We stand on Broadway together, stepping aside to allow all the people by with their shopping bags. She locates the number and presses the green button for the call to go through. I stand there, a blister throbbing in my big toe. This is the last time I run in heels. If there’s any chance I’m going to be doing hard labor, I need my feet in good shape.

No. Can’t think that way. I’m going to fix this.

“Cynthia?” Taylor’s face brightens. “Hey, it’s Taylor! What’s going on?”

Then—I swear to God—the two of them chat for like five minutes. Like I’m not standing right there next to Taylor, with my whole life hanging in the balance. I’m convinced she’s forgotten I’m even there. When she launches into an account of everything she got at this great sale at Anthropologie, I finally tap her on the shoulder and clear my throat loudly.

“Oh!” Taylor says. “Hey, listen, Cyn, you remember Monica Johnson?”

Even from a foot away, I can hear the female voice on the other line say, “Oh God.”

Taylor giggles. “So I’ve got this lady here who is having some major issues with Monica, and she was hoping to talk to you.”

“In person, if possible,” I add.

“Yeah, in person,” Taylor says. She listens for a moment, then looks me over. “No, she doesn’t look nuts. I mean, she seems nice. Sounds like Monica’s done a number on her.”

I wait, shifting between my feet. I hope this woman is willing to talk to me. If I can get an old roommate of Monica’s to talk about how crazy she is, at least Sam might be willing to consider I could be right. I know it’s hard for him to think ill of her, considering she’s pregnant with his child, but he’s got to see reason if there’s enough evidence staring him in the face. He’s got to.

Taylor pulls the phone away from her ear. “Cynthia says she’s got to go to work in an hour, but she’s available till then. She lives in the village.”

I nod. “Give me her address.”

_____

It’s a half-hour cab ride to Cynthia’s apartment, and I make the driver speed the whole way, promising I’ll foot the bill if he gets a ticket. Everyone I know seems to think Monica is a saint—it’ll be vindication to meet someone else who recognizes she’s not what she seems.

I hope that’s what this is, anyway. If all Cynthia’s got are stories about how Monica ate all the Frosted Flakes and didn’t buy a new box, I’m going to be disappointed.