The Seventh Inning

The cat watched from the windowsill, yellow eyes unblinking, as Elena dissolved another effervescent vitamin tablet into her water glass. It fizzed violently, like her marriage had been doing for months.

"You're going to the game again?" she asked, not turning from the sink.

Marcus adjusted his tie in the mirror. "It's the playoffs, El. Business." He'd been going to a lot of baseball games lately. More than his job as a mid-level pharmaceutical rep should require.

She'd found the receipt three weeks ago: a safe deposit box rental, paid in cash. The encrypted files on his laptop that he thought he'd hidden. The vitamin bottle in his medicine cabinet—multivitamins he didn't take, but the bottle was filled with something else. Tiny, powder-filled capsules.

Now his phone buzzed. A message: *Seventh inning. Usual spot.*

He'd been a spy for twelve years, selling trade secrets to competitors. Elena knew because she'd followed him last Tuesday, watched him meet a woman from a rival company behind the concession stand during the third inning. They'd exchanged something in a vitamin bottle—industrial espionage in broad daylight, surrounded by hot dog vendors and cheering fans.

The water glass trembled in her hand. She remembered their anniversary dinner, how he'd slipped away to take a call during dessert. How he'd started keeping his phone face-down. How the cat had started sleeping in the guest room, as if the animal sensed the rot spreading through their home.

"Marcus," she said, turning to face him. "I dissolved the wrong vitamin today."

He froze, hand on the doorknob. "What?"

"Your special vitamins. The ones you don't actually take. I replaced them with prenatal vitamins. Just to see if you'd notice."

The silence stretched between them like the pause between pitches. Outside, a car horn blared. The cat stretched, indifferent.

"I need to go, Elena."

"I know you do. But you should know—the FBI already knows about your usual spot. Seventh inning, behind the nachos stand. They're probably already there."

Marcus's face went gray. He reached for his phone, then stopped. The game had ended before it began.

Elena sipped her water, watching him realize the truth: she hadn't just been his wife. She'd been his catcher, and she'd been waiting for the perfect pitch. The cat leapt from the sill and wound through her legs, purring. Some secrets stay buried. Others, she supposed, were meant to be uncovered. After all, you can't play defense forever. Eventually, you have to swing.