My phone was buzzing inside my purse during the entire ride to Cynthia Holloway’s apartment, but I was afraid to look at it. I ditched Sam while he was stuck in traffic and never told him why—he had to be freaking out. After I get out of Cynthia’s apartment, I finally dare to pull my phone out of my purse. Unsurprisingly, there are six missed calls from my husband, as well as several screens full of text messages:

Where are you?

Abby, where are you??

Can you tell me where you are?????

You jumped out of a moving car. Can you at least let me know you’re okay???????

It wasn’t a moving car. We were stopped at a light, for God’s sake.

I bring up Sam’s number on the screen. I’m itching to hit the green button to place the call, but something stops me. If I tell Sam what I’m up to, he’ll think it’s nuts. Just like he thought it was nuts when I accused Monica of spiking my coffee. He’ll say, “So what if Monica had a couple of roommates who didn’t like her?” And he wouldn’t be entirely wrong.

That’s why I’ve got to get more information. The fact that Monica didn’t want me to talk to her parents is a good sign they’ve got plenty of juicy details to clue me in on. I have a feeling Mom and Dad Johnson are the key to everything.

The Johnsons live all the way uptown, which means I need to hop in another taxi to get there. I can’t call them and give any sort of warning I’m coming, but that could be a good thing. I’m sure they’re not going to love me showing up to tell them I think their daughter is a murderer. Especially since it sounds like from what Cynthia and Ellie said, the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree.

The Johnsons’ building is a modest-looking apartment building with a green awning and a doorman at the entrance. The lobby is dotted with marble tables and tacky bright red sofas. I smooth out the blouse I put on this morning for my visit with Frisch, and put on my best, professional smile.

“Excuse me,” I say, using the same confident voice as I do with our clients. “I’m looking for the Johnsons.”

I must look important because the doorman doesn’t seem at all suspicious of me. “They’re in 6B. May I ask your name?”

“Abigail Adler,” I say. “Please tell them I’m their daughter’s boss.”