The Goldfish in the Window

The first rule of being a corporate spy: never fall in love with your mark. Elena broke that rule three months ago in an Orlando hotel bar, watching Marcus laugh—head thrown back, carefree, unaware that the man he'd just shaken hands with would steal his patents by spring.

Now she sat in her rental car across from his house, a cup of coffee gone cold in the cupholder. Through the living room window, she could see him feeding his orange cat, a cream-colored thing that wound between his legs like it owned him. Her own goldfish bubbled in its bowl back in Seattle—a lone survivor of a relationship that had died by degrees. Three years ago, her ex had won it at a carnival. Now it was the only living thing waiting for her at home.

Her phone buzzed. Her handler, wanting to know why she hadn't delivered the encryption keys yet. She stared at Marcus through the rain-spotted glass, watched him pour wine for two—blonde woman, early thirties, Elena had researched her. Sarah. Architect. They'd met at a gallery opening six weeks after Elena's last assignment.

Marcus looked happy.

The weight of it pressed down on her chest like a physical thing. She bore it every day—the surveillance, the betrayal, the slow erosion of whatever goodness she'd once claimed. People like her didn't get happy endings. They got goldfish and surveillance photos and mornings where they stared in the mirror and couldn't remember what honesty felt like.

Her phone buzzed again.

Elena watched Marcus pull Sarah close, kiss her forehead. They were talking about something serious—she could tell by his posture, the way he kept touching Sarah's arm like anchoring himself. Maybe they were discussing moving in together. Maybe he was about to propose.

She killed the engine. The cat jumped onto the windowsill, orange eyes catching the streetlamp. It stared straight at her car.

Elena started the engine, put the car in gear. She would tell her handler the encryption keys were corrupted. She would burn this assignment, take the hit to her career, maybe her reputation. Tomorrow morning, she'd buy a second goldfish. Company was better than loneliness, and tonight, for the first time in years, she could almost remember what hope felt like.