Monica’s lips curl into a smile. “You asked to speak with my mother.” She nods her head in Gertie’s direction. “So you did.”

The woman with the out of state area code was Gertie. How could I have failed to recognize her voice?

“But then Denise figured you out,” I say. “So you had to get rid of her.”

Monica snorts. “Please. Denise didn’t figure me out. I’m so much smarter than her—than either of you. I wanted her to catch me rifling through her desk. Then I took a long lunch so she could search my cubicle and find those pills.”

“But… why?”

“Because I knew she’d call you.” She rolls her eyes. “You might not have known this, but Denise thought the world of you. Whenever you weren’t around, it was always, ‘Well, Abigail does it this way, so why can’t you?’ Or, “Abigail never leaves early—why are you going home to your family?’ I could tell she regretted what happened.”

Hearing her say those words about Denise is a jab in the chest. Denise never hated me. Even when she was disappointed about my life choices, she still thought I was one of her best employees.

And Monica murdered her for it.

“Those Adderall were completely legal, by the way,” she adds. “Any police officer could confirm that. And they’re not what made you fail your urine test. That was straight-up meth.”

Monica has thought of everything. Her stepmother was right—she really is a genius.

“Why are you doing this?” I manage.

My head is swimming, but at least I’m still conscious, so that’s something. The full effects of the pills haven’t hit me yet. Maybe I can make myself throw up. I feel like that might happen anyway. But in case I can’t, I’m hoping she’ll at least tell me what she drugged me with.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Monica says.

“No,” I say. “You’ve already set it up so I’ll be in jail for the next fifteen years. Why kill me?”

“This is so much cleaner.” Monica folds her hands together and smiles as if pleased with herself. “You’re depressed about everything you’ve done and don’t see a way out, so you overdose on the entire bottle of your sleeping pills.”

My sleeping pills. Damn. No wonder Sam wanted me to get a refill so badly.

I wiggle my ankles, noting my legs still feel intact. Could I possibly make a run for it? Monica is pregnant, for Christ’s sake. And Gertie is—well, she’s in better shape than I thought. But still. Maybe I could do it.

“We need to tie her up.” Gertie’s eyes are narrowed at me. She must know what I’m thinking. “I don’t want any chance of her trying to make a run for it.”