Wife sleepwalks all night—I divorce her.

Sean had learned the hard way that if you wanted the truth, you didn’t ask—you watched.

So that night, he played the part of the exhausted husband. Dinner, a shower, an hour of mindless TV. He crawled into bed early, letting his breathing grow slow and heavy until it slipped into a fake snore.

Beside him, Emily shifted once, twice. He felt her hand brush his shoulder, light as a feather. “Sean?” she whispered.

He kept still.

A moment later, the mattress dipped as she slid out of bed. The faint squeak of the bedroom door. Her footsteps on the stairs. Then—silence.

Sean waited thirty seconds before moving. He slipped out from under the covers and padded barefoot to the upstairs balcony. From there, he had a clear view of the street.

The front door opened. Emily stepped out into the cold night air, wearing black leggings and a hoodie, her hair pulled back tight. She glanced around, then walked quickly down the block.

A pair of headlights flashed from the corner. A dark sedan rolled up, and Emily slid into the passenger seat without hesitation.

Sean pulled out his phone and hit a speed dial. “Follow her,” he said when his friend answered.

“On it,” Tom replied.

Then came the waiting. Sean sat in the dark, phone in hand, until it buzzed half an hour later. A video file. He tapped it open.

The footage was grainy and tinted green from night vision. The sedan had parked in an empty lot at the edge of an industrial area. Through the windshield, two silhouettes leaned toward each other.

Then the shapes grew frantic. Clothes moved. Skin flashed.

Sean felt his stomach tighten, but he forced himself to watch. The camera zoomed slightly, just enough to catch a partial profile in the glow of the dashboard light.

Mr. Wong.

Sean’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. The “healer” who claimed to be battling his son’s spirit was in a car with his wife, doing anything but prayer.

A second video came through. Emily and Wong spilled out of the car, both laughing. She wore nothing but her hoodie. He didn’t bother to hide himself as they moved to the back of the vehicle, pressing against each other in the open air.

Sean closed the video. His pulse pounded in his ears, but under the fury, a colder thought formed.

If Emily could do this behind his back… what else could she hide?

The baby.

Until now, it had never crossed his mind to doubt paternity. The math had always added up—they were married, she’d gotten pregnant months later. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t been with someone else at the same time.

And if the baby wasn’t his… then maybe his death hadn’t been an accident.

Sean called Tom back. “I need another favor.”

“Name it.”

“You know the cemetery where we buried him. And the hospital where he was born.” Sean’s voice was low, deliberate. “I want DNA. Both sources. Whatever it takes.”

There was a pause. “You think—”

“I don’t think. I need to know.”

“Got it. I’ll handle it.”

Sean ended the call and sat in the dark for a long time, staring at the street where Emily had disappeared. His mind replayed the image of her in Wong’s arms, of the strange satisfaction in her eyes lately.

If what he suspected was true—if the child wasn’t his, and she’d killed him to keep it hidden—then the woman sleeping beside him at night wasn’t just unfaithful. She was dangerous.