“It’s not really about your mum though, right?” I say slowly. “I mean, if even Beyoncé was cheated on—”

Her eyes narrow. “Wait. How do you know that?”

“Know what?” I say, half wondering, in my sleep-deprived state, if she’s talking about Beyoncé.

“I didn’t say anything about my dad cheating just now. How do you know?”

Shit.

Panic seizes my throat. I choke out a vague uming sound, my mind scrambling for some plausible explanation.

“Did Grace tell you?” she presses. “Because I specifically asked her not to say anything until I had evidence. Ma ya,” she mutters, switching to Chinese. “That girl just can’t keep her mouth shut—”

“No, no, it’s not that. Really,” I add when she casts me a look of disbelief. I realize that if there were an official report card for criminals, I’d be sitting on a low B or C right now; any straight-A criminal would go with the ready-made excuse, pin all the blame on Grace and simply move on with their lives. But seeing as Chanel’s father has been deceiving her and her mother this whole time, it seems cruel to feed her another lie, no matter how small.

Besides, it might make things easier to have my roommate in on the plan, to turn invisible in the mornings without raising any alarm that I’ve disappeared.

“So what?” Chanel says, watching me closely. “Who told you?”

“No one.”

She frowns. “Then how...”

“Look, it’s probably easier if I show you.” I take out my phone and open up the app to my recent conversation with user C207—our recent conversation. Chanel’s eyes lock on the photos of her father at the restaurant, then snap to the identical photos on her own phone. Her mouth falls open.

“You’re the person behind Beijing Ghost?” she demands. She inspects the photos again, holding the phone so close her small nose is almost touching the screen. Then she stares back at me. “Seriously? You?”

“You don’t have to sound so skeptical,” I say, not sure whether I should be offended by her reaction.

“Sorry. You just didn’t strike me as the type to...you know.”

I really don’t, but there’s no point in asking her to specify. So instead I ask, “Who did you think it was, then?”

“I’m not sure.” She shrugs, the blankets sliding a few inches off her shoulders. “Henry, maybe? He’s good with the tech stuff, and he’s got his dad’s entrepreneurial genes.”

My jaw tightens. Henry, again. Even when he’s not here, he’s everywhere.

“Anyway,” Chanel says, with a little shake of her head. “That’s not the point. How did you do it? I thought—I don’t know, maybe the app came with some kind of secret spy camera system—but the photo quality is perfect. And the angle.” She jabs a manicured finger at the photo, clearly taken at eye level with her father and his girlfriend. “It’s almost as if you were right there in the room with them...”

“Well, um.” A nervous laugh escapes my throat. But better to get this over and done with, I suppose. “The thing is... I was. In the room with them.”