Citrus and Secrets

Margaret peeled the orange at her desk, the citrus spray misting the air like tiny fragrant tears. She'd become an expert at eating lunch while simultaneously monitoring the email breadcrumbs that would finally expose whoever was leaking the pharmaceutical trial data to competitors. Six months of playing corporate spy in her own company, and her ulcer had developed an ulcer.

The emails had stopped three weeks ago. So had the leaks. But Julian—her boss, her occasional Friday-night mistake, the man who'd promised her a partnership track—had started locking his computer when he stood up. Never done that before.

'Still at it?'

Margaret jumped, nearly dropping her orange. Ethan from IT stood in her doorway, holding a glass of water. He always brought her water at 3 PM, like clockwork. Like he was watching her schedule the way she'd been watching the network logs.

'Someone has to care about the trial results,' she said, too sharply.

'Julian resigned,' Ethan said, setting the water on her desk. 'Effective immediately.'

The orange segment in Margaret's hand burst, juice running down her fingers. Sticky. Like everything else.

'He told the board the leaks were him. Said he'd been selling early access to hedge funds for eighteen months.' Ethan's voice was gentle. Unusually gentle. 'He said you figured it out months ago and were too loyal to report him.'

Margaret stared at the ruined fruit in her palm. All this time, playing detective, convinced she was protecting the company from some external threat. While Julian had been dismantling everything she'd built, one insider trade at a time.

'Why are you telling me this?'

Ethan leaned against her doorframe. 'Because I was the one monitoring the network logs. Not to catch you—to protect you. Julian made me run the traces.' He met her eyes. 'I never reported what I found.'

The water glass reflected the afternoon sun, making little light patterns dance across her desk like something alive. Something shifting.

'You're not drinking your water,' Ethan said. 'And you've got orange juice everywhere.'

Margaret looked at her hands, at the evidence of her own willful blindness. Then she looked at Ethan, who'd spent six months watching her back while she'd been busy watching everyone else's.

'So,' she said. 'What now?'

'Now we clean up the mess.' He smiled, just slightly. 'Together.'