The Last Honest Thing

She checked his phone again, thumb hovering over the screen like a practiced spy. Three years of marriage reduced to this—bedroom espionage at 2 AM, her heart hammering against ribs that felt too fragile for the weight of suspicion. Nothing. Again.

She was a zombie now, wasn't she? Sleepwalking through breakfast conversations, through office politics, through sex that had become mechanical. The dead didn't know they were dead; they just kept moving.

The bear of a man—his boss, Marcus—had made a pass at her at the company holiday party. "You're too good for him," he'd whispered, hand lingering on her elbow. She'd pulled away, but the seed had taken root anyway. What did Marcus see that she didn't?

She padded to the kitchen. Their cat, Silas, wound around her ankles, the only honest thing left. He didn't lie. He didn't have secrets. He just wanted food and warmth and to be let out when the sun hit the living room floor just so.

On the TV, a baseball game played to no one. Bottom of the ninth, two outs, full count. She remembered her father taking her to games as a girl, the way the stadium lights made everything feel important, how the crack of the bat had sounded like possibility itself. She'd stopped watching when he died.

David stirred in the other room. She heard his phone buzz on the nightstand where she'd left it.

A message from Marcus: Thanks for listening today. Really needed that.

Her breath caught. Then another: Can you meet tomorrow? Same place.

She waited, heart in her throat, for something damning. For I can't stop thinking about you or worse—much worse—the reciprocal confession that would confirm her worst fears.

The final message came: I don't know who else to trust with this. The embezzlement investigation—my name's on the documents. You're the only one who can help me prove it wasn't me.

She stared until the screen went dark.

In the bedroom, David's breathing had slowed again. He was conspiring with her husband to expose corporate fraud while she lay awake inventing tragedies.

The cat mewed insistently. The baseball game erupted in cheers—someone had hit a walk-off home run.

She slid back into bed, curling around David's sleeping form. He stirred, wrapping an arm around her waist without waking. Some secrets she'd keep. Some truths she'd never tell. The spy in her marriage, it turned out, was her.