Intelligence

The spinach stuck between Maya's incisors during the quarterly review—a small green flag of surrender that made me want to weep. We'd been friends for seven years, through divorces and promotions and that terrible Christmas when both our mothers died within weeks of each other. I'd cat-sat Miso for three weeks that following January, the calico's persistent yowls at 3 AM matching the hollow ache in my own chest.

Now I watched from the conference room doorway as Marcus from Corp Security slid into the chair beside hers. His hand rested proprietarily on her lower back. Miso would have arched into that touch; Maya leaned away, just slightly, but she didn't pull away.

The spyware on her laptop had been my installation—a routine corporate security measure, or so I'd told her when I asked to borrow it last week. The keylogger captured everything: passwords, emails, the Google search for "how to disappear," and the encrypted messages to Marcus about quarterly projections and client lists and pricing structures.

"Sarah," Maya called, catching my eye. The spinach was gone. She'd cleaned herself up for the betrayal. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I thought of Miso, how the cat had brought me a dead mouse once, proud and expectant, and I'd screamed. Some gifts aren't gifts at all. Some friends aren't friends. Some jobs require you to destroy the things you love.

"I'm fine," I said, already composing the incident report in my head. "Just thinking about lunch."