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.”

Chapter 33

The first thing I extract from Chelsea, whose real name is apparently Taylor Reynolds, is her real phone number. Sam doesn’t believe one word I’ve told him about Monica, but maybe he’ll believe another person. More than anything, I’m determined to convince him I’m innocent. I can’t get through this if Sam isn’t on my side.

The second thing Taylor does for me is she gets out her phone and places a call to Cynthia Holloway, the girl who used to be roommates with Monica. Taylor’s information may be damning, but it sounds like Cynthia’s got a whole lot of other things to say. If I could prove Monica is certifiably crazy, which I’m convinced she is, maybe I can save myself.

Maybe.

“I really appreciate this,” I tell Taylor, as she searches for Cynthia’s number in her phone. I remember the days when I would have all my friends’ numbers memorized. Now I’m lucky I know my own number.

“No problem,” she says, flashing me a smile. She’s fascinated by the whole thing. I’m probably giving her a story she’ll tell all her friends at happy hour tonight.