Chapter 3

Monday morning, I took a half-day off and went to the Real Estate Registration Center.

The purchase agreement was pulled.

Under the agent field: Dylan Ashford's name and ID number.

Down payment: $45,000.

Only Natalie Voss's name was on the contract.

But the agent's signature was unmistakably Dylan's handwriting—he always dragged the last stroke of his "d" a little too long.

I photographed everything and saved it to an encrypted album.

From the Real Estate Registration Center, I didn't go back to work.

I took a cab to Maple Ridge Apartments.

Building 7. Unit 1802.

Elevator to the eighteenth floor, end of the hallway, turn right.

Outside the door sat a pair of little pink sandals and a pair of men's slippers.

Gray. Size eleven.

Dylan wore a size eleven.

I didn't knock.

After standing there about five minutes, a child's laughter drifted through the door, followed by a woman's voice: "Rosie, sweetie, put the blocks back."

Rosie.

He hadn't even bothered to come up with a different name.

He'd used the same name for the child he kept hidden and the lie he'd told me.

Or rather, the "Rosie from the children's home" was modeled on this child all along.

I took a photo of the slippers by the door, turned around, and left.

Back home, I went through every bank statement Dylan had for the past three years.

He had three accounts.

His payroll went through me—$23,000 a month, of which he transferred $20,000 for living expenses and the mortgage.

But his commission account and bonus account—he'd never let me see those.

I only knew he earned close to $500,000 a year.

Now it was clear: roughly half went to Natalie's household, half to mine and Lily's.

How fair of him.

I compiled every bank statement screenshot and emailed them to myself.

Then I took my laptop to a law firm.

The attorney who met with me was Harriet Pemberton—a woman in her forties who'd handled divorce cases for fifteen years.

After reviewing the materials I'd organized, she said one thing: "Your evidence chain is almost there, but not quite."

"The photo geotags, the agent signature, the credit card charges, the slippers—all circumstantial."

"You need direct evidence. Something proving that child is his."

"Like a paternity test?"

"Ideally. But you can't get samples from him and the child—they won't cooperate."

Harriet thought for a moment. "There's another way. Get the child's birth certificate."

"Would it have the father's name?"

"Not necessarily. If he wanted to stay off the record, it might only list the mother. But the birth certificate gives you the child's identity information, and from there you can check whether a paternity test was ever filed with the court."

"If he ever established legal paternity, there's almost certainly a test on record."

I thanked Harriet and called Sophie that afternoon.

"Natalie has a daughter. Nickname Rosie. Born October 7, 2022. Can you check the child's records?"

At nine that evening, Sophie called back.

Her voice was heavy.

"Claire, the child has a birth record on file."

"Listed under Natalie Voss. Father field is blank."

"But—" she paused. "In April 2023, there's a court-ordered paternity test."

"The petitioner was Dylan Ashford."

"Result: confirmed."

Confirmed.

His biological child.

I sat on the living room couch, the phone screen lighting up my face.

The living room was dark. Lily was already asleep. Dylan still wasn't home.

He'd texted that he was working late.

Before, I'd always reply: Come home soon.

Tonight I didn't.

He didn't send a second text either.