Chapter 2
The next day.
James leaves for work.
He kissed my forehead before heading out.
"See you in two days," he said.
He smiled.
He looked just as handsome as he did in our wedding photos.
After the door closed, I sat down on the couch.
I stared at the living room, letting the silence sink in.
Our wedding photo was hanging on the wall.
He had his arm around me, and we were both smiling.
It was taken three years ago.
I looked away from the photo.
I picked up my phone.
I opened the banking app.
His salary card was in my hands.
4,000 dollars came in every month.
I'd checked it a hundred times—nothing ever seemed off.
But there was another card.
I knew it existed.
Last year, while I was helping him pay his phone bill, a bank alert flashed on his phone.
The card ended in 3371.
Back then, I didn't pay it any mind.
Now, I tried to add his other card in the banking app to check the details.
It asked for a verification code.
The code would be sent to his phone.
He'd already taken his phone with him.
I did know his banking app password, though.
It was the date of our wedding.
He set it himself.
He once said, "If I use this date, I'll never forget."
I used his ID number and password to log into the bank's website.
The page loaded.
Three years' worth of transactions showed up.
I went through them one by one.
Every month, the same amount sent out.
2,000 dollars.
Recipient: Sophia Miller.
Sometimes the memo was blank.
Sometimes it said "daily expenses."
Sometimes it said "rent."
2,000 dollars.
2,000 dollars.
2,000 dollars.
Thirty-six months.
Just from this one thing alone.
72,000 dollars.
I kept scrolling.
Scattered among the transactions were some hefty transfers.
7,000 dollars. 5,000 dollars. 10,000 dollars.
The biggest one was 19,000 dollars.
The note just said: "renovations."
It was from October, two years ago.
October, two years ago.
That month, we scraped together 2,500 dollars for the mortgage, and I picked up two extra weekend shifts.
He told me, "Let's try to save a bit."
'Let's try to save a bit,' he said.
I took a screenshot of that month's transactions.
I kept scrolling.
Then I found a transfer from March last year.
Just one transaction.
1,600 dollars.
Memo: prenatal checkup.
Date: March 19th, last year.
I stopped cold.
March 16th, last year.
I had a miscarriage.
March 19th.
Three days after the miscarriage.
I was still in the hospital.
James said, "I'll go park the car."
And then he walked out.
Fifty minutes.
When he finally came back, he brought a bowl of porridge.
James said, "The line at the hospital entrance was insane."
He smiled and gave me the bowl.
I took a few bites.
1,600 dollars.
Pregnancy checkup.
March 19th.
I exported all the transaction records.
I made a spreadsheet.
Month by month. Transaction by transaction. Note by note.
Total: 93,800 dollars.
94,000 dollars.
Last winter, I wanted to buy a down jacket.
It was on sale for 425 dollars.
I spent a whole week just hesitating over it.
Because he told me, "Let's try to save a bit."
'Let's try to save a bit,' he said.
But every penny I managed to save just got funneled through that card, straight to Greenfield Residences, Building 7, Room 1802.
I saved the transaction spreadsheet in three places.
On my phone, in my email, and on a USB drive.
Then I did one more thing.
I opened the hospital app.
Our medical accounts were linked for family sharing.
I checked his payment records.
Nothing seemed off.
But in the "family members" section, one name stood out.
Sophia.
Registered department: OB-GYN.
Payer: James.
First prenatal checkup: January last year.
Last prenatal checkup: August last year.
Seven checkups in total.
March 16th, last year.
I was in the same hospital. Fifth floor. Operating room.
Having my miscarriage surgery.
And on that exact same day.
Third floor. OB-GYN department.
There was a prenatal checkup record for Sophia.
Date: March 16th.
Payment time: 2:40 PM.
My surgery started at 2 PM.
He said, "I'll go park the car."
He was gone for fifty minutes.
He went down from the fifth floor to the third.
He was there with Sophia for her prenatal checkup.
While I was lying on the operating table, losing our baby, at that very same hour.
He was on the third floor.
Listening to the heartbeat of another woman's baby.
I sat on the couch.
I held my phone in my hand.
The payment records glowed on the screen.
Outside, the wind was blowing.
The living room was quiet.
I didn't cry.
I cried last year, when I lost the baby.
Back then, I thought it was only because the baby was gone.
Now I know losing the baby was just the surface.
There was so much more underneath.
Things that were even dirtier.
I set my phone down.
I walked into the study.
There was an iPad in our house.
It was Mrs. Carter's old iPad. She thought it was too laggy, so she handed it over to us last year.
She said, "You guys can use it for recipes and stuff."
That iPad still had her backup WeChat account logged in.
She never bothered to log out.
I never really paid attention to it.
I powered up the iPad.
APP opened up, already logged in.
A notification popped up—one unread message.
The group was called "Our Family Matters."
James had sent the message.
The preview read: "The flight's tomorrow. Don't tell Emily—"
The rest of the message was cut off.
"Don't tell Emily."
'Emily' meant me.
I tapped on the group chat.