What the Cat Brought In

The bull market had been good to Marcus, but it had made him arrogant. He sat at the head of the conference table, dispensing wisdom like a sphinx—cryptic utterances that required interpretation, offered only to those worthy of his attention. Elena had stopped trying to decipher him years ago.

She found it later that evening, after he'd fallen asleep on the sofa: a single strand of long, dark hair wound around the second button of his shirt. Elena's own hair was cropped short, a practical pixie cut she'd adopted when their daughter was born. This hair was someone else's.

Her cat, Bast, wound around her ankles, meowing for dinner. Elena picked her up, burying her face in soft fur. The cat had been Marcus's anniversary gift three years ago—"something to keep you company when I'm traveling," he'd said. How many times had he traveled? How many hotel rooms, how many cities?

The question hovered like a riddle with no answer. She could wake him, demand an explanation, watch him construct another pyramid of deflection and denial. Or she could pack a bag, walk out into the night, leave him to his sphinx-like silence and his market victories.

Bast purred against her chest, vibrations that almost masked the trembling in Elena's hands. She placed the cat gently on the floor, then gathered the hair from Marcus's shirt—evidence, artifact, the thing that would finally break the camel's back.

In the kitchen, she made coffee strong enough to keep her through what came next. Some answers, she decided, you had to demand yourself.