<Hi. I'm Ren's wife.>
The DM arrived at 10:17 p.m. on Friday, the night before my first trip with Ren.
The attached photo showed Ren asleep.
That familiar profile. The tiny mole beside his closed eyelid. The navy pajamas I'd given him for his birthday. And in the lower-right corner of the photo, a digital clock displaying today's date.
I instinctively turned my smartphone facedown.
The silence of my studio apartment suddenly pierced my ears. The refrigerator's low hum. The August rain tapping against the window. On the bed lay the white carry-on I'd left open for tomorrow.
Ren was single.
At least, that's what I'd been told.
We'd met three months earlier at a small dinner gathering hosted by a friend. He was thirty-four, worked in sales at a video-production company, lived alone in Tokyo, and had never been married. When I'd introduced himself and I'd jokingly asked, “Are you really single?” he raised his left hand and laughed.
“If you don't believe me, I can bring my family-register certificate.”
I believed him.
The smartphone beneath my hand buzzed briefly.
<You can't believe me based on just one photo, can you?>
Another photo arrived right after.
This time, it was Ren's left hand. A silver ring was fitted over his ring finger. But there was no date on this photo. It could've been old. It could've been edited.
I opened the sender's profile. The account name was “R_WIFE.” The icon was gray. Zero posts, zero followers, and zero following. It was a throwaway account created earlier that day.
<Who are you?>
I typed it, then deleted it.
I shouldn't respond without knowing what they were after. They could be someone who held a grudge against Ren, or an acquaintance messing with me. Saving the images, reporting the account, and blocking it—that was the right thing to do.
The instant I thought that, a new message appeared.
<Within the next three minutes, Ren will message you, “Are you still awake?” >
I looked at the time at the top of the screen. 10:19 p.m.
Ridiculous. Ren hadn't contacted me in two hours, since we'd finalized our meeting plans for tomorrow. If the sender was near him, they could make him send it. It proved nothing.
Even so, I opened the conversation list.
Our last conversation was at the top.
“Tomorrow, nine o'clock at Shinagawa.” “I'm leaving without you if you're late.” “I can't leave Mio behind. Because I love you.”
When I'd received that last line, I was thirty-four years old and still buried my face in my pillow and laughed.
10:21 p.m.
A notification sounded.
<Are you still awake?>
My fingertips went cold.
It was identical to the sender's prediction, down to the punctuation.
I didn't reply right away. Instead, I tapped Ren's name and called him. The phone rang once, twice, three times. Just as I was about to hang up on the fifth ring, he finally answered.
“Hello, Mio?”
It was his usual voice. He sounded a little out of breath.
“Where are you?”
“Home. What's wrong?”
“Are you alone?”
There was a brief silence.
“Yeah, I'm alone. Why?”
Something hard clinked in the background. It sounded like dishes, or maybe keys.
“Send me a picture. Of you right now.”
“Huh?”
“A picture of your face. Right now.”
Ren let out a small laugh—the breathy laugh he gave when he was at a loss.
“Even though we'll be together all day tomorrow?”
“Can't you send one?”
“I can, but I'm about to head to the convenience store. I was thinking I'd stop by your place after I bought some drinks.”
“You said you were home.”
“The entryway is part of my home, isn't it?”
There was another sound. This time, it was mixed with what sounded like a woman's voice. I held my breath.
“Is someone there?”
“The TV. Mio, did something happen?”
Even his concerned tone sounded natural. I almost told him about the DM, then stopped. If the sender really was nearby, they might be listening to our conversation.
“Nothing happened. Don't come over tonight. I'm going to bed.”
“I want to give you something you'll need tomorrow morning. It'll only take ten minutes.”
“What do I need?”
“It's a secret.”
The call ended.
A DM arrived immediately.
<Next, he'll buy white flowers at the convenience store.>
As I stared at the screen, another line appeared.
<If he brings white flowers, do not let him into your apartment.>
At last, I replied.
<Who are you? If you're really his wife, prove it.>
The message was marked read immediately.
<I'll prove it tomorrow.>
<Do it now.>
<What you need tonight isn't my ID.>
An image file arrived next.
It looked like nothing more than a photograph of a sheet of white paper. At the top, in thick Mincho-style type, were the words:
“The Instruction Manual for Ren Asakura, My Lover”
Seven entries were listed beneath it. But only the first one was readable. The rest had been blacked out.
Article One.
<On any day he buys white flowers, you must not let him into your apartment.>
The reason field was blacked out too.
<What is this?>
<If I'd known three years ago, I wouldn't have lost what I did.>
<What did you lose?>
There was no reply.
I called Ren again, but this time he didn't answer. We'd never shared our current locations. Even so, he knew my address. Last month, when I had a fever, he'd brought me groceries.
That night, Ren hadn't come any farther than the entryway.
“You shouldn't let a man you've only just started dating into your apartment so easily.”
He'd said that, then kissed my forehead so lightly it was barely a kiss. I'd taken that caution for sincerity.
I searched for “Ren Asakura” on my smartphone. I added his company name, then changed the search terms to marriage, wife, and crime. All I found was a track-and-field athlete with the same name and some old corporate directories. Ren's own social media was filled with photos of his work and cooking. There wasn't a trace of any woman.
However, reflected in the window of a restaurant in a post from a year ago was what looked like the figure of the person who'd taken the photo.
I zoomed in.
It looked like a woman with long hair.
The image quality was too poor to make out her face. She could've been a lover or a coworker. That alone didn't mean she was his wife.
I called Nana, our mutual friend. The phone rang and rang before switching to voicemail. Nana had hosted the dinner gathering. Maybe she knew something.
<Ren Asakura really is single, right?>
I sent the message, but it wasn't marked read.
10:40 p.m.
The elevator chimed outside my door.
There were six apartments on this floor. It didn't have to be Ren. But the footsteps in the hallway came straight toward me.
Three steps.
Two.
They stopped.
The doorbell rang.
I moved to the entrance without making a sound and looked through the peephole.
Ren was standing there.
The light blue shirt wasn't necessarily the one he'd been wearing on the phone. His wet bangs clung to his forehead, and he held a convenience-store bag in one hand. His other hand was hidden behind his back.
“Mio?”
The doorbell rang again.
“You're awake, right? The lights are on.”
I opened the DM screen. The sender was offline.
<Why can't I let him in if he brings white flowers?>
Even after I sent it, it wasn't marked read.
“Just ten minutes. I'll leave after I give you this.”
Ren's voice was gentle. It was the voice of my lover, the man who'd been looking forward to our trip tomorrow.
If I kept the door chain on, I could open the door a little. I could see his face and ask about the photo. I could also check whether there was a ring mark on his left hand.
I checked the door chain, then slowly turned the lock.
I opened the door five centimeters.
“Sorry. I was about to go to sleep.”
“I know. This is all.”
Ren brought the hand he'd been hiding behind his back around to the front.
It held a small bouquet of white lisianthus.
My throat seized up.
“They were on sale in front of the station. You like white flowers, don't you, Mio?”
“How do you know that?”
“You told me before.”
I hadn't.
I liked yellow flowers. White flowers had been my older sister Kasumi's favorite. She'd died five years ago.
I had no memory of telling Ren that.
“Open up. The flowers will get wet.”
Ren put his hand on the door. The chain pulled taut with a metallic clang.
“Not tonight.”
“What happened?”
“Go home.”
“Did someone say something to you?”
At those words, my heart gave a violent leap.
Ren's smile had vanished.
“No one said anything.”
“Then show me your phone.”
“Why?”
“Because you're making a weird face.”
He pushed harder against the door. The chain's mount creaked softly.
I shoved back with my whole body.
“Go home!”
A few seconds later, the pressure eased.
Through the gap, Ren lowered his eyes sadly.
“Okay. Tomorrow, nine o'clock at Shinagawa.”
The bouquet slid through the gap and onto the floor.
As I instinctively reached down to pick it up, Ren's fingers caught my wrist.
His fingers were cold.
“Mio.”
He spoke my name in a low voice.
“Don't reply to that account.”
I forgot how to breathe.
Ren let go almost immediately. I closed the door and checked the lock and chain. I sat down in the entryway and stayed there until his footsteps faded and the elevator doors closed.
Eventually, my smartphone buzzed.
It wasn't from the account claiming to be his wife.
It was from Nana.
<Mio, where are you right now? Are you with Ren?>
Another message followed: a photo.
It was a picture of an old newspaper article.
“Woman Found Dead Inside Apartment; Boyfriend Questioned”
The victim's name appeared in the small article.
Kasumi Asakura, twenty-nine years old.
It was the same name as my sister's.
And the date on the article was the day after my sister died, five years ago.