What the Cat Knew

Maya traced the lifeline on her palm, something she hadn't done since college, since before the corporate ladder had replaced all other forms of divination. The line was still there, stubborn and faint, beneath the fluorescent hum of the thirty-second floor.

"You're going to take the fall for this, aren't you?" Sarah had asked three days ago, in that tone that balanced concern with barely concealed relief. They'd been friends for six years, since both were fresh-faced analysts drowning in spreadsheets and hope. Now Sarah was VP, and Maya was...

Well, Maya was currently looking at a spreadsheet that could destroy half the division. A bull market had masked the rot for years, but the numbers didn't lie. Someone had cooked the books, and the trail led to a signature that looked remarkably like hers.

Her apartment was quiet when she returned. Only the cat was awake — a rescue she'd named Cassandra because no one ever listened to her warnings. The cat wound through Maya's legs, purring, then jumped to the windowsill where a dying palm plant stood as testament to her neglect.

"You knew, didn't you?" Maya whispered, scratching behind the cat's ears. "You've always known."

Cassandra had yowled relentlessly the night Sarah suggested Maya "just sign off on the Q3 reconciliation" as a favor, between friends. The cat had clawed at Sarah's expensive coat when she visited, nearly drawing blood. Sarah had laughed it off. "Animals sense insecurity," she'd said, smoothing her silk blouse.

Maya poured wine she couldn't afford and considered the USB drive in her bag, the copies she'd made before confronting her friend. Sarah had looked genuinely hurt, then resigned, then calculating.

"You're not going to say anything, are you? That's what friends do. They protect each other."

But Maya had looked at the cat, who'd been watching from the bookshelf with those ancient, knowing eyes, and thought: some friends require protection from.

She took the bull by the horns — another cliché from another life — and called compliance. The fallout would be catastrophic. Sarah would lose everything. Their friendship would be collateral damage, already dead on the vine like her neglected palm.

Cassandra jumped into her lap as the screen of her laptop glowed with the composed email. The cat's motor-like purr drowned out the city below, the distant sirens, her own heartbeat.

"Right," Maya said. "You knew all along."

Some friendships, like some fortunes, were built on nothing but air. The trick was learning to walk away before the floor gave out completely.