Evidence Collection

Elena hadn't meant to become a spy. It happened gradually, like aging or emotional estrangement. First it was just watching through the window as her tabby cat, Bastet, prowled across neighbors' rooftops, returning with small trophies: a child's hair tie, a man's wedding ring, a folded note with a phone number. Elena logged each item in her field notebook, date-stamped and categorized, professional habit bleeding into domestic desperation.

She worked corporate espionage now—following executives on "business trips," photographing documents through hotel windows, sleeping in rental cars outside suburban homes where mistresses were allegedly housed. The work had cost her Silas, who couldn't stomach what she'd become. "You see people as evidence," he'd said, packing his bags. "Not as human beings. Just data points."

Bastet brought back a woman's earring from the house next door—silver, delicate, unmistakably expensive. Elena examined it under her lamp, noting the maker's mark, the hair snagged on the clasp (dark, likely Mediterranean). Across the street, the golden retriever belonging to the divorcé, Michael, waited at the window every evening, its muzzle pressed against the glass, watching nothing.

The dog stopped appearing one Tuesday. Elena saw Michael on his porch, head in his hands. Without considering implications—tradecraft, exposure, appropriate boundaries—she walked across the street with a bowl of leftover stew.

"He's at the vet," Michael said, not looking up. "Cancer."

"I'm sorry," Elena said. "My cat—I think she visited him. Sometimes. Through the window."

Michael laughed, broken and genuine. "You too?"

She invited him inside. Bastet wound between his legs. Over tea—weak, bagless, the last of Silas's stash—they traded fragments. She mentioned the earring. He mentioned the Wednesday deliveries from a catering van that never left food, only took away packages. They were both spies, she realized. Both desperate witnesses to lives they couldn't inhabit.

"Your wife," Elena said carefully. "The one who left."

"She's having an affair," Michael said. "With someone from the gym. I hired a private detective."

Elena set down her cup. "I could do it cheaper."

Michael looked at her for the first time—really looked. "No offense, but you look like you need sleep, not more surveillance."

"I need to know things," she said. "It's the only way I feel... present."

"Then know this," he said, reaching for her hand across the table. "I haven't had a real conversation in six months. And I'm fairly certain my neighbor across the street has been watching me longer than she's willing to admit."

Elena didn't pull away. "That's cat evidence," she said. "Admissible in court."

"Good," Michael said. "Because I think I need a witness."

Through the window, Bastet watched them with unblinking eyes. Somewhere, a dog whined in its sleep. The evidence collection continued—but for the first time in years, Elena thought she might be part of it.