Chapter 3

Three days later, Jolene emailed me the report.

The moment I clicked on the attachments, my hand on the mouse began to tremble.

I read the first attachment.

[Four years ago, in March, there was a transfer of 250 grand marked 'renovation.']

Jolene's note was below it.

[The recipient was Mr. Merkel. No renovation business registration was found. The purpose of payment was unclear.]

I then read the second attachment.

[Three years ago, in August, there was a payment of 480 grand marked 'car purchase.']

Again, Jolene's note was below it.

[The vehicle was registered under Mr. Merkel's name.]

I moved on to the third attachment.

[Two years ago, in November, there was a credit card charge of 120 grand in Steria Port.]

Below it was Jolene's note.

[Ms. Sullivan has no corresponding record of traveling abroad during that period.]

I finished reading the fourth, the fifth, and the sixth attachment one after the other.

Over five years, Whitney had spent a total of 1.43 million dollars.

Of that, 730 grand had come from our joint savings account.

The account was under my name, and I had set the password myself.

She had never told me she'd touched that money.

I dug out the passbook. The last time I'd checked it was a year ago. The balance hadn't changed.

Had she secretly replaced the money every time she transferred it? Or had she been keeping two separate sets of accounts from the very beginning?

I called the bank.

The customer service representative spent five minutes checking. "Mr. Zeller, there have been no large withdrawals from this account under your name in the past five years."

"That's impossible."

"The system shows that all the transferred amounts were replenished in cash on the same day."

I hung up.

She had another bank account I knew nothing about.

She used it to transfer money out and quietly replaced the funds with cash.

Everything had been executed flawlessly.

I went to Whitney's workplace.

I wasn't there to confront her. I was there to see Jessica Carlton.

She was the deputy director of the finance department. She had sat at the head table at our wedding and had been one of Whitney's late father's longtime subordinates.

I didn't explain anything. I simply said I wanted to check Whitney's salary records.

Jessica didn't ask questions.

Thirty minutes later, she pushed a sheet of paper toward me.

Whitney's monthly salary was 23,000 dollars with an annual performance bonus between 50 to 80 grand.

Her total income over the past five years was 1.89 million dollars.

Her account balance was 47,000 dollars.

I stared at it for a long time.

"Where did the money go?"

Jessica shook her head.

"It's not my place to ask." She paused for a moment. "I've watched Whitney grow up. Her parents passed away young. Before they died, they entrusted her to me and said she might seem cold, but she has a warm heart. She's just not good at dealing with people. They told me to look after her."

She looked at me.

"Jimmy, did you discover something?"

I folded the paper and slipped it into my pocket.

"Jessica," I said, "her father asked you to look after her. If my father were still alive, he probably wouldn't want to see me suffer either."

I didn't wait for her response before getting up and leaving.

The elevator was empty.

My reflection in the mirrored walls looked calm. It was as if nothing had happened.

My fingers kept rubbing against the sheet of paper until my palms were damp with sweat.

Whitney came home early that evening.

I was ladling soup in the kitchen when she leaned against the doorway and watched me.

"Jolene said you went to look at floor tiles today?"

"Yeah."

"Did you pick one?"

"Still deciding."

She walked over and took the bowl from my hands.

"I'm going to Silicon Bay tomorrow for a three-day business trip."

"Okay."

She paused for a moment.

"Jimmy, has something been on your mind lately?"

I looked up.

She was looking at me with her brows slightly furrowed. I knew that expression all too well.

Whenever work wasn't going smoothly, a student gave her trouble, or she was stressed about her promotion, she made that face.

I used to ask her what was wrong. I used to comfort her and do everything I could to make her happy.

Now I simply smiled.

"No. The renovation has just been exhausting."

She nodded and didn't ask anything else.

That night, she slept soundly.

I lay on my side while watching her silhouette in the faint streetlight that filtered through the gap in the curtains.

I studied her eyebrows, the bridge of her nose, and her lips.

Over the past eleven years, I'd looked at this face countless times.

The first time was during freshman orientation. She stood near the front of the marching formation with sweat trickling down her temples. She didn't even bother to wipe it away. Her jaw was clenched. Her expression was stubborn and resolute.

I thought, 'This woman is interesting.'

Later, she pursued me. The day she confessed, she stammered three times.

My roommate told me, "It must have taken a lot for someone as stiff as Whitney to work up the courage. Don't make things difficult for her."

I nodded and said okay.

Whitney then pulled me into her arms. With both our chests pressed against each other, I could feel her heart pounding hard and fast.

The sycamore trees lost their leaves and grew them back eleven times.

I moved my hand away from her face.

I then turned over and closed my eyes.

There was a wet patch on my pillow.

I didn't know what time I eventually fell asleep.