The Seventh Inning Stretch
She had him tailed for three weeks before she understood why her husband started carrying his phone like a second skin. The private investigator's photos arrived in a plain envelope β Eduardo meeting contacts in parking garages, passing USB drives like baseball cards, his face illuminated by dashboard glow. Corporate espionage. Her husband, who couldn't even remember to pay the cable bill on time, was a spy.
Tonight, she watched him from the kitchen window as he tossed a baseball with their son in the backyard. The same son whose college fund was fattened by stolen trade secrets. "Remember, keep your eye on the ball," Eduardo called out, his voice warm and patient, the same voice he used when he told her he loved her, when he promised his late nights at the office were about securing their future. A future built on someone else's stolen proprietary research.
He had the bear of a man who carriedζ²ιη weight, though she'd mistaken it for responsibility all these years. She should have known β a man who doesn't sleep, who keeps a go-bag in the closet, who checks escape routes in every restaurant they enter. She'd found it romantic, his constant vigilance. Now she understood he wasn't protecting her. He was covering his tracks.
Their son threw a perfect strike. Eduardo cheered, scooping the boy into a hug that looked genuine enough to fool anyone who didn't know what he really was. She thought about the envelope in her purse, the burner phone the investigator had provided. One call to the FBI, and everything β the house, the comfortable life, the facade β would evaporate like morning fog.
She opened the back door. "Eduardo," she called, and he turned, baseball still in hand, their son wrapped around his legs like a vine. "You should probably come inside. We need to talk." The way his face went still told her everything. He knew she knew.
Some men are bears β dangerous beneath the fur. Others just hide behind it.