Fox in the Deep End

The hotel pool was empty at 2 AM, which was exactly what Elena needed. She'd taken to swimming in the middle of the night since finding the texts on David's phone three weeks ago. Something about the water—the way it muffled the world, the way it held her weight—made the sick feeling in her chest slightly more bearable.

She dove in, her body cutting through the chlorinated water in practiced strokes. Lap after lap, she tried to outswim the image of David's face when she'd confronted him. The surprise. The shame. The quick admission: her assistant, Sophie, who everyone called "the fox" because of her copper hair and her uncanny ability to talk her way into (and out of) anything.

Elena surfaced, gasping. The pool lights cast wavy reflections on the ceiling, like underwater aurora borealis. She treaded water, watching her hands break the surface again and again. How had she missed it? Sophie's lingering touches during meetings. The way David's phone always seemed to be face down.

Then she saw it through the floor-to-ceiling glass doors: a fox, sleek and red-brown, standing at the edge of the patio. Watching her. Elena froze, treading water silently. The animal's amber eyes seemed to see right through the glass, through her. In the folklore of her childhood, foxes were tricksters, shape-shifters, creatures who thrived in the space between truth and lies.

She'd hired Sophie herself. Had been impressed by her sharp wit, her hunger. Had called her a "fox" herself, once, after Sophie pulled off a miracle with a difficult client. Now the word tasted like bile.

The fox at the glass dipped its head, turned, and vanished into the darkness. Elena swam to the pool's edge and pulled herself out, water streaming from her skin. She found her phone on the lounge chair, where she'd left it. Three new messages from David.

"Can we talk?"

"I've been staying at Mark's."

"I miss you."

Elena's thumb hovered over the screen. She could feel it happening—the softening, the instinct to forgive. But then she remembered the fox, watching her from the darkness. How it had stood there, bold as anything, before slipping away.

She turned off her phone. The water had helped tonight. It would help tomorrow, too. She would keep swimming until she was strong enough to do what needed to be done.