Page 90 of The Surrogate Mother
“After I engineered my early retirement, I told Monica just what to say to get hired,” Gertie says proudly. “I told her to mention the fiber yogurt commercials and you’d be falling over yourself to hire her.”
They played me like a violin. A wave of dizziness washes over me, and I have to grip the table to keep from falling out of my seat.
“I knew how desperate you were for a baby,” Gertie continues. “After you managed to arrange that adoption, I was worried you’d pin down Sam permanently, but… well, we found a way to take care of that. And after the adoption fell through, you were willing to do… well, anything. And if you had any doubts, I knew I’d be able to dispel them when we talked on the phone.”
My vision blurs for a moment, and I blink until it comes back in focus. “On the phone?”
Monica’s lips curl into a smile. “You asked to speak with my mother.” She nods her head in Gertie’s direction. “So you did.”
The woman with the out of state area code was Gertie. How could I have failed to recognize her voice?
“But then Denise figured you out,” I say. “So you had to get rid of her.”
Monica snorts. “Please. Denise didn’t figure me out. I’m so much smarter than her—than either of you. Iwantedherto catch me rifling through her desk. Then I took a long lunch so she could search my cubicle and find those pills.”
“But… why?”
“Because I knew she’d call you.” She rolls her eyes. “You might not have known this, but Denise thought the world of you. Whenever you weren’t around, it was always, ‘Well, Abigail does it this way, so why can’t you?’ Or, “Abigail never leaves early—why are you going home to your family?’ I could tell she regretted what happened.”
Hearing her say those words about Denise is a jab in the chest. Denise never hated me. Even when she was disappointed about my life choices, she still thought I was one of her best employees.
And Monica murdered her for it.
“Those Adderall were completely legal, by the way,” she adds. “Any police officer could confirm that. And they’re not what made you fail your urine test. That was straight-up meth.”
Monica has thought of everything. Her stepmother was right—she really is a genius.
“Why are you doing this?” I manage.
My head is swimming, but at least I’m still conscious, so that’s something. The full effects of the pills haven’t hit me yet. Maybe I can make myself throw up. I feel like that might happen anyway. But in case I can’t, I’m hoping she’ll at least tell me what she drugged me with.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Monica says.
“No,” I say. “You’ve already set it up so I’ll be in jail for the next fifteen years. Why kill me?”
“This is so much cleaner.” Monica folds her hands together and smiles as if pleased with herself. “You’re depressed about everything you’ve done and don’t see a wayout, so you overdose on the entire bottle of your sleeping pills.”
My sleeping pills. Damn. No wonder Sam wanted me to get a refill so badly.
I wiggle my ankles, noting my legs still feel intact. Could I possibly make a run for it? Monica is pregnant, for Christ’s sake. And Gertie is—well, she’s in better shape than I thought. But still. Maybe I could do it.
“We need to tie her up.” Gertie’s eyes are narrowed at me. She must know what I’m thinking. “I don’t want any chance of her trying to make a run for it.”
“No.” I grit my teeth. “You’re not going to tie me up. I won’t let you.”
Monica laughs. “Oh, I think you will.”
Monica rifles around in her purse hanging off the edge of the chair. My mouth drops open when she pulls out a handgun. Agun. She doesn’t point it at me, but just its presence makes me freeze. It looks soominous.
“We had a firing range right by my house growing up,” she says casually. “I’m actually quite a good shot. Not that I’d need to be at this distance.”
I look between Monica and Gertie, my heart pounding. If she shoots me, it’s over. I have no chance.
Monica sifts through her purse again and pulls out a piece of white stationery. She slides it across the dining table so I can see it. I stare at the words on the page, written in a perfect replication of my handwriting done by someone who’s had a year of studying my handwritten notes and practicing. The signature is perfect—only a handwriting expert would be able to tell the difference, and I doubt one would ever be called in.
It’s a full confession to everything. My drug problem that got out of control. Murdering my former boss when shewouldn’t go along with my blackmail scheme. Culminating in an apology to Sam, in which I give him my blessing to go on with his life.
“Your last words.” She smiles at me and I shiver. “It’s poetic, isn’t it? Aren’t you glad that’s how you’ll be remembered?”
