Why would Denise Holt be calling me? It doesn’t make any sense. The woman already fired me. Does she want to fire me again?
No, it’s probably something stupid. Like a complication with my final paycheck. Yet…
“Excuse me,” I say to Gertie, who has a perplexed expression on her face. “I… I’m going to take this call outside.”
I race out of the café with my phone, swiping to take the call just as I get outside. My heart is already racing. “Hello?”
“Abigail?” There’s no mistaking Denise’s clipped voice. I can only imagine her ice-blue eyes shooting daggers at me from across town. “This is Denise Holt.”
“Yes,” I say. “I know.”
“Right,” Denise says. Then she hesitates, which is very un-Denise-like. Denise never hesitates. She has never questioned any decision or thought she has ever had in her entire life. Or so she’d like the rest of the word to believe. “Listen, Abigail… I… we may have made a mistake…”
I almost drop the phone. A mistake? Denise Holt made a mistake? And she’s admitting it?
This can’t be real. It’s got to be some sort of meth-fueled hallucination.
I should pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.
“All I know is I never took drugs, Denise,” I say. “I swear on my life.” “Yes…” She heaves a sigh on the other line. “It’s gotten a little more
complicated than that, I’m afraid.”
My breath catches in my throat. “How so?”
“Well,” she says slowly, “I took Monica as my own personal assistant after you left, and… well, this morning I caught her going through my desk when I was out of the room. I couldn’t believe my eyes.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she was looking for tape, if you could believe that!” Denise snorts. “I didn’t say anything, but the entire exchange made me incredibly uncomfortable. So while she was out at lunch, I searched her desk.”
I almost laugh at the thought of Denise doing a search of Abby’s little cubicle. Not that any of this is funny. “What did you find?”
“Well,” she says, “the part that pertains to you was the prescription bottle.”
I frown. “Prescription bottle?”
“She had a bottle of a medication called Adderall. I looked it up and it’s basically a form of amphetamine.” She clears her throat. “Didn’t Monica bring you coffee every morning? And she brought you your lunches too, didn’t she?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
Up until now, it was all just speculation. But it turns out, I was right. The drug test wasn’t a mistake. Monica drugged me to make sure I’d get fired.
“This whole thing is an HR nightmare,” Denise groans. “I don’t know what we’re going to do, given her pregnancy and your little arrangement with her. She could sue the pants off of us.”
“Sorry,” I mumble.
She’s quiet for a moment. I hold my breath, wondering if she’s going to give me one of her famous Denise Holt lectures.
“No, I understand,” she finally says. “You were… you were going through a lot. And I… I might have handled it better. As your employer.” She pauses. “And as your friend.”
My shoulders sag. I would never have called Denise my friend in a million years. I hated her. But before our fertility struggles carved a wedge in our relationship, we were friends. No—more than friends. She was my mentor. She was the person I admired most of everyone I had ever met.
“Listen,” she says, “I want to talk to you about this in person. We need to strategize how we’re going to handle this situation, and your help would… well, I’d appreciate it.”
“Yes, of course,” I breathe.
“Could you come to the office tonight?” “Sure. What time?”
“Eight o’clock will be fine—you know everyone will be gone by then.” I can almost hear the smile in her voice. “Those slackers are always gone by seven.”
I remember all the late evenings in Denise’s office with a feast of Chinese food spread out along her desk while we worked. “That’s for sure.”
“So I’ll see you tonight?” “I’ll be there.”
Denise hesitates for one more moment before saying: “Don’t worry, Abigail. We’re going to make this right.”
As soon as I got off the phone with Denise, I made excuses to Gertie and got out of the café. My mind was spinning.
Of course, maybe my mind was spinning because Monica had been slipping amphetamines into my coffee.
When I got home, I sent off a text to Sam: We need to talk when you get home.
He wrote back: Okay.
I wanted to relay to him everything Denise had told me, but not over the phone. I wanted to tell him to his face. Except by seven-thirty, Sam still wasn’t home yet. I didn’t know where he was. I didn’t want to think about where he was. I figured I’d deal with him after my discussion with Denise.
I need him to believe me. More than anything.
It’s nearly eight when I get to the office building, and most people have gone home for the day. It occurs to me for a moment as I hover outside the building that since I was escorted out by security, there may be some sort of note not to let me in. And on top of that, I’m not really dressed for work. I’m wearing a nice shirt and slacks, but it’s not a typical Abby Adler power outfit.
Oh well. Here goes nothing.
I stride into the building confidently. Like I’ve said, confidence goes a long way. I immediately recognize Patrick from all my late nights at Stewart. He’s the security guard on most nights—a gangly guy with an easy smile. I wait for him to challenge me, but instead he flashes me a big smile.
“Hello, Abby!” He waves to me. “Working late again, are you?” “Yes, I am,” I say.
He winks at me. “Well, don’t stay too late.”
I used to think Patrick had a crush on me, back before my self- confidence was shattered by the woman trying to steal my job and my
husband. Maybe I can get it back though. Denise is finally on my side again for the first time in a very long time. I’ve got hope I might come out of this with my career and my marriage intact.
When I get up to the floor for Stewart Advertising, it’s very quiet. Everyone has gone home for the day, which is no surprise. As she pointed out, Denise and I were the only two people who regularly worked late. My heels click against the ground as I make the familiar journey to her corner office.
The door to Denise’s office reads “DENISE HOLT” in shiny gold letters. I usually keep my door partially ajar, but Denise always keeps her door shut tight. So I knock.
No reply.
She wouldn’t have left, would she? No, never. If there’s one thing you can say about Denise, she’s conscientious. She wouldn’t tell someone to show up for a meeting and then flake. That wouldn’t be like her at all.
On a whim, I try the doorknob—open. She probably went to the bathroom. I push the door open to wait inside.
Except Denise isn’t in the bathroom. She’s sitting at her desk, her head in her arms. Like she’s napping or crying or something.
“Denise?” I say.
She doesn’t answer.
What the hell is going on here? There’s no way Denise is napping at her desk. I’d sooner expect a pig to go flying past the window. But why isn’t she lifting her head? Why isn’t she acknowledging that I’m standing in front of her.
“Um, Denise?” I say again. No answer.
I approach the desk and put my hand on her shoulder, but she doesn’t even flinch. I shake her this time, but instead of sitting up, she falls to the floor.
And that’s when I see all the blood.
There’s yellow tape around Denise’s office, which has been cordoned off by the police that are now swarming the office. I’m sitting in somebody’s desk chair, hugging myself, unable to stop shaking.
Denise is dead. I don’t entirely know what happened to her, but when I rolled her over on the floor, trying to help her, I found her lifeless blue eyes staring into nothingness. I’m no doctor, but at that moment, I knew it was too late for an ambulance.
It probably sounds terrible, but for a moment, I considered making a run for it. After all the bad blood between me and Denise, the last place I wanted to be caught was at her murder scene. But Patrick had seen me come in—nothing would look guiltier than running. Also, there was the small matter of having her blood smeared all over me.
But more than all that, I couldn’t leave her like that. Denise was my idol at one time. She had been trying to help me. I couldn’t let her body lie there all night, rotting on the floor of her office. She deserved better than that.
“Mrs. Adler?”
It’s the voice of a female detective, who told me her name but I promptly forgot it. She’s standing in front of me, holding up a plastic bag containing a shiny, metal object.
“Yes?” I manage.
“Does this object look familiar to you?” “Not really,” I mumble.
“Could you take a closer look?”
I squint at the blood-soaked object inside the bag. It takes a second for me to make out what it is. It’s a letter opener.
With the name “ABBY” engraved on it. “That’s mine!” I gasp.
Well, this is looking worse and worse. I’m starting to long for when my only problem was an alleged meth addiction.
The female officer goes back to talk to the others. I don’t like the way they keep looking at me when they talk. And now they’re pointing at me. Great.
Oh my God, what if they arrest me?
The female officer comes back over to me. My heart is pounding in my chest. This is so bad. “Mrs. Adler, we’d like you to come down to the station to answer some questions.”
“Am I under arrest?” I croak.
Long pause. “No, we’d just like to ask you some questions.”
“Should I…” I swallow hard. “Should I get a lawyer?”
“You can if you wish,” she says. “But we’re just going to ask you some questions. We’d like to find out who killed Ms. Holt as quickly as possible, so we’d appreciate your cooperation.”
“Okay,” I say dully. “I’ll go.”
“Is there anyone you’d like for us to call to pick you up at the station?” she asks.
“My husband,” I say.
As I recite Sam’s number, I can’t even imagine what he’s going to say to all this. It was bad enough when it was just drugs. Now there’s a possible murder charge thrown into the mix.
It’s obvious I’ve been set up. If there was any doubt about it in my mind, that letter opener confirmed my fears. Someone wanted me to be set up on murder charges. Someone who was worried Denise knew too much.
And I’m afraid that someone is going to get their wish.
