Chapter 4

While she was away in Silicon Bay for three days, I did two things.

First of all, I found out where Ethan lived.

I asked a friend in real estate to look into the neighborhood's property purchase records for the past three years.

The payment was made one month after she bought him the car. The total price was 3.2 million dollars.

Second of all, I met someone.

She was one of Ethan's former colleagues. She had left the symphony orchestra six months ago and now ran a violin studio.

I signed up for an adult course that cost two grand.

She taught me for twenty minutes, accepted my money, and was in a good mood.

I invited her for coffee.

We talked about the orchestra, the principal players, and the cellist.

"Ethan?" She stirred her latte. "He's pretty good-looking, and his playing isn't bad either. He's just lucky."

"How so?"

"He has a sugar mommy." She lowered her voice. "Or rather, his girlfriend, as he calls her. She's a researcher. Every year, she anonymously donates 800 grand to the orchestra. She's done it for three years in a row. Guess what? The money is earmarked for the cello section, with Ethan specifically designated as principal cellist."

She set down her coffee cup.

"That position originally belonged to our associate principal. He'd worked for ten years to get there, but it wasn't enough to compete with someone whose girlfriend had money."

I said nothing.

The coffee went cold.

That afternoon, I drove past Oceanview Residences and parked outside for ten minutes.

The security was tight. Residents had to swipe an access card to enter and exit.

I saw Ethan anyway.

He was a little leaner than in the photos. He had on a loose knit sweater and flat shoes.

He was holding a corgi on a leash while strolling leisurely out of the neighborhood. He was heading toward the convenience store across the street to buy water.

When he came back out, he unscrewed the bottle and crouched down to give some to the dog first.

The corgi was very affectionate toward him, constantly rubbing its head against his palm.

He smiled, lowered his head, and kissed the dog on the forehead.

I started the car and drove away.

That evening, Whitney came home with a box of Silicon Bay specialties.

I opened the box. It contained pastries.

"You once said you wanted to try some pastries from this place," she said from the couch while scrolling through her phone. "I happened to pass by, so I bought some."

That was in the past.

Back in our sophomore year, her roommate had gone to Silicon Bay for an internship and posted on social media that the pastries there were delicious.

I'd casually remarked that they looked good.

She remembered it all.

I picked one up and took a bite.

The pastry filling was sweet yet intensely savory.

She asked, "Is it good?"

"Yeah."

She put down her phone and looked at me.

"Jimmy, I actually took care of something else while I was in Silicon Bay."

I didn't look up.

"What is it?"

"I looked at a house," she said. "In South Hill. It's really close to the ocean. We have enough for the down payment. I want to buy it under your name."

I put down the pastry.

"Why are you suddenly buying a house?"

She hesitated for a moment.

"I wanted to surprise you." She smiled. "Didn't you always say you wanted to live somewhere with a view of the ocean?"

I wanted to see the ocean, yet she had given another man a property with a sunset view on a seaside boardwalk.

I wanted to buy a house, yet she had paid in full for a 900-square-foot two-bedroom apartment for another man.

I closed the pastry box.

"It's too expensive," I said. "We don't have that much money."

"We can figure out the down payment." She paused for a moment. "We can take a loan from our retirement accounts too."

"We can't afford it," I said.

She fell silent for a few seconds.

"A-Are you worried about money?"

I turned around to look at her.

There was a sincere look in her eyes.

For a moment, I almost believed that the transfer records, property purchase record, and orchestra donation records had all been things I'd made up myself.

"Whitney," I said, "is there anything you're hiding from me?"

She froze.

"Why are you suddenly asking that?"

"Forget it."

I put the box of pastries in the refrigerator.

"Let's forget about the house for now. We've already spent too much on the renovation."

She didn't push the matter.

That night, I went to bed early.

She assumed I was tired, dimmed the bedroom lights, and quietly closed the door.

I lay there with my eyes open. I listened until her breathing became slow and steady.

At two in the morning, I got up.

Her phone was charging beside the bed.

The password was still those same six digits.

I unlocked it.

The chat history with 'M' had been wiped clean, but there was a draft saved in her notes.

The title contained only two words.

[Nina Merkel.]

I opened it.

It was a letter she had written to her unborn child.