I stared at the screen.
Three fingerprints.
Mine.
Lam Van’s.
And someone else’s.
The smart lock application showed when each fingerprint had been registered.
Mine: three years ago.
Lam Van’s: the same day.
The third one—
Six months ago.
I immediately called Officer Chu.
Twenty minutes later, two officers arrived.
They downloaded the lock records and contacted the manufacturer.
The third fingerprint had been given administrator privileges.
Someone could enter the apartment without triggering an ordinary unlocking notification.
My mouth went dry.
—Can you tell when it was last used?
Officer Chu looked at the technician.
The answer came minutes later.
—Last night. 11:47 p.m.
I felt cold.
The official log had shown no opening after ten, yet someone had entered through a hidden administrator profile.
That meant Lam Van had lied.
Or someone who knew our home extremely well had entered after I fell asleep.
Officer Chu asked:
—Where is your wife?
—At work.
He nodded.
—Don’t call her yet.
At 4:20 p.m., the police recovered footage from a convenience store opposite our apartment.
Officer Chu placed the tablet in front of me.
A woman appeared.
Hat.
Mask.
Black coat.
She left our building at 11:51.
My heart stopped.
Even with her face covered, I recognized the coat.
Lam Van owned one exactly like it.
The woman entered our SUV and drove away.
—That’s impossible.
I whispered.
—Lam Van was beside me.
Officer Chu didn’t respond.
Instead, he showed me another recording.
At 12:34 a.m., someone entered the apartment building.
A woman.
No hat this time.
Dark-gray pajamas beneath a long coat.
Lam Van.
The same pajamas she had been wearing when the police called.
I remembered something else.
Before sleeping, she had been wearing black pajamas.
My hands began trembling.
—So she left…
—And returned.
Officer Chu nodded.
—The smart lock administrator profile explains how.
—Then who died?
He remained silent.
That question was answered the next morning.
DNA results arrived.
The deceased woman was not Lam Van.
But she was closely related to her.
Officer Chu looked directly at me.
—The probability indicates an identical twin.
I laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because Lam Van didn’t have a twin.
At least, that was what she’d told me throughout our seven-year marriage.
When the police searched old household records, the truth appeared.
Thirty-one years earlier, two girls had been born.
Lam Van.
Lam Nguyet.
Identical twins.
Their parents divorced when the girls were six.
Lam Van stayed with her father.
Lam Nguyet left with their mother.
Years later, their mother remarried, and Nguyet adopted her stepfather’s surname.
Almost every trace connecting the sisters disappeared.
Except one.
A photograph.
Officer Chu pushed it toward me.
Two teenage girls stood together.
Same face.
Same height.
Same smile.
I stared at them.
—Which one is my wife?
Officer Chu pointed to the girl on the right.
—We don’t know.
That sentence terrified me more than the phone call at three in the morning.
Because suddenly every memory became questionable.
When had the other sister entered our lives?
Six months ago?
A year?
Earlier?
I returned home under police supervision.
Lam Van arrived at seven.
She immediately noticed Officer Chu.
—What happened?
He placed the photograph on the table.
Her face became white.
—Where did you get this?
—Who is Lam Nguyet?
Silence.
Then she looked at me.
I had never seen that expression before.
Not fear.
Defeat.
—My sister.
I stood.
—Why did you tell me you were an only child?
—Because Nguyet disappeared fifteen years ago.
—She didn’t disappear.
I pointed at the photograph.
—She’s dead.
Lam Van’s knees almost gave way.
She grabbed the chair.
—What?
For the first time, her shock looked genuine.
Officer Chu watched carefully.
—The woman in the vehicle was your twin.
Lam Van shook her head repeatedly.
—No.
Then I asked the question that had been burning inside me.
—Which one are you?
She stared at me.
—What?
—Are you Lam Van?
Her eyes filled with tears.
—Of course.
—Then explain last night.
She said nothing.
I continued.
—You gave me milk.
—I always do.
—You reminded me to take my sedative.
Her face changed.
—Then you left the apartment through a hidden administrator fingerprint and returned after midnight wearing different pajamas.
Silence.
Officer Chu placed the access report on the table.
There was nowhere left to hide.
Finally, Lam Van sat down.
—I went to meet Nguyet.
My heartbeat accelerated.
—Where?
—The underground garage.
—Why?
Her voice became quiet.
—Because she’d been pretending to be me.
I stared at her.
Six months earlier, Nguyet had returned.
She had debts.
No stable job.
No family.
At first, Lam Van secretly gave her money.
Then Nguyet began appearing at her workplace.
Borrowing clothes.
Taking personal belongings.
Learning details about our marriage.
Eventually she made a proposal.
—She said nobody could tell us apart.
Lam Van looked sick remembering it.
—She wanted to replace me occasionally at business dinners and meetings.
—And you agreed?
—Twice.
My stomach turned.
—Was she ever here?
Lam Van couldn’t look at me.
That was my answer.
—How many times?
—Three.
The room became silent.
—Did I ever speak to her thinking she was you?
—Yes.
My skin crawled.
—When?
Lam Van whispered:
—The first time was six months ago.
The same month the third fingerprint had been registered.
I stepped backward.
—You let another woman into our home wearing your identity?
—I made a terrible mistake.
—That’s not a mistake.
My voice rose for the first time.
—That’s a choice.
Officer Chu interrupted.
—Why did Nguyet take your car last night?
Lam Van closed her eyes.
—She wanted money.
—How much?
—Two million.
—I refused.
Nguyet threatened to expose everything.
So Lam Van arranged to meet her downstairs after I fell asleep.
She changed clothes.
Used the hidden fingerprint.
Went to the garage.
They argued.
Nguyet grabbed the car keys, wallet, spare phone and even Lam Van’s wedding ring.
Then she drove away.
—Why didn’t you call the police?
I asked.
Lam Van’s eyes were wet.
—Because she threatened to tell you everything.
That answer destroyed whatever sympathy remained.
—So when the police called saying you’d died, you already suspected the dead woman might be your sister.
Lam Van said nothing.
Officer Chu’s expression hardened.
—And you still went to the hospital pretending you knew nothing.
She lowered her head.
But there was one problem.
The crash.
Police reconstruction showed the SUV hadn’t simply lost control.
Someone had tampered with an electronic safety component before the vehicle left the garage.
The target had apparently been Lam Van.
Whoever arranged it expected her to be driving.
Instead, Nguyet took the car.
Officer Chu asked:
—Who knew you were meeting your sister?
Lam Van became completely still.
—Nobody.
—Think carefully.
A long silence.
Then her face changed.
—One person.
—Who?
She looked at me.
—My business partner, Chen Hao.
I knew him.
He’d eaten in our home.
He had attended our wedding.
More importantly, he’d recently become locked in a bitter dispute with Lam Van over control of their company.
The police left immediately.
But two hours later, Officer Chu called.
Chen Hao had disappeared.
His office was empty.
His phone was switched off.
And inside his desk, investigators found copies of Lam Van’s identity documents.
Photographs of our building.
Our vehicle information.
And one handwritten note:
“Once Lam Van is gone, the sister will be blamed.”
I thought that was the worst discovery.
It wasn’t.
The next morning, Officer Chu returned carrying an evidence bag.
Inside was a small black device recovered from Chen Hao’s office.
A fingerprint scanner.
The technician compared the stored print.
It matched the mysterious third fingerprint in our lock.
I looked at Lam Van.
She looked equally stunned.
—But I thought Nguyet registered that fingerprint.
Officer Chu shook his head.
—No.
He placed the report between us.
—The third fingerprint belongs to Chen Hao.
My blood went cold.
Six months.
For six months, another man had possessed administrator access to our home.
Officer Chu looked around the living room.
Then he said quietly:
—Mr. Tham, Mrs. Lam, until we find Chen Hao, neither of you should stay here.
I nodded.
But Lam Van wasn’t listening.
She was staring toward the bedroom hallway.
—Wait.
Her voice trembled.
—If that fingerprint belongs to Chen Hao…
She looked at me.
—Then how many times did he enter while we were sleeping?
No one answered.
At that exact moment, a sound came from inside our bedroom.
Beep.
The smart lock application on my phone refreshed.
A new notification appeared.
【Administrator fingerprint successfully deleted.】
Underneath it was another message.
【Current number of saved fingerprints: 2】
Officer Chu immediately reached for his radio.
I stared at the bedroom door.
Someone was inside our apartment.
And whoever it was had just erased the only digital evidence proving how they had been getting in.
