The Spy in the House

The hat sat on the entryway bench, exactly where it shouldn't be. Marcus's trench coat draped over it like a sleeping animal. Three years of marriage, and I'd never seen that hat before — felt, wide-brimmed, smelling faintly of expensive cologne that wasn't his.

Our dog, Buster, circled the hat, growling low in his throat. He'd been acting strange all week, sensing something I couldn't. Animals know when their humans are lying; it's in the pheromones, the micro-expressions, the way a heartbeat skips.

I followed the cable from the modem to the closet, the one Marcus claimed was for his freelance IT work. The connection went nowhere near his office. It snaked behind the drywall, into the crawlspace I'd never explored.

The corporate bull sessions had been getting intense lately — his company, mine, merger talks in every headline. He'd ask casual questions over dinner: How was the due diligence going? Any leaks about the offer price?

I'd told him everything. I'd told him about the classified patents, the nervous board members, the whispers about the competitor's aggressive tactics. He'd listened sympathetically, pouring more wine.

Now I understood why.

The cable led to a small device, blinking silently in the darkness. A transmitter. He wasn't working freelance IT. He was their spy on the inside, sleeping with the enemy's lead counsel to feed them everything I knew.

Buster nudged my hand, whining softly. I stroked his head, my mind racing through three years of intimate conversations, late-night confessions, pillow talk that was never just talk. Every secret I'd whispered, every doubt I'd shared — all of it, harvested.

The front door opened. Marcus's voice called out, cheerful, rehearsed. "Honey, I'm home."

I picked up the hat. Buster growled again, a sound of judgment, of loyalty, of knowing what I had to do.

"In here," I said. "You have some explaining to do."

The device kept blinking, recording everything. Good. Let it record this too.