Chapter 2

The next morning, I leaned against the headboard.

Asher was brushing his teeth in the bathroom, the sound of running water intermittent. I took a deep breath.

"Baby, you're up early." Asher came out of the bathroom, his damp hair still dripping. He wore those dark blue jeans with just a white T-shirt on top. If I didn't know the truth, this would indeed be a perfect boyfriend picture.

"Yeah... my stomach feels a bit uncomfortable." I deliberately frowned, placing my hand on my abdomen.

Asher immediately came over and sat on the bed, something flashing in his eyes—too quick for me to catch. "What's wrong? Was it last night's dinner?"

"Maybe, or it could be..." I paused, observing his reaction. "That time of the month is coming."

I was lying. My "time of the month" was already two weeks late. But I needed to see his reaction.

Asher's expression relaxed somewhat, but I caught a detail—his shoulders dropped slightly, as if in relief.

Why would he be relieved? Didn't he want me to be pregnant?

"Should we see a doctor?" He reached to touch my forehead, and I leaned into it naturally.

"No need, I'll be fine with some rest." I looked at him tentatively. "Are you going to be back late again today?"

It was a simple question, but Asher paused too long. A full three seconds before he answered: "The coffee shop... has some accounts to organize."

'My previous life's self was too foolish. How did I never notice these hesitations?'

"Accounts?" I feigned confusion. "Didn't you say business was just okay? How many accounts could there be to organize?"

Asher stood up, turning his back to me as he organized shirts in the closet. "Small businesses also need precise records. The IRS audits very strictly."

His answer was reasonable.

"Then I'll stay home and paint today, won't disturb your work."

"Good, take care of yourself." Asher turned and kissed my forehead. "I love you."

'I once believed those words too.'

After Asher left, I immediately got up and washed. Through the window, I watched him drive away in that black Honda. A very ordinary car, a very ordinary boyfriend, a very ordinary life.

But now I knew what was hidden beneath the ordinary surface.

I followed Asher to across from the coffee shop. The window faced the street directly, giving me a clear view of the coffee shop's entrance. I picked up my sketchbook and turned to a blank page.

I began sketching the street scene before me. The coffee shop's exterior, the flower bed by the door, the dry cleaner next door. These were all background; what mattered were the people moving within it.

At noon, something strange happened. I saw a black SUV stop in front of the coffee shop, and a man in a dark suit got out and entered the store. This person didn't look like he was there to buy coffee—too formal, and he only stayed inside for five minutes before coming out.

I quickly recorded this detail in my sketchbook, including the SUV's approximate model and the man's silhouette.

At 2 PM, the coffee shop closed.

'Wait, the coffee shop closes at 2 PM?'

I remembered in my previous life, Asher always said the shop stayed open until 7 PM. Why was it closing so early?

My phone rang. It was Asher.

"Hey baby, how are you feeling?"

"Much better." I stared at the now-closed coffee shop across the street. "What are you busy with?"

"Still processing accounts. Might be very late, don't wait up for me."

"Are the accounts that complicated?" I deliberately sounded concerned. "Need help? I could come over."

"No!" His tone suddenly became agitated. "I mean... these numbers are boring, you'd be better off painting at home."

"Okay." I deliberately sounded disappointed. "Then you keep working."

This was definitely not ordinary coffee shop business.

The next day, I decided to take more direct action. While Asher went to "work," I drove to the Malibu Public Library. If I was going to investigate his past, I needed to start with public records.

The library's archive room was on the basement level, dim and quiet. The microfiche machine's screen emitted a pale blue light.

"I need to look up some family materials," I told the librarian.

"What time period? What surname?" She was a woman in her 50s, wearing thick glasses.

"The Thorne family... news reports from about 30 years ago."

Elena Thorne was Asher's stepmother's name, one of the few pieces of information I remembered from scattered conversations in my previous life. Asher rarely mentioned her, only saying she died when he was very young.

"The Thorne family... let me see." The librarian typed on her computer. "There are some newspaper archives from 20 years ago here."

She helped me load the microfiche, and I sat at the machine to begin searching.

Page by page I went through routine news. Then, in the March 1995 edition of the Los Angeles Times, I saw a shocking headline:

"Federal Agent Elena Thorne Dies in Line of Duty, Leaves Behind 8-Year-Old Stepson"

My hand stopped on the adjustment knob.

Elena Thorne was an FBI agent?

I continued reading the report:

"35-year-old FBI Agent Elena Thorne died tragically while executing a classified mission. Agent Thorne had worked in the Organized Crime unit for ten years, known for her exceptional undercover abilities. Her husband died in a car accident two years ago, leaving behind 8-year-old stepson Asher. The child will be placed in foster care arranged by Agent Thorne's colleagues..."

My heart was beating fast.

Stepson Asher...

I quickly pulled out my phone and recorded in my notes: "Elena Thorne - FBI Organized Crime - Died in duty - Stepson Asher - Foster care."

This explained a lot. If Asher was raised by FBI colleagues, if he inherited his stepmother's "professional tradition"...

Then what was his real purpose in approaching me? Revenge on whom? Why?

'Damn it, Asher, who exactly are you?'

I continued searching for related reports, but most content was marked as "classified" or "under investigation." Only one detail left a deep impression: Elena Thorne's last case involved an operation codenamed "Deep Sea."

Deep Sea.