Last Season's Oranges

The corporate spy who'd been stealing biotech patents from my company sat across from me at the rooftop bar, slicing into a blood orange with deliberate precision. Richard—his real name, I'd learned—didn't look like a traitor. He looked like a man who played tennis on weekends and remembered his niece's birthday.

"You're going to ask me why," he said, juice staining his thumb. "Everyone always asks why."

I'd spent six months building the case against him. Six months of surveillance, of tracking his encrypted communications, of watching him play the loyal employee while funneling trade secrets to our competitor. I should have felt satisfaction. Instead, I felt something dangerously close to admiration.

"How much?" I asked.

"Three years of my daughter's medical bills. She has MS."

He placed a slice of orange on the cocktail napkin. The fruit's color was violently bright against the white paper.

"I checked," I said. "Your daughter is perfectly healthy."

Richard's hand froze. The lines on his palm—that I'd studied in surveillance photos—seemed to deepen. "She was going to be. The genetic marker was there. I did what I had to do before the symptoms started."

"That's not how genetics works."

"It's how fear works."

I looked at his palm again, at the lifeline that some fortune teller had probably once read. We were all just people, I realized, trying to outsmart our own fears. Richard had sold his integrity to buy peace of mind. I'd sold my soul to the corporation that would ruin him for doing exactly what they'd have done in his position.

"I filed the report this morning," I said. "Federal agents are picking you up tomorrow."

He nodded, slowly. "I know. I saw you typing from across the street. You're good at this."

"I'm a spy, Richard. It's what I do."

"No." He pushed the orange slice toward me. "You're just someone who's forgotten what it feels like to be afraid."

I didn't arrest him that night. I didn't call to warn him either. I finished my drink and left him there with his orange slices and his impending doom, understanding suddenly that the difference between us was merely who held the knife.