The Memory in the Water

The office goldfish circled its bowl, endless laps in a space no larger than a dinner plate. Elena watched it while waiting for her meeting with David, the silver fox of the executive floor — sixty, handsome in that way that comes from money and good tailoring, and currently under investigation for embezzlement.

She pressed her sweaty palms against her skirt. David had been her mentor for three years. He'd championed her promotion, sent her flowers when her mother died, poured her wine at his annual Christmas parties and told stories about the old days. Now she was the witness. The prosecution had emails, but they needed her testimony to connect the dots.

He looked up when she entered. The wrinkles around his eyes had deepened overnight. 'Elena,' he said, voice thick. 'Thank you for coming.'

She thought about the goldfish, how people said they had three-second memories. She wished she could have that. She wished she could forget the way he'd leaned across his desk last October, sliding a folder toward her, saying 'You don't need to read the fine detail.' She wished she could forget how she'd signed anyway.

'I can't do it,' she said. 'I told them I'd testify.'

David's face didn't change. He just looked old. 'I see.' He reached across his desk, palm open, as if to shake her hand. 'You're making the right choice. For what it's worth, I'm glad it's you. Better you than someone who would have enjoyed it.'

She didn't take his hand.

Later, in her car, she watched the building through her windshield and remembered something David had told her once: 'The thing about foxes, Elena. They don't chase rabbits because they're hungry. They chase because they've forgotten how to stop.'

She started the engine and drove away, and for the first time in three years, she didn't look back.