Checkmate

On Wednesday morning, I felt a slippery piece of fabric in the gap of the front passenger seat. The instant my fingertip caught it, my heart skipped a beat. It was a pale pink lace underwear, edged with delicate pearls—clearly not mine. Leo Carter and I have been married for five years; he has always known I only wear pure cotton styles. The car was bought last year—a black SUV with a spacious interior, perfect for him as a fitness coach to occasionally give clients a ride. But over the past month, he kept saying it was on his way and that he was giving Reese Zimmerman from the next building a lift. Reese Zimmerman is a single mother who moved in three months ago, with a four-year-old daughter, working at a design firm in the city center. At first, I didn't pay much attention; I even thought Leo Carter was warm-hearted. Until last week, when I noticed the front passenger seat had been moved three centimeters closer than usual. Reese Zimmerman is about 1.6 meters tall, definitely shorter than me. At the time, I just teased him, "What, afraid the young girl can't reach the brakes?" He laughed, rubbing my hair, "What are you thinking? She said the seat felt a bit shaky yesterday, so I just adjusted it." Looking back now, how many cracks that smile must have concealed. I held that pair of underwear, my fingertips icy cold. The fabric was pristine, as if barely worn, the edges still carrying a faint hint of gardenia perfume. Reese Zimmerman always wore that scent. A faint sound came from the trunk as Leo Carter walked over, carrying two gym bags. "What are you daydreaming about?" He opened the driver's door, his tone casual, "Hand me the car keys quickly; I have an early class today." I clenched the underwear in my palm, the lace pricking my hand painfully. "Did you give Reese Zimmerman a ride yesterday?" I tried to keep my voice steady. He paused while fastening his seatbelt, then turned his head to look at me. "Yeah, what's up?" "Nothing." I loosened my grip and stuffed the underwear into my canvas bag. "Just reminding you to be careful on the road." He didn't notice my unusual behavior and hummed a popular love song as he started the car. Watching the car merge into the morning rush hour traffic, I turned around and headed home. The computer in the study was still on, showing the backend of the luxury car sharing project I was responsible for. Our company develops smart car systems. Last month, we launched a mini-program that can monitor vehicle positioning and trip records in real time, and even retrieve audio from the dashcam. When this feature was first developed, Leo Carter even mocked me: "Who in their right mind would monitor their own car?" Now it seems, there really are. I took a deep breath and accessed Leo Carter's vehicle information. As I entered the chassis number, my fingers trembled slightly. When the system's successful binding notification popped up, my eyes landed on the Real-time Audio Recording permission button. For some inexplicable reason, I clicked to enable it. At ten in the morning, while I was reviewing project reports, a loud conversation suddenly came through my earphones. It was Leo Carter's voice, laced with suppressed anger: "What's wrong with you? Why did you put that thing in the car yesterday?" Then Reese Zimmerman, her voice trembling with tears, pleaded, "I didn't mean to... It accidentally fell out while I was changing... Leo, please don't be angry, okay?" "Me, angry?" Leo Carter's voice sharpened, "What if Diana Sue finds out? Do you want us to get a divorce?" "Wouldn't divorce be better?" Reese Zimmerman's voice suddenly turned sharp. "Didn't you say you'd long had enough of her? You said she was controlling, said she wasn't like a woman, didn't know how to be coy or vulnerable!"