What the Cat Knew

The cat watched me pack, its yellow eyes following each fold of clothing into the suitcase. It had been Marcus's cat first—Barnaby, a rescue with a jagged ear and trust issues—which made its loyalty now feel like a betrayal.

"You're really running?" Maya stood in my doorway, arms crossed. "Again?"

Maya had been my friend since freshman year, before I met Marcus, before the promotion that put us on opposing teams at the firm. She knew about the messages I'd found on his phone. She knew about the project I'd torpedoed when I discovered he was leaking specs to competitors. What she didn't know was that the leak had come through her.

"I'm not running," I lied. "I'm... recalculating."

"Bull." Maya's voice cracked. "You're doing that thing where you disappear until the smoke clears. Remember Chicago?"

I did remember Chicago. Three years ago, another job, another failure. Marcus had patched me back together then, with takeout and patience and that annoying way he'd quote philosophy while I drank wine on his bathroom floor.

The investigation would finish what I'd started. Security had already pulled the logs. Maya's access codes were all over the stolen documents. I'd done my part—hidden the backup drives, filed the anonymous report—while pretending to mourn a relationship that had already rotted from the inside.

Barnaby wound around my legs, purring like nothing had changed. Like people didn't destroy each other for promotions and revenge.

"Call you when I get settled?" I asked.

Maya's phone buzzed. She glanced at it, color draining from her face. Security probably.

"Yeah," she whispered. "Sure."

I lifted Barnaby into his carrier. He howled, the sound raw and ugly in the quiet apartment. Outside, the city hummed indifferent, full of people running toward things and away from them, none of them ever getting where they thought they were going.