Page 77 of The Surrogate Mother

“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 pink shopping 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. “Yourroommate.”

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 shopping 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.”