My wife texted me: “Pick me up from work right away. It’s urgent.”
As I walked out, she looked surprised to see me.
She said, “I didn’t text you.”
I showed her my phone. Her face fell. She reached into her pocket, shaking.
I froze when she showed me…

…his second phone.
The same message appeared on the screen, sent from his number , but not from this phone.

“This… this can’t be possible,” she whispered, her eyes wide with fear. “I’ve never used any other phone but this one. This one works, the other one…”

She fell silent and looked at me as if she didn’t know whether to continue.

“The other one is in the closet at home. I haven’t touched it in months.”

As if on cue, we both turned toward the car. The back door was slightly ajar. I knew I’d closed it.

I approached slowly. I opened it.

Inside – empty.

But there was another phone lying on the seat. The same model as his. Locked. Just a notification on the screen:
“He mustn’t know.”

“Whose is it?” I whispered.

She simply shook her head. “I don’t know. But I think we should leave. Now.”

Something was wrong. And it wasn’t just about phones anymore.

…I started the engine without saying anything. His eyes never left the phone in the back seat.

We left. The streets seemed quieter than usual. Too quiet. When I stopped at a red light, she whispered:

“Do you think someone is following us?”

I looked in the rearview mirror. A black SUV was parked a few meters behind us. No headlights. No license plate.