I look up and Shelley has her eyebrows raised. “Was that Sam?”
I nod. “He wants to ‘talk.’”
She takes a sip of her coffee, peering at me over the rim of the glass. “Are you sure it’s safe to be in the apartment with him?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she says, “if he and Monica plotted to kill Denise, he’s capable of anything. What if he and Monica are in the apartment right now, armed with a knife and duct tape?”
“Oh my God, he wouldn’t do that!”
“Wouldn’t he?”
I look down at the text message from my husband. I don’t know what to think anymore. I hesitate before typing back:
I’ll be out late tonight. Let’s talk tomorrow.
Chapter 36
Shelley and I end up staying out very late. After coffee, we go to a restaurant to grab dinner. And after that, we go to a bar and have a few drinks. Well, more than a few, if I’m being honest. I keep telling myself that I need to stop, that it’s more important now than ever to have a clear head, but alcohol is the only thing that numbs the pain of Sam’s betrayal. By the time I stumble home, it’s after midnight and all the lights are out in the apartment.
I creep into the dark bedroom, swearing softly as I trip over one of Sam’s shoes that he left lying in the middle of the room. He’s always leaving his shoes in a place where I can easily trip on them—it used to drive me crazy. How hard is it to throw your shoes in the closet, for God’s sake?
I remember when that used to be the worst of our problems.
Sam is passed out in bed. He’s wearing an undershirt and boxers, and has thrown the covers mostly off him in his sleep. That’s another thing he always does. He starts out with two covers neatly covering him, then within an hour, ends up coverless.
His glasses are on the nightstand next to the bed, and he’s breathing deeply in an almost-snore. He’s got that five o’clock shadow, and as I look down at his features, it’s hard to blame Monica for falling for him. I couldn’t resist him either when we first met. I still can’t. Even now that I know the truth.
My eyes fall on his cell phone, which is plugged in on the nightstand. He told me his phone password and I don’t think he’s changed it. Presumably, I should be able to get into his phone. And then I’ll see what he’s been talking about with Monica all this time. I know I said I didn’t want to violate his privacy, but that was before there were murder charges involved.
I have to know the truth.
I snatch the phone from the table before I can change my mind. I punch in the six numbers that make up Sam’s code, and to my surprise, the phone unlocks.
I quickly click on the icon for text messages. Monica’s name is right at the top—he’s made no effort to hide it. I click on their texting thread, reading the last few lines of their back-and-worth.
Sam: I really don’t know what to do about Abby. This is bad.
Monica: I know.
Sam: She wouldn’t come home tonight. So that plan is off.
Plan? What plan? What had he been planning if I had shown up tonight like I was supposed to? Did it involve duct tape?
“What are you doing?”
I nearly drop the phone. Sam has woken up and is peering at me through the darkness. In the light of his phone, I can make out his brown eyes. My heart starts to race in my chest.
“Um,” I say.
He frowns. “Is that my phone?”
“Yes…”
He sits up in bed, blinking at me as he slides his glasses back on. “Are you snooping through my phone?”
There’s no point in denying it. It’s painfully obvious what I’d been doing. I should have at least taken the damn phone in the other room instead of looking at it one foot away from him—what the hell is wrong with me? I’d be the worst spy in history. “I… I guess so.”
“Why?” He sounds genuinely baffled.
He doesn’t know what I know. He thinks I’m still completely in the dark. I hesitate, not wanting to give away my hand until I have more information. But in the end, I can’t help myself. “Are you having an affair with Monica?”
His eyes grow huge. He gapes at me for a moment, then he stands up from the bed and yanks his phone out of my hand. He stands there for a moment, and I’m suddenly aware of how much bigger he is than I am. I wouldn’t have called Sam a “big” guy, but he’s pushing six feet—a full six inches taller than I am—and he’s got tight muscles standing out in his arms from all those hours in the gym. As he stands over me, his eyes darken and I take a step back.
If he wanted he could throw me across the room like a rag doll. He could do whatever he wants to me.
But instead, he yanks his pillow off the bed and pushes past me.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m going to sleep on the couch,” he says. “I don’t want to share a bed with you right now.”
“Oh,” I mumble.
As he gets to the entrance to our bedroom, he hesitates and turns to look at me. “I don’t even know you anymore, Abby,” he says.
“Likewise,” I say.
He narrows his eyes at me. “Also, you smell like whiskey.”
Well, that could be accurate.
“Good night,” he says, as he slams the door shut behind him. If he wasn’t having an affair before, I think I’ve remedied that.
But on the plus side, at least he hasn’t duct-taped me to a chair.
Chapter 37
I sorely regret my alcohol intake last night when I wake up the next morning with a throbbing headache and a mouth that tastes and feels like sandpaper. I roll over in bed and see the empty spot next to me. It’s the first time in our entire marriage that Sam went to the couch to sleep. I have a bad feeling it won’t be the last.
While I’m lying in bed, the doorbell chimes sound throughout the apartment. I rub my eyes, wincing at the noise. I can’t even imagine who would be coming here on a weekday morning. I’m certainly not expecting anyone.
Oh my God, is it the police coming to arrest me?
My heart is slamming in my chest as I race out to the door in my bare feet. I lean in to look through the peephole, and I nearly faint with relief when I see my old assistant Gertie standing there. She’s clutching a shopping bag from the grocery store in one hand, her cane in the other, and beaming at the door.
I fling the door open and her face breaks out in a smile when she sees me. Well, until she gets a closer look at me. It’s disturbing the way her eyes widen and she takes a step back. I wish I had checked a mirror first before I ran out here.
“Abby!” she gasps. “You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”
No, I’m just hungover. But I don’t say that. “Yeah, it’s been rough lately.”
“Well, that’s why I’m here!” She holds up the shopping bag. “You were so sad last time I saw you. I wanted to make you some breakfast.”
“That’s really sweet, but…”
Apparently, Gertie is not taking no for an answer. She pushes past me and quickly makes herself at home in our kitchen. Within seconds, she’s running water and clanging pots.
“Can I do anything to help?” I ask.
She waves me away. “Of course not! You go, um… freshen up.”
I can take a hint.
I stumble in the direction of the bedroom to check out the damage. I almost gasp when I see the circles under my eyes and my hair sticking up in defiance of gravity. When I was in my twenties, I could throw back a bunch of drinks and still look gorgeous in the morning, but not so much now. I run a brush through my black hair, and dab on some make up.
There. Better.
When I return to the kitchen, I smell frying eggs, which makes my stomach growl in spite of my semi-hangover. It reminds me of Sam’s attempt to cook an omelet for breakfast a few months ago. He put too many eggs in the pan, and the center of the omelet was completely raw while the outside was dark brown. We nicknamed it “Salmonella Surprise.” We laughed a
lot that morning. (And had corn flakes for breakfast.)
I can’t believe Sam is sleeping with Monica. How could he?
“Have a seat, Abby dear,” Gertie says. She’s wearing Sam’s “I ate some pie” apron and moving eggs around the frying pan. She picks up the pan and scrapes the eggs onto two plates. She brings my plate out to the dining table, then limps back to bring out a glass of orange juice. “Breakfast is served!”
I don’t know if I’m hungry, but I don’t want to seem ungrateful so I sit down. At the very least, I’m incredibly thirsty, so I down the orange juice in three big gulps. It makes my pounding headache feel ever so slightly better.
I dig into the eggs a little more reluctantly, but after the first bite, I’m shoveling them into my mouth. They’re actually really good. Much better than Salmonella Surprise.
“What do you think?” Gertie asks, grinning at me across the time.
“You need to show my husband how to make this,” I say. Although I suspect Sam will never try to make me eggs ever again. Those days are over.
“I’d be happy to.” Gertie winks at me, and I can’t help but notice that up close she doesn’t have as many wrinkles around her eyes as I’d expect her to. I always thought of Gertie as pushing seventy, but now I think she’s likely closer to sixty. It’s a shame that she hurt her hip so badly at such a young age. I still wonder if Monica was responsible—I’ll probably never know the truth.
I’ve nearly cleaned my plate of delicious eggs when the doorbell rings again.
Gertie looks up from her own plate of eggs. “Are you expecting someone, Abby?”
I shake my head no. Maybe this time it really is the police. I wipe my mouth with the napkin Gertie brought me, then get to my feet to check the door. When I see Monica standing in front of the door, I nearly pretend not to be home.
I don’t want to be alone with Monica. Mrs. Johnson’s terrifying stories are still ringing in my ears. I don’t trust that woman for a second. She almost certainly killed Denise in cold blood.
But then again, Gertie is here. She wouldn’t try anything in front of a witness.
Would she?
I turn the locks on the door and crack it open, but keep the chain in place. Monica looks stunning in a bright red dress, with her black hair silky and loose around her shoulders, but my eyes are immediately drawn to her belly. God, she’s gotten huge. She’s got to be ready to have the baby any day now.
“What are you doing here?” I snap at her.
“Could you please let me in?” She clutches her belly with both hands. “We need to talk.”
“Oh, do we?”
She hesitates. “Sam asked me to come here and speak with you.”
“Who is it?” Gertie calls from the dining table.
I stare through the crack at Monica, whose looks like she’s just struggling to stay upright at this point. Monica might be dangerous at her worst, but I don’t think she is right now. I could probably take her, even if she had a knife. Or a letter opener. And anyway, Gertie is here—it would be two against one.
“Fine.” I close the door, unhook the chain, then throw it open for her. “Come on inside.”
Monica waddles into the apartment. Well, she sort of waddles. Even though she’s very pregnant, her gait is not entirely ungraceful. I wonder what Sam thinks of it all. I’m sure he thinks she looks incredibly sexy. He’s clearly having sex with her, because he and I haven’t had sex in a month.
Monica notices Gertie sitting at the dining table and stops short. “I didn’t realize you had company.”
“Oh!” Gertie struggles to her feet. “I could go if you’d like, Abby.”
“No,” I say quickly. It makes me feel safe that Gertie is here, even though she’s an old woman with a cane. “Please stay.”
Gertie glances at Monica, hesitating. Maybe it’s selfish of me to ask Gertie to stay, especially if Monica is the one who pushed her down the stairs. I don’t want to put Gertie’s life in danger. But no, it will be fine. Monica won’t try anything with both of us here.
“I’ll tidy up in the kitchen,” she finally decides.
Monica settles into one of the chairs while Gertie hobbles into the kitchen, out of earshot. Monica flips her black hair over her shoulder, and once again, I catch a glimpse of her pale roots. Her dark eyes meet mine and I shudder involuntarily.
“Sam had an early class this morning, but I promised him you and I would have a heart to heart.” Her smile doesn’t touch her eyes. “Things have gotten a little out of control, don’t you think?”
I stare down at my plate of eggs. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I don’t have to tell you that your behavior last night was very upsetting to Sam, Abby.” She clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Searching through his phone? Not very classy.”
I lift my chin. “I had just cause.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Yes,” she finally says. “I suppose you did.”
Her answer doesn’t make me feel any better. “What do you mean by that?”
“I think you know the answer to that,” she says quietly.
I raise my eyes. “What?”
“Abby,” she says. “It’s over.”
I stare at her. “Excuse me?”
“You and Sam. Your marriage. It’s over.”
The orange juice and eggs in my stomach threatens to come back up. “What are you talking about?”
“Think about it, Abby.” She gives me a pitying look. “You’re a mess. Look at you. You’re a drug addict. You’re about to be arrested for murder.” She shakes her head. “Sam and I feel it would be best for you to find another place to live, so we could live here and take care of the baby.”
With those words, she puts her hand protectively on her belly. That was the baby I was supposed to raise with Sam. Now he’ll still raise the child, but I’ll be out of the picture.
“I…” I look down at my empty plate, feeling ill. “I’d like to hear it from him.”
“Sam doesn’t have the heart to tell you. This is very difficult for him.”
“Oh, really?”
She snorts. “Honestly, you never should have been with him in the first place. You’re hardly even attractive, and intellectually—well, there’s no comparison. You don’t know real numbers from the Real Housewives of Orange County.”
Yes, I do. I know what real numbers are. They’re all numbers that are… well, real. Like, not imaginary.
I better not say that though. I could be wrong.
“Sam married you for money,” she says. “Your trust fund. Pure and simple. And now you’ve outlived your usefulness.”
Is she right? Did Sam really just marry me for my money? I wouldn’t have believed it if someone told me that a year ago. But now…
There’s a buzzing sensation in the back of my skull. I shake my head to clear it, but it doesn’t go away. I look at Monica, and for a second, I see two of her. But then when I blink, she becomes one again. I rub my face.
Monica frowns. “Are you okay?”
“I…” I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them again. “I feel sort of… dizzy.”
She looks down at the plate of eggs in front of me, then she leans back in her seat to glance into the kitchen. She calls out, “Was it in the eggs?”
Gertie comes out of the kitchen, drying her hands on one of my hand towels. Weirdly, she’s not holding her cane, even though she barely seemed able to take a step without it when she arrived. “No,” Gertie says. “It was in the orange juice. She drank it about ten minutes ago.”
My mouth falls open. “Gertie?”
“And you put the whole bottle in there?” Monica asks.
“Every last pill.”
Monica smiles at Gertie—this time a genuine smile. “Thanks, Mom,” she says.
Chapter 38
My head is spinning. I don’t know if it’s from whatever was in the orange juice or the fact that Gertie and Monica are suddenly co-conspirators,
and possibly even mother and daughter. Is this a dream? Am I hallucinating this? It certainly can’t be real!
“You…” I make my gaze focus on Gertie, which is becoming increasingly difficult. “You’re Monica’s mother?”
“Oh, you’re quick,” Gertie laughs. “Maybe you are smart enough to be with Sam.”
“But,” I sputter. “I met Monica’s mother. I was at her apartment the other day. She… you’re not her.”
Monica sneers. “That was my stepmother, Louise. How could you think that was my mother? She’s nothing like me!”
I look between Monica and Gertie, and now I finally see it—the resemblance. It’s in the eyes and the chin. But I’m starting to get the feeling there’s more of a similarity than just the superficial. I remember what Cynthia said, about Monica’s “crazy mother” always showing up.
“I should thank you, Abby,” Gertie says, her eyes glinting. “When Sam first came to work to see you and he told me he was a math professor at the same school my daughter was attending, I told her right away this was someone she needed to get to know. Didn’t I, Monica?”
Monica nods. “I signed up for his class the very next semester. And… well, my mother was right, as usual. Sam and I fell in love instantly.”
“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?”
The Surrogate Mother Page 20