandSam is slumped in his chair, a glassy look in his eyes. Sam was the one who hired Frisch.He’s your best chance, Abby,he told me.
So if Frisch can’t help me, that means I have no chance.
“It’s all circumstantial evidence,” I say, even though I’m not certain that’s the case or even exactly what circumstantial evidence is. But I know one thing: “I didn’t do it.”
Frisch lets out an extended sigh and folds his arms across his chest. “You have to understand that if this goes to court, you’re going to be convicted.”
“Ifthis goes to court?”
“I’d recommend a plea bargain,” he says. “When they arrest you—”
I imagine the police showing up at my door, snapping metal cuffs on my wrists. Reading me my rights.You have the right to remain silent.Is that something they really say in real life? I don’t want to find out.
“Ifthey arrest me,” I correct him.
Frisch gives me a look like I’m out of my mind. He’s been a criminal attorney for nearly thirty years. One of the best. You can tell how successful he is by the leather sofa pushed up against the wall and the mahogany desk where he’s got a photo of himself shaking the hand of Barack Obama. I’ve got money, but the length of a full trial might bleed us dry.
“Second-degree murder is fifteen years to life,” Frisch says. “Whereas for Murder One, you could get life without possibility of parole. If you plea down to Murder Two—”
“Fifteen years!” I cry.
I don’t want to go to jail for fifteen years. That’s a lifetime. I don’t want to go to jail for one day, but fifteen years is unthinkable. I can’t wrap my head around it. I can’t make a plea bargain that will guarantee me fifteen years of prison. Ican’t.
I look over at Sam, hoping for an equally indignant expression on his face. Instead, he still has that glazed look on his face. He’s staring at the wall behind Frisch, and even though I’m trying to catch his eye, he won’t look at me.
Does he think I did it?
Does my own husband really believe I’m a murderer? He knows me better than anyone else in the world, so if he believes I’m guilty, what chance do I have with a jury?
But I’m not guilty. I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill anyone…
Did I?
1
ONE YEAR EARLIER
At this moment in time, my life is just about perfect.
A couple of years ago, I couldn’t have said that. A couple of years ago, I would have rather slit my wrists than stood up in front of a room full of executives from Cuddles, “the new name in diapers,” and presented them with a new ad campaign filled with dozens of pictures of cherubic babies with halos on their heads and the tagline: “Because your little angel is worth it.” I would have done the presentation, of course, but the smile on my face wouldn’t have been genuine, the way it is today.
But right now, everything is exactly the way I want it to be. Well, notexactly, but very close. I have the job I always wanted. I’m married to a wonderful man. And in a few short weeks (depending on the whims of the Labor Gods), I’m going to become a mother for the very first time.
You might say I have a glow about me.
“This new campaign,” I say, as I gesture at the projected image on the screen, “has the potential to propel Cuddles into the same league as Huggies and Pampers.”
I turn my gaze to Jed Cofield, the executive VP of marketing at Cuddles. Jed is in his forties with thick, chestnut hair, penetrating dark eyes, and a suit from Hugo Boss. Even though he wears a gold band on his left hand, in the two years I’ve worked with him, he always stands a bit closer than he needs to when we talk—close enough that I can accurately identify what he ate for his last meal. Even now—even with my impending motherhood—I notice his eyes traveling down the length of my body.
