Page 73 of The Surrogate Mother
“Is it typical for Ms. Holt to stay at work that late?” she asks.
“Uh, yeah. Usually.”
“Is the office usually otherwise empty at that time?”
“Mostly. That’s why she wanted to meet at eight.”
“Did you ask Ms. Holt if she would meet with you?”
I frown. “No, I told you. She askedme.”
“So you didn’t send her an email, requesting to speak with her?”
“No…”
My heart is pounding as Detective Sweeney reaches into the inside pocket of her jacket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. She carefully unfolds it and examines the contents. “So you didn’t send Ms. Holt an email saying, ‘I have information about you that could ruin you. If you don’t want it to get out, I suggest you meet with me tonight at eight.’”
I stare at her. “No. I definitely didn’t.”
She pushes the printout across the table so I can look at it more carefully. I see the return email address at the top as my own, addressed to Denise. And then the words Sweeney just read to me. Threatening words. Words I never wrote.
Unless I’m losing my mind.
“I didn’t write that email,” I say with as much conviction as I can muster.
“Would you give us access to your work email account, so we can look for it?”
“Yes, of course.”
But I have a sick feeling what they’ll find when they check my email. Because it occurs to me now that I’m not the only person with access to my email account. My former assistant also had access to my email. Monica.
I’m about to tell Sweeney this detail, but then she leans forward, as if to tell me something in confidence. She flashes me that disarming smile of hers. “Listen, Abby,” she says. “I know it was very hard on you losing your job yesterday. That’s devastating for anyone. And when something like that happens, people can do desperate things.”
I freeze. What is she saying?
“I get it,” Sweeney continues. “It’s tough enough to find another job in this economy even without the drug accusations hanging over your head. And even if it wasn’t their fault, you tend to blame the person who swung the ax.”
“I… I didn’t blame Denise…”
“Didn’t you?” She raises an eyebrow. “I’m going to be honest with you, Abby. The evidence is overwhelming right now. You are going to go to jail for this—I guarantee it. But if you confess now, maybe we can work out a deal.”
I stare at her. “I didn’t kill her.”
She gives me a pitying look. “I’ve been doing this a long time, Abby. I’m telling you what’s going to happen. You seem like a good person who made a really bad mistake, and I want to help you.”
“I didn’t kill her,” I say again.
“Now we both know that’s a lie.” Her eyes connect with mine. “If you confess now, I can offer you a deal. But the second you leave this room, that deal goes away. And when we arrest you, it will be for first-degree murder. That’s life in prison.”
I feel sick. I literally feel like I’m going to throw up all over this nice, clean table in front of me. She thinks I’m a murderer. All the police think I did this. And so will everyone else in the world.
“I want to speak to a lawyer,” I say.
_____
It’s nearlymidnight when I get out of the police station. They haven’t arrested me, which I’m taking as a good sign. They must not have enough evidence, if that’s the case. And maybe that’s why they were pushing so hard to get me to confess. After Sweeney, another officer came in to talk to me, then a third after that. But I kept my mouth shut. I wasn’t saying one damn word without a lawyer.
An officer leads me into the waiting room in the station, where there are two long rows of plastic uncomfortable-looking chairs. I’d imagine during the days that the chairs would be mostly filled, but right now, there are only a few people there, including one guy who looks like he’s passed out drunk. In the middle of the second row, I see a familiar figure, slumped forward, his head in his hands.
