The Burden of Watching

Elena placed the key card in the reader, pulse thrumming against her throat. The signal had originated from this office three weeks ago—intercepted emails pointing to insider trading at Meridian Holdings. She wasn't a spy by trade, just a forensic accountant who'd stopped asking where the leads came from. The money was good. The moral gray area had stopped mattering after David left.

Her cat, Monty, waited at home. She'd left him with an automatic feeder, but he'd gotten needy in his old age, weaving between her ankles when she returned from trips like these, mewling accusations. *You were gone. Again.* Monty didn't know about the second mortgage, the late nights reviewing financial statements that didn't add up, or how her stomach knotted whenever she passed a police cruiser.

The office was dark. Fish tank hummed with blue light. Someone was here.

She slipped behind the heavy oak desk—bad tradecraft, but she was an accountant, not a spy—and found the drawer unlocked. Inside: a ledger. Handwritten names, dates, offshore accounts. Her hands trembled as she photographed each page with her phone. This was it. Proof.

Then the door clicked.

She didn't breathe. A man's silhouette against the hallway light. The CEO—what was his name? Morrison. He moved to the window, lit a cigarette. She could smell it from here, sharp and chemical.

"They're going to bear down on you, Elena," he said to the glass, not turning. "When you start digging, you forget that some graves are better left undisturbed."

Heart hammering. He knew.

"My cat," she said, voice steadier than she felt. "He's waiting."

Morrison turned, face half-shadowed. "Is that what we're calling it? The cat that curiosity killed?" He exhaled smoke. "I'm not the villain here. I'm just the one who didn't look away."

He slid an envelope across the desk. Inside: photographs. Of her. Entering buildings. Meeting contacts. Sleeping in her car.

"You've been made," he said. "By people who make what I do look like accounting errors. This ledger? It's bait. You're the mouse, Elena."

She stared at the photos, understanding dawning cold and sharp. She wasn't the hunter. She was prey in a game she'd never understood, played by people who'd been using her all along.

"Why tell me?"

"Because someone should." Morrison crushed his cigarette. "Go home. Feed your cat. Find something honest to do with your life."

She walked out into the night, phone burning in her pocket, Monty's automatic feeder ticking down the hours until dawn. For the first time in three years, she didn't know who she was anymore—only that she needed to find out before someone else did it for her.