While we were eating, Tristan Shaw suddenly set down his fork and looked at me. “Who is Fatcat Cook?”

The fork in my hand froze midair.

My heart skipped a beat.

Fatcat Cook.

That name was someone Lena Moore and I made up on a drunken night.

We had agreed that if anything ever went wrong and we couldn’t reach each other, we would use “Fatcat Cook” as a code.

No one else knew that name existed.

Only the two of us.

And Lena had been missing for a full month.

She said she was going to Valoria for a trip.

Then she never came back.

I looked at Tristan’s calm, almost indifferent face, and felt my heart sink.

How did he know that name?

The name Fatcat Cook was something Lena Moore and I came up with back in our final year of college, after finishing an entire bottle of red wine and lying on the rooftop, tossing out random ideas.

That night, the moon was full.

Lena had her arm looped around my neck, her voice slurred as she said, “Zoe, let’s come up with a code.”

“What kind of code?”

“I mean if one of us disappears or goes silent, hearing this name means something’s gone wrong.”

I laughed at how childish she sounded.

But I still went along with it, thinking it through with her for a long time, and in the end, we settled on Fatcat Cook.

Because the name sounded so ridiculous, no one would ever actually have it.

In the entire world, only two people knew what the name Fatcat Cook meant.

One was me.

The other was Lena.

And Lena had been missing for thirty-one days.

She said she was going to Silverridge, in Valoria, for a few days.

Before she left, she even video-called me, holding up her phone in the airport duty-free store and shouting, “Zoe! What do you want? I’ll bring it back for you!”

That was the last time I saw her face.

After that, she never replied again.

Her calls wouldn’t go through.

Her social media stopped at a single photo of the Silverridge night market.

I reported it to the police.

Her family reported it too.

Authorities in Valoria were investigating as well.

But there was no trace of her, alive or dead.

It was as if Lena had vanished from this world.

And now my husband, Tristan Shaw—someone who, in theory, had no connection to Lena and wouldn’t have even liked one of her posts—had casually asked, over dinner, who Fatcat Cook was.

“What’s wrong?” Tristan said, his eyes lingering on me. “You’re acting strange.”

“Nothing.” I lowered my head and put some food into my mouth, tasting nothing. “I’ve just never heard that name before. Where did you hear it?”

“Oh, a friend mentioned it.” Tristan lifted his glass and took a sip of water. “Just asked out of curiosity.”

He changed the subject and started talking about work.

But I couldn’t hear a single word.

There was only one thought in my mind.

How did he know that name?

How did he find out?

After dinner, Tristan went to take a shower.

I sat on the couch, my palms slick with sweat.

The sound of running water came from the bathroom.

I glanced at the bathroom door, then stood up and walked toward the phone he had left on the dining table.

I knew the password.

It was our wedding anniversary.

I unlocked the phone, my fingers trembling as I started scrolling through his messages, call logs, and notes.

There was nothing.

It was too clean, unnaturally spotless.

No normal person’s phone could be this empty.

I moved on to check his computer.

His laptop was in the study, and I knew that password too.

Or rather, he had never hidden anything from me.

I checked his browsing history, folders, and download records one by one until I opened the cache of a ticket booking app.

My hand froze.

One month ago.

Tristan told me he was going to Northaven on a three-day business trip.

I had even helped him pack his suitcase.

But the booking record showed he hadn’t bought a ticket to Northaven.

He had bought a ticket to Valoria, to the city of Silverridge.

The departure time was one day earlier than Lena’s.

The return time was two days after Lena went missing.

The sound of running water in the bathroom stopped.

I quickly shut down the laptop, walked back to the living room, sat on the couch, and picked up my phone, pretending to scroll through videos.

Tristan came out, drying his hair, and glanced at me. “Not sleeping yet?”

“Mm, just scrolling through my feeds.”

I smiled.

He went into the bedroom and turned off the lights.

I stared at the bedroom door in the darkness, my fingers tightening around the armrest of the sofa, bit by bit.

Tristan Shaw, why did you go to Valoria?

Early the next morning, I told Tristan there was an urgent project at work and I needed to travel for a few days.

He was tying his tie and didn’t even look back. “Where to?”

“Northaven.”

“When will you be back?”

“Not sure. Three or four days, maybe.”

He turned to glance at me and smiled. “Stay safe.”

I smiled back.

My flight was at noon.

I didn’t go to Northaven.

I went to Valoria, to the city of Silverridge.

The plane landed at four in the afternoon, local time.

The air in Silverridge was hot and heavy, the smell hitting me all at once, leaving me dazed for a moment.

The last photo Lena sent me had been taken in this city.

She was at a lively and crowded night market.

She stood in front of a stall selling mango pudding, smiling like a child.

I didn’t have time to dwell on it.

I went straight to the hotel Lena had stayed in.

I had already looked it up before leaving.

Before her trip, Lena sent me a screenshot of her booking—a boutique hotel by the old town called Lotus Courtyard.

At the front desk, I took out Lena’s photo and asked the receptionist.

“This girl stayed at your hotel about a month ago. Do you remember her?”

The receptionist looked at the photo and shook his head.

“Her name is Lena Moore. She isn't from Valoria,” I added.

The receptionist checked the system, then nodded. “We do have a record. She stayed for three nights, didn’t extend, and never checked out. Her luggage is still in our storage.”

My heart clenched sharply.

Her luggage was still there but she was gone.

I steadied myself and asked the question I dreaded most.

“A month ago, did a man stay here as well?”

I handed over Tristan’s photo.

The receptionist glanced at it, checked the system again, then looked up, hesitating.

“Yes. He stayed for five nights.”

Five nights.

He stayed three nights longer than Lena.

“Which room was he in?”

“312.”

“And Lena?”

“315.”

They stayed at the same floor but two rooms apart.

I stood at the front desk, a dull buzz filling my head.

My first thought was the most predictable—they were having an affair.

Lena and Tristan, in Valoria, staying in rooms side by side.

But the thought had barely formed before another voice shut it down.

No.

Lena hated Tristan.

It wasn’t the polite, distant kind of dislike.

It was the kind where she would call him out to his face without holding back.

Every time I brought Tristan to a gathering, Lena barely acknowledged him.

Once, after a few drinks, she said it straight to his face, “Zoe’s great in every way, except her taste in men.”

Tristan’s face had gone stiff on the spot.

After that, they never even looked at each other properly.

How could two people like that possibly be having an affair in Valoria?

Then why was he staying right next to her?

What was he doing there?

I took a slow breath and looked at the receptionist.

“I need access to your surveillance footage from that period.”

She hesitated. “I’m afraid we’ll need to get approval from the manager.”

“Please do.”

“And we may also need police authorization.”

“My best friend is missing.”

I cut her off, my voice steady, though my hands were shaking.

“It’s been a month. There’s no sign of her, alive or dead. Your hotel may be one of the last places she was seen. Do you really think your manager won’t cooperate?”

She fell silent.

Then she picked up the phone.

Twenty minutes later, the hotel’s security supervisor led me to the surveillance room.

It was small, with screens covering three walls.

He pulled up footage from a month ago, starting from the day Lena checked in.

I sat down, eyes fixed on the screens, my palms cold with sweat.

Day one.

Lena dragged her suitcase into the hotel lobby and checked in at the front desk.

She wore a white dress, her hair tied back in a ponytail, chatting with the receptionist with an easy smile.

My eyes suddenly stung.

In the bottom right corner of the screen, near the lobby entrance, a man pushed the door open and walked in.

He was wearing a dark blue T-shirt, baseball cap, and face mask.

From his build and the way he moved, I knew it was Tristan.

He didn’t go to the front desk. Instead, he sat in the lobby seating area, picking up a magazine and holding it in front of him.

But his eyes stayed on Lena.

From the moment she checked in, to when she took her key card, to when she stepped into the elevator.

He watched the entire time.

A chill crept down my spine.

“Fast-forward,” I said.

The security supervisor sped up the footage.

That afternoon.

Lena left the hotel to go out.

The footage switched to the camera at the entrance. About two minutes after she walked out, Tristan followed.

He was wearing the same cap and mask, keeping about twenty meters behind her.

That night.

Lena had dinner at the hotel restaurant on the first floor.

Tristan sat in a corner, ordering a cup of coffee.

His seat gave him a clear view of Lena’s table.

The entire time, Lena never noticed him.

Day two.

Lena went out to a church.

Tristan followed.

Lena went to a night market.

Tristan followed.

Lena bought a drink from a street stall, then crouched down to play with a stray cat.

Tristan stood outside a convenience store across the street, pretending to look at his phone.

He was there in every shot and frame.

My hands started to shake.

This wasn’t an affair.

People having an affair didn’t act like this.

He was wearing a mask, keeping his distance, and following her every move.

People in an affair walked side by side, shared meals, and touched each other.

But he didn’t.

From beginning to end, he never said a single word to Lena, and Lena had no idea he was there.

This wasn’t an affair.

It was stalking.

“What about day three?”

I asked, my voice dry.

The security supervisor pulled up the footage from day three.

That morning, Lena left the hotel.

She had a backpack on, a map in hand, and she looked to be in a good mood.

The footage showed her walking out of the hotel and heading east along the street.

Two minutes later.

Tristan came out through the side entrance and went in the same direction.

And then, the footage ended.

The hotel cameras only covered about fifty meters beyond the building.

I couldn’t see everything beyond that.

“Is there any other footage?” I asked.

The supervisor shook his head. “That’s all the hotel has. For street cameras, you’ll need to go through local authorities.”

I stood there in silence for a long moment.

Then I got up, thanked him, and walked out of the surveillance room.

Outside the hotel, I opened the map on my phone.

The last direction Lena took was east.

Following that road would take us past a few streets, a market, and a gas station.

And eventually, the coast.

A stretch of cliffside overlooking the sea.

I stared at the marker on the map, my fingers cold.

She went there.

He followed.

And then she disappeared.

I rented a motorcycle and rode along that road for forty minutes.

At the end of it was an open coastline.

The cliffs were high, with jagged rocks and crashing waves below.

The wind was fierce, strong enough to make it hard to stay on my feet.

This wasn’t a tourist spot.

There were no railings or warning signs, just a narrow dirt path overgrown with weeds leading to the edge of the cliff.

I stood at the edge and looked down.

Below were loose rocks, patches of brush, and a strip of shoreline worn smooth by the tide.

If someone fell from here…

I couldn’t let myself think it through.

I started asking around.

There was a small fishing town nearby, just a handful of scattered homes.

I took Lena’s photo and went door to door.

No one had seen her.

I knocked on a dozen doors, and every time, it was the same—they just shook their heads.

I was about to leave when I noticed a little boy sitting under a tree at the edge of the town.

He was about seven, maybe eight, years old.

He wore a dirty blue T-shirt, barefoot, crouched on the ground playing in the mud.

There was something in his hand.

It was a phone in a pink case, with a cat paw grip stuck to the back.

My mind went blank.

That phone case was the birthday gift I gave Lena.