How Could There Be No Trace?

As I busied myself with chores, my mind was racing with plans for my next move. On a day when time usually seemed to slip away, I found it dragging on interminably. Just before the end of the workday, I called him to ask where he was and to arrange for him to pick up our daughter. He agreed without hesitation.

By the time he returned home with our daughter, the meal was nearly ready. Our daughter bounded into the house, her voice sweet with innocence, announcing, "Mommy, I'm back, and Daddy picked me up!"

Her endearing tone brought a well of emotions to my eyes, which I fought back fiercely, "Mommy bought your favorite jackfruit!"

"Oh! Mommy is the best, I want some! I want some!" she exclaimed, running to George, "Daddy, I want to eat jackfruit!"

"Alright! Just a small piece now, and more after dinner," George replied, peeling a piece for our eager little one.

Then he squeezed into the narrow kitchen and embraced me from behind, "Why did you cook so much?"

The irony soured my heart; our supposedly happy family was on the brink. "You've been away on business for several days; you must be exhausted," I replied with a forced smile, feigning nonchalance, "Was it a busy day for you?"

He hummed an affirmation against my shoulder, causing my heart to sink. I nudged him with my elbow, "Get the plates; dinner's ready."

His 'affection' at that moment made me feel nauseous—I wondered if he thought of another woman while holding me.

After dinner, I put on a brave face and suggested a drink, "It's been a while since we've had alcohol; I really feel like having a glass."

George looked at me, his eyes questioning, "What made you think of drinking tonight?"

"There's nothing much going on. Are you going out again?" I asked, turning to fetch the wine. "With so much food, we might as well have a bit of ambience."

My heart bled as I spoke.

George was a lightweight drinker. To avoid arousing his suspicion, I poured him a tiny amount and gave myself half a glass. As we drank, the alcohol seemed to do its magic—excitement bubbled up, and I pretended to be bursting with joy. We reminisced about the old days, from college to starting our business, and our current life. I seemed so happy.

Seeing my enthusiasm, George poured himself a bit more, repeatedly reminding me not to overdo it. In the end, he was the one who drank too much.

As I helped him to bed, he was completely inebriated. After quickly bathing and putting our daughter to bed, I began my investigation.

My heart pounded wildly as if I were committing a crime. For the first time in many years, I went through his belongings, realizing how foolish my trust in him had been.

I searched through his pockets and bag, finding nothing of value.

Turning to his phone, I found it locked with a fingerprint. I tiptoed to his side and was about to use his hand to unlock it when he suddenly turned and grabbed me, staring straight into my eyes and startling me.

"Water! I need water!" he slurred.

I ran to get him water, and after he drank, he collapsed back onto the bed.

With the screen unlocked, I eagerly scanned his phone. The call log didn't raise any suspicions—all the names were familiar, and there were very few women, none of whom seemed questionable.

Next, I checked WhatsApp. The recent contacts were limited; it seemed George hardly used it. I opened the conversation with the first contact and saw the message from the day George returned: "Did she find out?"

The four dry words hung there, with no other messages. It appeared nothing had been deleted.

I tried to view the contact's photo, but the profile was locked, showing no clues—clearly, someone was cautious. He had said it was Fiona's, but I needed to verify that.

In the photo gallery, there were a few pictures of me and Angel, two of Fiona, and nothing more. I even scanned the entire phone with a mobile manager, finding nothing—it was spotlessly clean, to an astonishing degree.

That night, I tossed and turned. How could there be absolutely no trace?

Clearly, this person was not an internal company contact or a building employee; otherwise, the receptionist wouldn't have referred to her as 'Mrs. Smith.'

So who was this 'Mrs. Smith'? Could there be another way they were communicating?