Page 79 of The Surrogate Mother
Even from a foot away, I can hear the female voice on the other line say, “OhGod.”
Taylor giggles. “So I’ve got this lady here who is having some major issues with Monica, and she was hoping to talk to you.”
“In person, if possible,” I add.
“Yeah, in person,” Taylor says. She listens for a moment, then looks me over. “No, she doesn’t look nuts. I mean, she seems nice. Sounds like Monica’s done a number on her.”
I wait, shifting between my feet. I hope this woman is willing to talk to me. If I can get an old roommate of Monica’s to talk about how evil she is, at least Sam might bewilling to consider I could be right. I know it’s hard for him to think ill of her, considering she’s pregnant with his child, but he’s got to see reason if there’s enough evidence staring him in the face. He’sgotto.
Taylor pulls the phone away from her ear. “Cynthia says she’s got to go to work in an hour, but she’s available till then. She lives in the village.”
I nod. “Give me her address.”
_____
It’sa half-hour cab ride to Cynthia’s apartment, and I make the driver speed the whole way, promising I’ll foot the bill if he gets a ticket. Everyone I know seems to think Monica is a saint—it’ll be vindication to meet someone else who recognizes she’s not what she seems.
I hope that’s what this is, anyway. If all Cynthia’s got are stories about how Monica ate all the Frosted Flakes and didn’t buy a new box, I’m going to be disappointed.
Cynthia lives in a brown brick building in the west village with fire escapes zig-zagging back-and-forth across the front of it. I find the last name Holloway and press the button. After a moment, a loud buzzer sounds off and the door to the building unlocks.
The apartment is on the fourth floor and it would be too much to hope for an elevator. I huff it up the stairs, the blisters multiplying on my poor toes. I ignore the pain though. I need to talk to this woman. She’s the key to everything—I’m sure of it.
Cynthia Holloway turns out to be a petite girl aroundMonica’s height with a funky black pixie cut and a nose ring. She smiles broadly at me when she opens the door, revealing a crooked incisor. “So you’re a victim of Monica’s, huh?”
“Abby,” I say, as I struggle to catch my breath.
“Right.” She nods, and glances at the back of the apartment. “My other roommate Ellie is here too. She wants to get in on dishing on Monica too.”
“Are we doing Monica stories?” Another voice rings out from the back of the apartment. A girl with light brown hair swept into an effortlessly messy bun comes into view, wiping her hands on her skinny blue jeans. “Can I go first?”
Cynthia winks at me. “Why don’t you have a seat, Abby?”
I sit down on a bean bag chair in the middle of their living room. I don’t know if I’ve ever sat in a bean bag chair before. I gingerly settle down into the middle of it, clutching my purse in my lap, and I immediately sink down amongst the beans. I don’t know how I’m going to get up from this stupid thing. It is pretty comfortable though.
“So how do you know Monica, Abby?” Cynthia asks me as she settles into a Papasan chair.
The whole story would take more time to tell than the time I’ve got. Better keep it quick. “I worked with her. Until she got me in trouble with our boss, and I lost my job.”
The two girls exchange looks. “Sounds like a Monica special,” Ellie comments.
I cough into my hand. “So, um, what was your experience like with her? She was… a difficult roommate?”
Cynthia laughs bitterly. “‘Difficult’ doesn’t even describe it. She was a psychopath. Honestly, by the end, I was scared she was going to murder us in our sleep.”
My heart skips in my chest. Okay, this sounds promising.
“She wasn’t going to murder us in our sleep.” Ellie rollsher eyes. I suppress the urge to tell her what I know. “But yeah, she was nuts.”
“It was our senior year of college and I rented this place with Ellie and another friend of ours,” Cynthia explains. “But at the last minute, our other friend decided to move in with her boyfriend. I put an ad in the college paper, and a week later, Monica was moving in.”
“And…” I bite my lip. “She was… bad?”
“She was fine for a couple of weeks,” Cynthia says. “And that’s when it all started.” She scratches at her knee thoughtfully. “She’d, like, accuse me of finishing her yogurt or something dumb like that. No big deal, right? I hadn’t, by the way—I hate that stupid yogurt that makes you poop. But anyway, she’d get so angry. She’d start sifting through the trash, looking for the containers. And then she’d storm out, leaving the trash all over the floor. Tell me—whodoesthat?”
“Oh, and she’d accuse us of going through her room.” Ellie leans forward, getting into the story. “She put a lock on her door, so how could we, right? But she was convinced. She said she was putting a camera in there, so she’d know if we went in.” She shakes her head. “She’d getsoangry over it. I mean, we’d be sitting out here with some friends, and she’d just come out and start screaming at us at the top of her lungs.”
“Not to mention that she called the police on us,” Cynthia adds. “Repeatedly. Like, she thinks we’re being too noisy, so instead of knocking on our door and saying to turn the music down, she’d call the cops and put in a noise complaint. I almost had a heart attack when the police showed up at our door. More than once!”
