The Seventh Inning Stretch

The baseball sat on Marcus's desk like an accusation, signed by someone whose name I couldn't read from this angle. Three weeks after he left the firm—after what the polite emails called 'seeking new opportunities' and what the rest of us called the embezzlement that sunk our quarterly bonuses—I'd been assigned his office. The promotion I'd wanted for years, delivered through someone else's catastrophe.

I picked up the hat first: a faded blue cap with a curved brim, sweat-stained at the crown. It smelled like him—that particular blend of expensive cologne and stale coffee I'd endured across shared conference tables for eight years. Marcus had been my friend once, before he became my rival, before he became the man who'd borrowed fifty grand from me to 'cover a temporary cash flow problem' three days before skipping town.

The baseball was heavy, weighted with more than rubber and yarn. Turned it over in my hands. On the other side, in sharpie that hadn't faded: *To Marcus—never forget who caught you when you fell. Always, Dad.*

I laughed, the sound echoing in my stolen office. Marcus's father had built this firm from nothing. The same firm Marcus had gutted from the inside out. Some catch.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

'Mateo,' I answered, though I knew who it was.

'You find it?' Marcus's voice came through, thin and distant. 'The thing in the baseball?'

'Find what?'

'The encryption key. It's in the stitching. Dad gave it to me when he got sick, said it would unlock everything I needed to know about the offshore accounts. About who actually owns what.' He paused. 'I didn't steal that money, David. I was trying to prove it wasn't mine to steal.'

I looked at the hat again, at the frayed edge where the logo was peeling away. Underneath, stitched in white thread: one coordinate.

'They're going to kill me if I don't transfer the funds by midnight,' Marcus said. 'But if I do, they'll come for you next. You're the CFO now.'

I sank into Marcus's chair, the leather still holding the shape of his body. 'Where are you?'

'Remember that baseball game? Senior year. Bottom of the ninth, two outs, and you hit that home run that won us the championship?' His voice cracked. 'You were always the one who came through in the clutch.'

'Where are you, Marcus?'

'Turn yourself in, David. Take the credit for finding the evidence. They'll give you immunity. Just promise me you'll make sure my dad didn't die for nothing.'

The line went dead.

I sat there for a long time, holding the baseball that might save my life or end it, wearing the hat of a man who'd been my friend for twenty years and my enemy for the last two. Outside my window, the city lights flickered on, one by one. Seventh inning stretch. And I was finally up to bat.