Bottom Feeders

The invitation sat on her desk like a trap: 'Team Building Pool Party at Mark's.' Elena hadn't wanted to join the goddamn office pool in the first place—the weekly lottery that, after two years, had somehow evolved from scratch-off tickets to catered weekends at the regional director's house. But human resources had made participation mandatory. Something about fostering organic connections.

She brought spinach dip. It was the only thing she knew how to make, a recipe from her mother who'd left when Elena was twelve, taking nothing but her jewelry and the taste of bitter greens in every memory. The dish sat untouched on the catering table beside platters of artisanal cheeses and cured meats that probably cost more than Elena's rent.

Mark's pool was ridiculous—infinity-edged, overlooking the city skyline like he owned the horizon. His wife moved through the crowd with practiced precision, pouring wine, laughing at appropriate intervals, her eyes never quite meeting anyone's. Around three, when the sun had everyone half-drunk and pliable, Mark made his announcement about the restructuring. Two regional directors would become one. The room went quiet except for the water feature's artificial cascade.

Elena found herself at the edge of the pool, staring at her reflection, thinking about how she used to be the person who fought for principle before corporate necessity had worn her down like water against stone. She should have been strategizing, networking, positioning herself for the coming collision. Instead she was thinking about spinach, about how something so nutritious could taste so fundamentally like failure.

That's when she noticed Mark's golden retriever, Buster, alone on the far side of the yard, scratching at the dirt where something lay buried. The dog looked at her with eyes that said: I know where the bodies are. I've been here longer than you have. I've watched them all come and go, and I'm still here, digging up what they tried to hide.

Elena walked over, knelt in her expensive work clothes. The dog didn't flinch. She dug beside him, her manicured nails tearing through manicured earth, and found what Buster had been after: a collar tag, inscribed with a different dog's name, from before Buster, from before whatever happened to the dog who'd come before.

She slipped it into her pocket, the metal warm against her thumb, and understood: she wasn't competing for a promotion anymore. She was gathering evidence.