The Goldfish Knew

The apartment was quiet when I returned, except for the steady bubble of the aquarium filter. In the kitchen, our goldfish swam its endless laps, unaware that its entire world was about to shatter.

I'd been playing spy in my own marriage for three weeks. Thomas didn't know I'd installed the tracking app on his phone, didn't realize I'd memorized the pattern of his late meetings, his sudden gym sessions, his encrypted messages. The cat, Merlin, watched me with those judging yellow eyes from the counter — perhaps he'd known all along.

"You're working late again," I'd said that morning, pretending not to notice his polished shoes, the way his cologne had changed.

"Busy season, love." He'd kissed my forehead, missing my mouth entirely.

Now I sat at the kitchen table, water glass sweating onto the wood, and opened the folder my contact had slipped me at lunch. Photographs. Thomas and Her — a redhead with sharp laugh lines and a familiar way of tilting her head. They were at a café, then a bar, then what looked suspiciously like a hotel lobby.

The folder had cost me three hundred dollars and whatever remained of my dignity. Corporate espionage paid better than actual espionage, which was why I'd taken the freelance job investigating Thomas's firm in the first place. The irony of discovering his affair while hired to dig through his company's dirty laundry wasn't lost on me.

Merlin jumped onto the table, tail twitching.

"What do you think?" I asked him. "Leave or burn it all down?"

The goldfish surfaced, mouth opening and closing in silent commentary.

"Right." I finished my water, standing up. "Spies don't get to have feelings anyway."

I packed my bag methodically — clothes, toiletries, the backup drive with all the evidence. Merlin's food container. Even the fish in its portable container. Thomas could keep the apartment, the bed we'd shared for seven years, the photos of a life that no longer existed.

At the door, I turned back once. The goldfish swam in its portable bowl, Merlin's carrier rattled as I shouldered it, and somewhere in the city, Thomas was probably telling her he loved her.

Let him. I had the evidence, I had the exit strategy, and I had a meeting with his competitors tomorrow at noon.

Professional, personal — it was all just water under the bridge now.