Chapter 3
Alex was even faster than I expected.
The next night, he sent over the first batch of photos.
I sat in my study, flipping through them one by one.
The first photo: Michael and a girl walked out of the office together, heading for the parking lot.
She wore a beige trench coat, her long hair draped over her shoulders. She was petite but well-proportioned. She was grinning up at him, chatting away, her smile wide and carefree.
He opened the passenger door for her, helping her into the car.
I knew that move all too well. Back when he was courting me six years ago, he'd always walk over, open the passenger door, wait for me to get in, close it, then circle around to the driver's side.
The second photo: the two of them were sitting across from each other in a booth at a sushi place. Michael was offering Soph food, putting pieces on her plate.
The third photo: outside the sushi restaurant. He was fixing her scarf, his fingers gently grazing her neck.
The fourth photo: the car was parked outside Parkview Residences. They went inside, one after the other.
The timestamp showed 5:40 p.m.
The fifth photo: the two of them were coming out of the same building.
The timestamp showed 9:15 p.m.
Three and a half hours.
I set my phone down.
There was a cup of black tea on the table, already cold.
I picked it up and took a sip. Didn't matter that it was cold.
Alex sent a voice message: [The apartment is 1702, Building 1, Parkview Residences. The tenant is Sophie, monthly rent 4,000 dollars, signed the lease in March this year. What else do you need?]
I shot back, [Keep tailing him.]
Two days later, the second batch of materials arrived.
This time, it wasn't photos; there was a full background report, too.
Sophie Lane, born in 1999, only child, parents both middle school teachers from a small city. She got into college on a special recommendation, scored a full scholarship for her master's.
Her social media only posted book notes and travel pics; no designer stuff, no fancy bags. The captions are all artsy and low-key.
But in the last three months, her social media started to change. There were more photos at fancy restaurants, and one showed her wearing an Azure Luxe bracelet; the one that 3,000 dollar charge was for. The caption read: [Got a little gift, feeling happy.]
She didn't say who it was from, but when someone in the comments asked, [Who gave it to you?]
She replied with a facepalm emoji, laughing it off.
I scrolled through her feed. The pinned post was from her graduation last year: [Starting a new chapter in life. Hope everything goes well.]
Scrolling down, I found a post from April: [Met someone so gentle, makes me believe the world still has some light left.]
April. That was right when things started heating up between them in the chat.
I finished reading the report and closed my laptop.
There was no anger.
Not once did I feel even a flicker of rage.
It wasn't numbness, and I wasn't putting on a brave face. It was pure professional instinct. Eleven years as a criminal lawyer had taught me one thing: emotions are dead weight in this line of work.
Anger won't sway a judge, tears won't make your case airtight, and losing control shows your opponent exactly where to hit you.
What I had to do next demanded absolute composure.
That night, he came home carrying a bag of fruit.
"I got your favorite cherries," he said with a smile, setting the bag down on the coffee table. He sat next to me, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. "How was your case today?"
He had a faint cologne scent on him.
For six years, the only thing I ever smelled on him was the pine-scented body wash. It was not cologne.
"Not bad," I said, leaning into his shoulder. "How about you?"
"Same as always. Very busy. There's a new project starting up, so I might have to work this weekend," Michael replied.
"Make sure you get some rest."
He kissed the top of her head.
I closedb my eyes in his arms, quietly going over my plan in her head.