Chapter 4

After I'd put Mia to bed, I returned to our room to find Derek showering, his phone casually left on the table.

Remembering the voice message I'd heard today, I couldn't resist secretly picking up his phone to look through it.

My messaging app, chat history, payment records, photo albums---I even carefully went through his hidden private space.

Clean. Surprisingly clean.

His chat history with friends was full of "Look how sweet my daughter is," "Look how well-behaved my daughter is," "You're just jealous I have a daughter and you don't." Even when a friend suggested arranging a childhood engagement, Derek tore into him viciously.

Had I really been overthinking this? I began to question my own paranoia.

Perhaps the girl in the video just happened to have the same birthmark. After all, there were too many coincidences in this world.

And the clothing and the swimming center's decor didn't prove anything either.

I put the phone back in its original position and let out a long breath, feeling much lighter.

Guilt washed over me like a tide. I began to reflect on my distrust of him.

For the next week, I continued to let Derek take Mia to swimming lessons as usual.

I stayed home preparing dinner for them, making Derek's favorite braised pork ribs.

But that day, while washing Mia's pants, I discovered a yellowish stain with a faint fishy smell.

My heart dropped, and unease surged through me once more.

That night, after Derek fell asleep, I snuck out like a thief and took his phone.

I suddenly remembered that when he first bought this phone, he'd bragged to me about it.

"Madison, this phone can switch systems and log into different accounts. That way no one can interrupt our father-daughter time."

With trembling hands, I entered the password he'd told me back then. The screen displayed "Incorrect Password!"

I tried again with my birthday, his birthday, our wedding anniversary---none of them worked.

Finally, I entered Mia's birth date, and the phone screen revealed a completely different interface.

A message popped up.

"Freshly available little abalone, fifty per session."