Page 81 of The Surrogate Mother
You jumped out of a moving car. Can you at least let me know you’re okay???????
It wasn’t a moving car. We were stopped at a light, for God’s sake.
I bring up Sam’s number on the screen. I’m itching to hit the green button to place the call, but something stops me. If I tell Sam what I’m up to, he’ll think it’s nuts. Just like hethought it was nuts when I accused Monica of spiking my coffee. He’ll say, “So what if Monica had a couple of roommates who didn’t like her?” And he wouldn’t be entirely wrong.
That’s why I’ve got to get more information. The fact that Monica didn’t want me to talk to her parents is a good sign they’ve got plenty of juicy details to clue me in on. I have a feeling Mom and Dad Johnson are the key to everything.
The Johnsons live all the way uptown, which means I need to hop in another taxi to get there. I can’t call them and give any sort of warning I’m coming, but that could be a good thing. I’m sure they’re not going to love me showing up to tell them I think their daughter is a murderer. Especially since it sounds like from what Cynthia and Ellie said, the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree.
The Johnsons’ building is a modest-looking apartment building with a green awning and a doorman at the entrance. The lobby is dotted with marble tables and tacky bright red sofas. I smooth out the blouse I put on this morning for my visit with Frisch, and put on my best, professional smile.
“Excuse me,” I say, using the same confident voice as I do with our clients. “I’m looking for the Johnsons.”
I must look important because the doorman doesn’t seem at all suspicious of me. “They’re in 6B. May I ask your name?”
“Abigail Adler,” I say. “Please tell them I’m their daughter’s boss.”
I had been debating in the taxi ride over what I should say. Ultimately, I decided to stick with something close to the truth. I have no idea how much Monica tells her parents. Ifher old roommates are to be believed, she may be very close to her mother. But I suspect most people would allow their daughter’s boss upstairs, especially if she looks respectable.
I hold my breath, waiting for the doorman to call upstairs. Even if my story is solid, it’s the middle of the afternoon—Monica’s parents aren’t even necessarily home. This could all be for nothing.
But fortunately, the doorman gets through to someone on the other line. He repeats what I told him, listens for a moment, then smiles and waves me upstairs.
This time there’s an elevator, at least, but my stomach is doing somersaults the entire time I’m riding upstairs. I have no idea what to expect. Monica’s parents could be anything from completely normal to batshit lunatics. For all I know, Mrs. Johnson is going to pull a knife on me at the door. Probably not, but who knows?
So I’m not feeling great about the whole thing by the time I knock on the door to 6B. My knees are weak and I feel queasy.
Mrs. Johnson is the one who opens the door for me. She’s an inch or two taller than I am, with plain brown hair swept back from her face into a simple ponytail and rimless glasses. She appears to be roughly in her fifties based on the patterns of lines on her face. She looks…
Very normal.
When she sees me, a weary look comes over her face. She peers at me over her half-moon spectacles. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“Abigail Adler,” I say. “Monica works for me at an advertising agency.”
She thrusts out her hand in my direction. Her handshake is firm. “Louise Johnson.”
Just as I had suspected—Jean Johnson was another piece of fiction.
“So,” Mrs. Johnson sighs, “what has Monica done this time?”
Her words catch me off-guard. Somehow I thought she’d be more defensive about Monica. “Um, could I come in?” I ask.
Mrs. Johnson lets out another sigh and waves me into the small apartment. It’s modest—the living room is smaller than our own, and the furniture looks worn. I settle down on a threadbare sofa, and Mrs. Johnson sits about two feet from me. She doesn’t offer me a beverage.
“Things had been going so well.” Mrs. Johnson pulls off her glasses and rubs her eyes. “I hadn’t heard anything about Monica in over a year. I thought…well, maybe the bad period was over.” Bad period? “But I knew in my heart it was just a matter of time. People don’t change.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
“So tell me,” Mrs. Johnson says, “what has she done? What do you need?”
I hesitate, debating how much to say. It’s very clear from speaking to Monica’s mother that she has no idea about the arrangement we have together. “When is the last time you spoke to Monica?”
“Like I said, over a year.” She shakes her head. “These days, my husband and I only intervene when it’s required. Not like when she was younger.”
“There have been some thefts at work,” I say. Better not to mention the murder. I don’t want to put this woman on high alert. “We’re trying to get to the bottom of it.”
“Monica’s always at the bottom of it,” she sighs. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. But it gets to the point where you just get exhausted by it all. Ever since she was a teenager…”
