The police took my statement for almost two hours.

Passport records confirmed I had been in Japan when the authorization was signed.

That meant one thing.

Someone had deliberately impersonated me.

When I showed the officer the four plane tickets, she immediately wrote down the details.

“Do you recognize the fourth passenger?”

“The booking only shows the payment amount in my banking app.”

“We’ll request the passenger information.”

I nodded.

But something kept bothering me.

Four tickets.

Tri Vien.

Tieu Hoa.

And two others.

Who needed two seats beside my husband and daughter?

At 8:40 that evening, I returned to the empty villa.

For nine years, I had thought silence meant peace.

That night, I realized silence could also mean someone had removed every trace before running away.

I searched everything.

The wardrobes.

Kitchen cabinets.

Storage room.

Tri Vien’s study had been emptied almost perfectly.

Almost.

Architects learn to notice inconsistencies.

The bookshelf had been removed, but four small marks remained on the floor.

One was deeper than the others.

I knelt and pressed the wooden panel beside it.

Loose.

I pulled it up.

Underneath was a thin black folder.

My hands went cold.

Inside were photocopies of my passport.

My identification card.

Property documents.

Bank statements.

Samples of my signature.

Even old contracts containing dozens of examples of my handwriting.

This wasn’t something Tri Vien had prepared in a week.

He had been collecting material for months.

At the bottom was a photograph.

Tri Vien stood beside a woman I recognized immediately.

Chen Man.

My former university classmate.

Five years ago, she had briefly worked as an administrative assistant at my company.

Same height as me.

Similar build.

And suddenly I remembered the masked woman in the notary footage.

My phone rang.

The police.

“Ms. To, we obtained preliminary passenger information.”

I stood slowly.

“Who were the other passengers?”

The officer read the first name.

“Chen Man.”

I closed my eyes.

Of course.

“And the fourth?”

There was a pause.

“An eight-year-old boy named Lam Hao.”

My eyes opened.

Lam?

The officer continued.

“Do you know him?”

“No.”

But my voice had already changed.

Because I remembered something.

Three years earlier, my mother-in-law had once accidentally sent a photograph to the family group.

A little boy blowing out birthday candles.

She deleted it within seconds.

When I asked who he was, she said he was a neighbor’s grandson.

I had believed her.

I immediately called my mother-in-law again.

This time she answered.

“Mom.”

“Nien An…”

“Who is Lam Hao?”

Silence.

That silence lasted five seconds.

It was enough.

“Mom, answer me.”

Her breathing became uneven.

“Where did you hear that name?”

“So you know him.”

“No, I…”

“Tri Vien bought him a ticket to Vancouver.”

She began crying.

“Nien An, listen to me.”

“Who is his mother?”

No answer.

I already knew.

“Chen Man?”

My mother-in-law sobbed.

I felt strangely calm.

“How old is he?”

“Eight.”

Eight.

Tri Vien and I had been married for nine years.

My knees almost gave way.

“You knew?”

“I only found out later.”

“How much later?”

She couldn’t answer.

That meant long enough.

“And Tieu Hoa?”

“She’s safe.”

“You helped them take my daughter?”

“No! Tri Vien said you agreed!”

I laughed.

The sound frightened even me.

“He forged my signature, emptied our account, sold my house and left the country with another woman.”

I lowered my voice.

“And you believed I agreed?”

She cried harder.

Then she said something unexpected.

“Nien An, please don’t report Tri Vien.”

“Why?”

“Because the house money isn’t his anymore.”

I froze.

“What?”

“Chen Man controls it.”

Before I could ask another question, someone knocked on the villa door.

Two police officers stood outside.

One held several printed documents.

“We traced the account ending in 6639.”

“And?”

“The 3.2 million yuan from the property sale arrived there this morning.”

I waited.

“Forty-seven minutes later, almost all of it was transferred again.”

“To Canada?”

The officer shook her head.

“To an account belonging to Chen Man.”

For the first time that day, I smiled.

Tri Vien had robbed me to start a new life.

And apparently, the woman he trusted had already robbed him.

But the officer wasn’t finished.

“We also found something concerning your daughter.”

My smile disappeared.

“What happened to Tieu Hoa?”

“She did not pass through immigration with the other three passengers.”

My heart stopped.

“But there were four tickets.”

“Four tickets were purchased.”

The officer placed the passenger records in my hands.

“Only three people boarded the Vancouver flight.”

Tri Vien.

Chen Man.

Lam Hao.

Not my daughter.

I grabbed the officer’s arm.

“Then where is she?”

“We’re checking surveillance footage now.”

My phone suddenly vibrated.

Unknown number.

A photograph appeared.

Tieu Hoa was sitting on an unfamiliar bed, still wearing the yellow jacket she had worn before my business trip.

Below it was a voice message.

I pressed play.

My seven-year-old daughter whispered:

“Mom?”

Her voice trembled.

“Grandma told me Daddy went to Canada with his other family.”

I stopped breathing.

Then she said:

“But Grandma doesn’t know I found Daddy’s second phone.”

A pause.

“Mom… there are videos on it.”

Another message arrived.

This time, it wasn’t from Tieu Hoa.

It was a video file recorded six months earlier.

I opened it.

Tri Vien was sitting at our dining table.

Chen Man sat opposite him.

Between them lay my property certificate.

Then a third person entered the frame.

My mother-in-law.

She placed a photocopy of my identification card on the table and said clearly:

“Once Nien An leaves for Japan, you’ll have thirty-two days.”

I stared at the screen.

So my husband hadn’t planned his escape alone.

His mother had known from the beginning.

And somewhere nearby, my daughter was holding the evidence that could expose all of them.