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Part 2: The Tracker

When I got home that evening, Emmett tried to strike up a conversation several times, hovering around the kitchen, but I just offered noncommittal hums in response.

“Nora,” he finally said, leaning against the counter. “Is it definitely a high risk? Does the doctor think the fetus has actual problems?”

“I don’t know,” I replied coldly.

As he stood up and walked toward me to offer a comforting hug, the overwhelming, sickening wave of nausea surged again.

I subtly stepped back, glancing up. My gaze swept across his neck and collarbone.

My eyes froze.

There was a faint, pink, shimmering powder dusted across his skin just below his jawline. It wasn’t a rash. It was body glitter. The kind that clings to the skin; you couldn’t see it unless the light hit it perfectly.

But I hadn’t worn makeup or body shimmer in six months. There were no cosmetics like that anywhere in our house.

“Emmett?”

“What is it, babe?”

I snatched a white cotton makeup pad from the bathroom counter, walked up to him, and vigorously wiped his neck before he could pull away.

The pristine white cotton instantly turned stained.

Besides the pink glitter powder, there was a thick, unmistakable smear of expensive foundation.

Emmett stared at the cotton pad in my hand, his eyes widening before quickly averting his gaze.

“The marketing team was filming a promotional video at the warehouse today,” Emmett babbled, the words spilling out too fast. “They hired a makeup artist to powder the executives for the harsh lighting. It was all over the place. Next time, I absolutely won’t let them touch me.”

After delivering the lie, he turned abruptly, walked into the master bathroom, and turned the shower on full blast.

Every word was flawlessly constructed. The only flaw was his body language. He was practically vibrating with guilt. He wasn’t the type to give lengthy, unprompted explanations for minor inconveniences.

If this had happened a year ago, I would have brushed it off. But pregnancy sharpens a woman’s intuition into a lethal weapon. I instinctively began to look for the invisible threats around me.

Over the next few days, I noticed the pattern. Every time he came home from “working late,” he carried a faint, sterile scent of generic soap. It was as if he had just aggressively showered and rushed home immediately, masking the smell of whoever he had been with.

I’m not the type of woman to overthink and quietly torment myself in the dark. When I suspect a fire, I look for the smoke.

That night, while he was asleep, I secretly unlocked his phone.

I checked everything. Messages, banking apps, Uber history, Google Maps.

It was completely, suspiciously pristine. He had scrubbed it clean.

But I didn’t jump to conclusions. Instead, I shifted my focus from his digital footprint to his physical one.

The next morning, I bought a small, magnetic GPS tracker online. While he was grabbing his briefcase, I slipped the device deep into the hidden compartment behind the glove box of his Audi. With the extended battery pack, it had enough power to transmit for two weeks.

And then, I waited.

Day one: The familiar route from the house to his corporate warehouse. Day two: Work to home. Day three: Work to home.

Until day five.

“I have a short overnight trip to Boston tomorrow,” Emmett announced over dinner. “We’re acquiring a new shipping fleet. But the day after tomorrow is your birthday, so I’ll wrap up early and definitely be home to celebrate.”

“Okay,” I smiled pleasantly. I didn’t ask any more questions.

But the very next night, when he was supposedly boarding a flight to Massachusetts, the GPS tracker’s location pinged.

It wasn’t at the airport.

The Hilton Hotel, Downtown.

That was the last location transmitted before the car stayed stationary for hours.

I stood in my kitchen for a long time, staring at the glowing blue dot on my phone screen.

The streaks of body glitter, the frantic showers, the scrubbed phone, the desperate attempt to mortgage my house, and now, the blatant lie about Boston.

Putting it all together, I could finally confirm one absolute truth.

Emmett was having a long-term affair. And he was trying to steal my home’s equity to fund it.

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