Fox in the Henhouse

The dog—Eleanor's rescued golden retriever, Buster—growled at Marcus before I did. That should have been my warning sign.

We were at the padel court, Sunday morning, playing our usual doubles match against the Hendersons. Marcus moved differently now. Lighter on his feet, more calculated. Every serve had precision. Every shot felt like reconnaissance.

"Your backhand's improved," I said during a water break, watching the way his eyes scanned the court—the way they used to scan me.

Marcus smiled. That practiced, perfect smile. "Taking lessons." He didn't say from whom.

Three weeks earlier, I'd found him swimming in our building's pool at 2 AM. Fully clothed.

"Couldn't sleep," he'd said, dripping wet, his phone sealed in a plastic bag. But his laptop had been on the kitchen table, its drive encryption software running.

Now, watching him play padel, I saw it: the surveillance patterns. The way he noted everything, said nothing. The fox watching the henhouse, learning the routines before the theft.

My company was launching a new encryption protocol next month. Worth millions. Marcus worked for a competitor.

That night, I swam laps until my muscles burned, trying to outpace my suspicion. The water drowned everything but the question: how long had he been playing me?

Buster's growl echoed in my memory. Dogs knew. Dogs always knew.

Back at our apartment, Marcus was already asleep—or pretending to be. I lay beside him, listening to his even breaths, calculating my next move. The spy game required I become someone I'd never been: the person who burned the bridge before crossing it.

Some stories end with a body or a breakup. This one ended with a locked laptop and a one-way ticket to somewhere else.

Buster licked my hand one last time before I left. Good boy knew.