Cable Knits and Palm Readings

The fox had been appearing at dusk for three weeks—a copper flash between buildings, gone before I could blink. I'd stand on my fire escape with my cable-knit sweater wrapped tight around me, watching for it, drinking wine that had turned warm.

"You're obsessing," Elena said. She was my oldest friend, my person, the one who'd held me when my mother died and celebrated with me when I got the promotion. But lately she'd been distant, checking her phone constantly during dinner, making excuses to leave early.

I'd found myself at a corporate retreat in Palm Springs, surrounded by people I barely knew, eating spinach dip that tasted like pretension. The CEO's wife had read palms by the pool, her manicured fingers tracing the lines on everyone's hands. When she reached mine, she paused.

"You have a betrayal line," she said, too loudly. "Someone close isn't who they seem."

Everyone laughed. Even Elena. But her laughter had sounded sharp, nervous.

The night the cable guy came to fix the building's ancient wiring, I came home early. Our apartment door was unlocked. Through the crack, I saw Elena at my desk, my laptop open, her face illuminated by its blue light. She was copying files onto a drive marked with the logo of our competitor—the one everyone called "the fox" for how they snatched market share.

The fox outside appeared in that moment, sitting on the railing, watching us through the glass.

"How long?" I asked, stepping inside.

Elena jumped. Her face collapsed into something I'd never seen before—shame, defiance, desperation all at once. "They offered me double your salary. You know how it is."

"Do I?"

"I'm your friend," she said. "I was going to tell you."

The fox dipped its head, like it understood everything and nothing.

"Corporate espionage, Elena. That's not friendship. That's a felony."

She'd left with her drive, her palms sweating when I reached for them. Now I sit alone on the fire escape, my cable knit sweater against the evening chill, watching for the fox. I don't know what I'll say if it returns. I don't know if I'll recognize my friend the next time I see her. Some lines on your palm, you can't unread.