Collateral Damage

I never meant to become a corporate spy. It happened the way these things do—gradually, then all at once. First it was running background checks on competitors. Then someone slipped me an envelope of cash for "internal documents." Now here I am, thirty-five years old and sleeping with a target, watching him eat spinach salad at his kitchen counter while I mentally catalog which passwords I've already stolen.

"You're quiet tonight," Daniel says, wiping dressing from his chin. He's beautiful in the way innocent people are—uncomplicated. He believes in the vitamin company he founded. He thinks he's helping people.

"Tired." I pour more wine. "Long day."

The truth is, I've been running for seven years. From my father's bankruptcy. From the shame of being the daughter who couldn't save him. From the realization that integrity doesn't pay the bills. Now I'm about to hand over evidence that will destroy Daniel's business—evidence that his flagship vitamin contains trace amounts of a banned substance. The payout will set me up for life. I can finally stop.

"My mother always said spinach would make me strong," Daniel laughs, gesturing with his fork. "Maybe that's why I started this company. Trying to fix people."

I think about the pyramid scheme structure beneath his business model, the way I'd climbed into his bed through a carefully constructed lie, how every moment of vulnerability between us has been staged. I'm not a person anymore. I'm a collection of tactics.

Later, when he's asleep, I open my laptop. The dossier is ready to send. My finger hovers over the key.

Then I see it—the photograph he keeps on his nightstand. His mother, who died of cancer when he was twelve. The same cancer his vitamin claims to prevent.

I close the laptop. For the first time in seven years, I stop running.