Chapter 2
Claire was sixteen weeks pregnant.
Her belly was starting to show.
She was going out more and more often. The reasons were always pretty much the same, such as prenatal checkups, shopping for baby and maternity supplies, or catching up with friends.
I started keeping track of when she left and when she returned home.
There were two times when she said she was going for a prenatal checkup but didn't come back for nearly four hours.
At Zalcoast Maternal and Child Health Hospital, a prenatal checkup usually takes no more than two hours.
Where did she go for the rest of the time?
One Thursday afternoon, Claire went out again.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"I'm meeting Emily for some coffee," she replied.
"Have fun. Don't stay out too long," I said.
Claire slipped into a light blue dress and put on some subtle makeup.
I waited ten minutes after she left, then got in my car and tailed her.
She didn't stop at any café.
Her car went straight to the underground parking lot at The Grandview Hotel.
I parked my car across the street and kept my eyes on the hotel entrance.
Twenty minutes later, a man walked into the hotel.
He was in his early forties, wearing a dark suit, and pulled up in a black Porsche Cayenne.
I snapped a photo of his license plate.
An hour later, Claire came out of the hotel.
She kept her eyes glued to her phone, looking pretty cheerful as she walked.
I gripped the steering wheel tightly.
That night, when she got home, she acted like nothing was wrong and said that she'd spent a lot of time talking with Emily Lopez, who'd been feeling pretty down lately after a breakup.
I smiled at her, watching her face.
"Did you make her feel better?" I asked.
"Yeah. We talked for a long time," she replied.
Claire was lying to me.
Now, I was pretty certain.
I tracked down the owner of that Porsche.
It was David Foster, aged forty-three, the owner of a design firm in East Zalcoast.
It was the same "Mr. Foster" saved in Claire's phone.
I pulled out the business card for the private investigator Kevin had recommended. I'd hesitated for two days before finally deciding not to call.
I was afraid that once I took that step, there would be no going back.
On Saturday night, Claire was watching TV in the living room.
I was in the study, pretending to work overtime, but in fact, I was going through her WhatsApp favorites.
There was an album dated three months ago.
It was full of design drafts, like building facades, commercial space renderings, and brand visual concepts.
Each image had a note underneath: [Mr. Foster's project,] [The second draft,] and [The final draft pending approval.]
I froze.
I wondered, 'Is she working on a project for real?
'But why would they need to meet at a hotel?'
I turned off my phone and leaned back in my chair, lost in thought for a long time.
There were two possibilities.
First, Claire was working on a design project with David for real, and the hotel was only a place to discuss business.
Second, the design project was a cover.
I needed more evidence.
"Still working overtime?" Claire asked as she pushed open the study door, holding a glass of milk.
"Almost done," I said.
She set the milk on the desk and came over, wrapping her arms around my neck from behind.
"You've been working overtime a lot lately. Don't wear yourself out," she said.
She smelled like body wash, and her hair was still a little damp.
"Got it," I answered.
Claire pecked my ear and then turned to leave.
I picked up the milk and took a sip.
It was perfectly warm, like her, who always maintained the perfect warmth on the surface.
In the end, I made the call.
The detective, Danny Ford, looked to be in his forties. The meeting was set at a noodle shop.
"Tracking and gathering evidence is 1,500 dollars a week. If I get any substantial evidence, that'll cost extra," Danny said.
"What do you mean by 'substantial evidence'?" I asked.
"Intimate moments, coming and going together, hotel check-in records," he explained, chewing his noodles calmly. "Which package do you want?"
"Track her for a week first," I said.
Then, I paid the deposit.
Three days later, Danny sent over the first batch of photos.
Claire and David were having dinner at a fine restaurant. They sat across from each other, no touching at all.
The second set of photos showed them leaving an office building together. David was walking ahead, while Claire followed behind, glued to her phone.
The third set showed Claire leaving The Grandview Hotel alone, with David's car still parked in the underground parking lot.
Danny's summary was brief: [No direct evidence yet. But she's out and about all the time, and she meets up with that guy pretty frequently.
[Should I keep following her?]
[Keep following her,] I replied.
On the seventh day, Danny called me.
"Mike, there's something you might want to know," he said.
"Go on," I replied.
"Your wife went to the Notary Office downtown today," he said.
My hand froze mid-air.
"The Notary Office? Why did she go there?" I asked.
"No clue. She was inside for 40 minutes, and when she came out, she was holding a file folder," Danny replied.
I was silent for a long time.
The Notary Office.
What could a woman who had been pregnant for five months possibly be doing at the Notary Office in secret?
For property notarization, a will, or...
I didn't dare think any further.