The Last Cover Story

Elena watched the spinach stuck in Marcus's teeth as he laughed at something the host said. It was during one of those terrible dinner parties where everyone pretended to be successful and happy, and she wondered how long she'd been living with a stranger.

Three months ago, she'd found the burner phone in his sock drawer. Six weeks ago, she'd followed him to that warehouse district and watched him meet someone in a parked car. Last week, she'd hired a private detective who'd confirmed what she already knew: Marcus wasn't an insurance broker. He was a spy, or something close enough that the distinction didn't matter.

Their dog, Buster, a rescue with anxiety issues and a tendency to chew baseboards when left alone, was currently curled under the table at her feet. The one honest thing in her life.

"So, Elena," Marcus's colleague from work—except it wasn't work, was it?—leaned in. "How long have you and Marcus been together?"

"Seven years," she said. "Seven years this October."

Marcus's hand found hers under the table. His touch was practiced, perfect. He'd had training in this, she realized. Everything—the gentle squeeze, the way he looked at her with those soft brown eyes—was technique. Method acting.

"I'm going to check on Buster," she said, standing too quickly.

Outside on the deck, the autumn air bit at her bare arms. She lit a cigarette even though she'd quit two years ago, when Marcus had asked her to. When the fake Marcus had asked her to.

Buster followed her out, pressing his warm body against her legs. At least he needed nothing she couldn't give. At least his love wasn't cover for something else.

The sliding door opened. Marcus stepped out, the spinach finally gone from his teeth.

"You know," he said, his voice different out here. Harder. "You were never supposed to find out."

"I'm supposed to believe that?" She laughed bitterly. "That's just another cover story, isn't it?"

He stepped closer, and for the first time in their marriage, she saw him drop the performance completely. The warmth was gone from his eyes, replaced by something colder. Something professional.

"Actually," he said, "you were the assignment. And you've just become a loose end."

Buster growled, low and deep, the first time Elena had ever heard him make that sound. Some instincts, she supposed, didn't need to be taught.