“Fifteen years would be a gift, Abby.”
The words of my attorney, Robert Frisch, echo in my ears. The walls of his office feel like they’re closing in on me. Obama’s smile in the photo is mocking me. This can’t be happening. Fifteen years. No. No way.
“I didn’t do it,” I say for what feels like the millionth time.
Frisch sighs. He so clearly doesn’t believe me. I know he’s one of the best criminal attorneys in the city, but right now, I’d trade him for a newbie lawyer who at least believed my story. But nobody believes me. Sam doesn’t. Frisch doesn’t. Even Shelley, my best friend, isn’t returning my calls.
And Monica… well, she’s the only one who knows the truth.
She killed Denise and planned to pin the murder on me—the final nail on my coffin. It wasn’t enough that she got me fired for the drugs she planted in my urine. It wasn’t enough my husband texts with her morning and night. None of that was good enough for her. She wants me behind bars, where there’s no chance I can take back what’s mine.
“I think you should take the plea,” Sam says. “This is your best chance.”
“I’m not spending the rest of my life in jail for something I didn’t do!” “It’s not the rest of your life.”
Is he kidding me? “It’s fifteen years!”
I’m thirty-seven now. In fifteen years, I’ll be fifty-two. Any chance of becoming a mother will be gone forever at that point. My career will be gone. And my marriage…
Sam is staring straight ahead at Frisch’s desk, refusing to look at me. If I go to jail, it’s over between us. Some people make marriage work behind bars but we won’t—he thinks I’m some kind of monster. If I take this plea bargain, he’ll end up moving in with Monica. Maybe not right away, but eventually. The two of them will raise their son together. Happily ever after ending for both of them.
Maybe I should let them have their happily ever after. Sam stuck with me through all the infertility, even knowing it was all my fault. He’s a good
guy. He deserves to be happy.
But not with Monica.
Forget everything she’s done to me, even though that’s pretty damn hard to do. If I care about Sam at all, I can’t let him get involved with Monica. She’s a psychopath. She’s a murderer. The second he burns her toast, she’ll probably stab him in the chest.
“Think about it, Abby,” Frisch says to me. “This option won’t be around forever. The police have a really solid case against you.”
My head is spinning as I sit in Sam’s car, riding back to our apartment. He has to go to work now, but I’m home for the day since I’m home every day now. He waits until we’re halfway back before he says, “I think you should take the plea.”
“Yes, I know what you think.”
“Frisch knows what he’s talking about.”
I stare out the window, at the storefronts whizzing by. I’ll miss this if I go to jail. If that happens, all I’d see around me are bars and the prison courtyard and guards and…
Oh great, now I’m crying.
“Abby.” His voice softens. “Don’t cry.” Nope. Still crying. I don’t think I can stop.
It’s funny because I’m not a crier. I never cry. Maybe once a year, I have one big epic cry just to get all my frustration out of my system, then I’m good for the next three-hundred-and-sixty-four days. I hate the loss of control I feel when I’m sobbing. But lately, I feel like a leaky faucet. All I do anymore is cry.
Sam probably thinks it’s from the meth. And maybe it is.
“Listen,” he says gently, “if you want to go to trial, then… let’s do it.
Okay?”
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “If I went to jail, you’d move in with Monica.”
“No, I wouldn’t.” “You would.”
“Stop it. I wouldn’t.”
I don’t believe him though. I can see in his eyes that he’s done with me. All the kindness is gone. Who could blame him—he thinks I did something horrible.
I wipe my eyes again with my shirt sleeve. I stare out the window again, trying not to think about what’s likely going to happen in the next few days. Jail. I can’t wrap my head around it.
I wonder if they’ll handcuff me. Do they always do that? If I agree to go quietly, do they have to put the handcuffs on? I really don’t want to be handcuffed. It seems so… medieval. Maybe I should just go to the police station and turn myself in. In fact…
Wait.
Holy crap.
“Sam!” I cry. “Stop the car!” “What?” he says. “Why?”
Fortunately, he’s already slowing to a stop at a red light. The second he comes to a complete stop, I unlock the door and leap out of the car. I don’t even give him an explanation. At this point, I’m sure he’s chalking this up to my erratic drug-fueled behavior. Whatever. This is more important than the possibility of Sam thinking slightly less of me. You can’t get lower than zero, after all.
Or maybe you can. Negative numbers and all. Sam would know about that one.
Once I’m out of the car, I’m tearing down Broadway as fast as I can run. It’s not easy because I’m wearing heels, but if I lose sight of this girl, I’ll never forgive myself. This is my only chance to clear my name.
“Chelsea!” I cry out when I’m within earshot.
The girl doesn’t turn. Her blond hair gets tossed by the wind as she strides down the street, clutching a Hot Topic bag. I’m getting seriously out of breath chasing her. Also, my heel gets jammed in a crack in the pavement and I nearly go flying, but I miraculously manage to right myself. It takes me another second, but I finally draw close enough to seize her arm.
“Chelsea,” I gasp.
She turns, blinking her blue eyes in surprise. It’s the same girl, all right. Same one who talked to me about what a wonderful, selfless person Monica Johnson is. And then her phone line inexplicably got disconnected.
“Excuse me?” she says.
“I…” I’m still gasping to catch my breath. Wow, I’m really out of shape. Good thing I’ll have fifteen years to get buff in prison. Isn’t that
what people mostly do in prison? Work out and get tattoos of skulls? “I’m Abby Adler. We… we talked a while ago about Monica Johnson.”
She blinks a few more times. “Who?”
What?
“Monica Johnson,” I say again. “Your roommate.”
She shakes her head at me, her brow furrowed like she’s really trying to figure it out. And now I really think I’m losing it. Did I imagine the whole conversation? Was this entire thing a meth-fueled fantasy?
But then her eyes light up. “Oh! You’re that lady who wanted the baby!”
I’m not insane. Thank God. “So how’d it go?” she asks me.
“I’m assuming you don’t live with Monica anymore.”
“Uh…” She scratches her upturned nose with the hand not holding the Hot Topic bag. “The truth is…”
I raise my eyebrows at her.
She smiles crookedly. “Monica and I were never roommates. She just asked me to say we were.”
What?
“So…” I narrow my eyes at her. “How do you know Monica?”
She shrugs. “We were sort of friends in college. Not really though.
Mostly, I used to be close with her roommate.”
“So why didn’t she give me the number of her actual roommate so I could talk to her?”
She laughs so loudly, a few people on the street turn to look at us. “Oh, she wouldn’t want you to do that.”
My stomach churns. This was the whole purpose of Sam’s plan to vet Monica—to find out if she was a wack job. But then she gave us all made up friends and family. I never tried calling her mother again, but now I wonder if the woman on the phone was even really her mother.
Maybe that’s why Monica said she was a Red Sox fan. Because the story of her being from Indiana was total bullshit.
“So Monica’s roommate didn’t like her?”
Chelsea snorts. “That’s an understatement.” “But you didn’t like her either. Did you?” “No, but…”
“But what?”
She hangs her head. “Monica paid me two-hundred bucks to say I was her roommate and that she was awesome.”
Oh my God. This isn’t a matter of Monica falling in love with Sam after she got pregnant. She was planning to deceive me all along.
Was Monica the one who pushed Gertie down the stairs? Was she trying to get my assistant out of the way so she could worm into my life?
What the hell? Why would she do that? Why me?
Chelsea—or whatever her real name is—sees the look on my face and flinches. “Hey, I’m sorry about this. I didn’t think anything I said that day would make a difference one way or another. Also, I’m, like, a starving actress, and I really needed the money.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say, even though I’m actually quite irritated with this girl for what she did. My whole life is destroyed over two-hundred bucks. Couldn’t she have at least held out for five-hundred? “But I do need your help.”
“Sure,” she says. “Whatever you want.”
