“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 world 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.