The Corporate Spy's Last Inning

Elena ran her fingers through his chest hair, her wedding ring catching the hotel room's dim light. Another Tuesday, another city, another lie told to someone who believed he was in construction management. The corporate spy game had lost its luster years ago, but the mortgage hadn't.

"You're quiet tonight," she murmured against his shoulder.

"Just tired."

The bull-headed kid from analytics, Marcus, had been shadowing him for weeks. Too many questions about expense reports, too many knowing looks. Miller should've been more careful, but twenty years of playing double agent for competing pharmaceutical companies had made him arrogant. Or perhaps just reckless.

His phone buzzed. A message from his actual wife: *Your son's baseball game is Thursday. Don't you dare miss this one.*

Miller stared at the screen. His son was seventeen now, playing his last season before college. The father-son bond had frayed somewhere between the fake business trips and the genuine absences. Baseball had been their thing—catch in the backyard, Little League, the way the kid's face lit up when Miller actually showed up to games. But work—this toxic, glorious, well-paid work—always came first.

He caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Gray hair had claimed his temples, crept around his ears. The man staring back looked like a stranger who'd made all the wrong choices but kept making them anyway.

"Something wrong?" Elena asked.

Miller considered telling her the truth. That his name wasn't Miller. That he had three illegitimate children across three time zones. That the only person he hadn't lied to was dying in a hospice in Portland, and even she didn't know everything.

Instead, he forced a smile. "Just thinking about Thursday."

"Thursday?"

"Baseball game," he said, and the word tasted like ash. "My son's last home game."

"You should go," she said, and for a moment, she looked nothing like the corporate spy she'd been hired to be. "Family's the only thing that's real."

She would know. Her cover was blown three months ago. She was gathering evidence on him now—probably had been the whole time. The irony was almost poetic enough to make him laugh.

"Yeah," Miller said, turning off the light. "I think I will."