Static in the Lightning

The cat scratched at the door again, a sound that would have driven me mad six months ago. Now it was just background noise, like the hum of the refrigerator or the weight in my chest. Rain streaked the window in jagged patterns, obscuring the view of downtown Seattle. My iphone vibrated against the nightstand—her name lighting up the screen for the third time this hour.

I didn't answer.

The corporate USB drive in my laptop blinked orange as it downloaded the files that would ruin careers, maybe companies. I'd been a spy for eleven years, industrial espionage for the highest bidder, but tonight the job felt different. Maybe because the target was someone I'd once called a friend. Maybe because at forty-two, I'd expected to be somewhere else entirely.

Lightning fractured the sky, illuminating the hotel room in stark white—a momentary autopsy of my life. The cat finally stopped scratching and curled on the foot of the bed, as if she'd given up on me too. Sara's calls had stopped too. Silence is its own kind of answer.

The download completed. I should have felt satisfaction, or at least the familiar rush of a job well done. Instead, I felt hollowed out, like a building scheduled for demolition. Somewhere in those files were emails that would destroy David's reputation, evidence of the safety violations he'd covered up to save money. I'd deliver them to the competitor who'd hired me, collect my fee, and move to the next city.

But I didn't close the laptop. I watched the rain and waited for morning, for something to break, for lightning to strike something other than empty sky. The orange download light pulsed like a warning I couldn't quite read.

In the end, I sent the files. The check cleared three days later. By then, Sara had moved out. The cat stayed, though I suppose that was more habit than affection. Some betrayals happen in seconds. Others take years to arrive at their obvious conclusion.