Evidence in Orange Bottles

The vitamin bottles were everywhere—orange plastic fortresses clustering on Maya's nightstand, on the kitchen counter, rolling across the bathroom floor like traitorous little soldiers. Lucas had started counting them three weeks ago, after he found the receipt hidden in her purse: Vitamin D3, B12, iron, magnesium, something unpronounceable that promised to support 'immune health.' He was no medical professional, but he was a spy by trade—corporate intelligence, mostly, which meant he knew how to notice patterns that shouldn't exist. And Maya had never taken vitamins in the five years they'd been together.

Their cat, Brutus, watched him from the doorway with those judgmental yellow eyes. Lucas had never liked cats—too independent, too knowing—but Maya had adopted Brutus from a shelter two years ago, and the animal had attached itself to her with a devotion that made Lucas feel like the interloper in his own marriage.

'What are you looking at?' he muttered.

Brutus meowed, a low, demanding sound, and trotted to the bedroom where Maya was sleeping. Or pretending to.

Lucas had followed her twice last week. Not because he didn't trust her—ha. Because his job had trained him to verify. To collect evidence. To assume that everything significant was being hidden. The first time, she'd gone to a medical building in Century City. The second, she'd met a man in a coffee shop—tall, graying at the temples, the kind of handsome that comes with money and ease. They'd talked for forty minutes. Maya had cried. The man had handed her an envelope. She'd placed it in her bag without looking inside.

Later that night, Lucas had searched through her things while she showered. No envelope. Just more vitamins. A new prescription bottle, the label peeled off.

He was a spy, for god's sake. He broke into secure facilities and stole trade secrets for a living. He could find out what his wife was hiding.

Brutus rubbed against his leg, purring so loudly Lucas could feel it in his shinbone. The damn cat liked him better when Maya wasn't around. Maybe the cat knew something he didn't.

'Maya?' he called from the doorway.

She rolled over, face puffy with sleep—or crying, it was hard to tell anymore. 'Hmm?'

'The vitamins.' He didn't know how to ask. Didn't know how to say: I followed you. I searched your things. I think you're sick, or leaving me, or both. 'Why so many all of a sudden?'

Maya sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist. She looked at him for a long moment, then reached for her phone. 'The results came back yesterday.' Her voice was small. 'The oncologist called it early, but he wants to start treatment immediately. That's who I met—the specialist. The vitamins are supposed to help with the side effects.' She took a breath. 'I didn't know how to tell you. I still don't.'

Brutus jumped onto the bed and curled into her lap, purring like a tiny, judgmental engine. Lucas stood in the doorway, all his training, all his spy craft, all his clever deductions suddenly useless against three little words that had nothing to do with corporate espionage or covert operations: 'It's treatable, though?'