The Palm Reader

Mara traced the lifeline on her left palm, something she hadn't done since childhood. Superstitious nonsense, her mother would say. But here, in her office on the forty-second floor, with her iPhone face-down on the mahogany desk, Mara needed something to believe in.

The corporate espionage unit had confirmed it an hour ago: someone inside the firm was leaking to competitors. And the digital trail led to her phone.

Not her phone, exactly. Her old iPhone, the one she'd given to Sarah last Christmas when she upgraded. Sarah, who had been her friend since sophomore year, who had attended her father's funeral, who had introduced her to her husband. Sarah, whose desk sat six feet away.

The unit hadn't wanted to tell her who it was. They'd just said "a person of interest" and asked her to cooperate. But Mara had connections. She knew how to ask questions without actually asking them.

Now her palm was sweating against the glass of her office door as she watched Sarah pack her box. The confrontation had been brief. Sarah hadn't denied it—just said the money was good, said everyone had a price, said she was sorry, truly sorry, but she had debts.

"We're all spies now," Sarah had whispered, and she'd placed her palm against Mara's in that strange gesture of intimacy, like they were children again, sealing some secret pact.

Mara watched her walk to the elevator. The palm print she'd left on the glass was already fading, evaporating like the friendship itself. Outside, the city lights blinked on, one by one. Somewhere, Sarah was probably calling her handler.

Mara picked up her iPhone and called her husband. She didn't answer. After four rings, the voicemail picked up, and in the background, through the static, Mara could hear it: Sarah's laugh.

She placed her palm flat against her desk and waited for the shaking to stop.