The Dead Still Play Padel

Elena walked the dog along the beach path, the golden retriever's leash loose in her hand. Marcus was already at the padel court, his white hat blinding in the morning sun. She could see him through the chain-link fence, laughing with a woman Elena didn't know. Their dog whimpered and tugged toward the court, but Elena held firm. Three years of marriage, and somehow she'd become a zombie—moving through days on autopilot, appetite for everything gone.

The corporate spy gig had seemed glamorous once. Now she just harvested secrets from men who thought with their egos, not their hearts. Like Marcus's boss, who'd hired her to dig up dirt on his own son-in-law. The irony tasted like bile. She'd spent months gathering evidence on her own husband, piece by careful piece, like removing a tumor while the patient slept.

"Good boy," she whispered to the dog, though it wasn't true. The dog had stopped listening to her months ago. Animals sensed when love curdled into something else.

Marcus's hat blew off in the wind. The woman—red hair, Elena noted—caught it before it hit the ground and placed it on her own head. They both laughed. Something intimate in the gesture, something practiced.

Elena reached into her pocket and pressed delete on the encrypted file. Let his father-in-law find someone else to do his dirty work. She was done being everyone's weapon, including her own.

"Come on," she said to the dog. "We're going home."

The dog followed without resistance. Some relationships, she realized, were easier to end than others.