What the Cat Knows

The orange coat had been a mistake. Too bright. Too noticeable for a woman who spent her nights in parked cars outside strangers' homes. Elena adjusted the rearview mirror, checking the street behind her. Empty. Always empty at 3 AM in this suburban wasteland.

She'd been following Marcus for three weeks. The husband who'd promised forever, then promised he'd be home late, then stopped coming home at all. Now he was with *her*—the new analyst from the Department of Energy, twenty-six years old and probably thought she'd won something.

But Elena wasn't here for closure. She was a spy by trade, by temperament, by damage. You don't stop watching just because the truth hurts.

The front door of Marcus's apartment opened. A sliver of yellow light cut across the lawn. The cat emerged first—a battle-scarred tabby that belonged to the neighbors, not to them. It moved with predatory grace, pausing beneath their window where the goldfish bowl sat on the sill.

Elena remembered buying that bowl. Remembered Marcus laughing as the fish did its endless laps, trapped in glass, watched from outside. *Like us*, she'd said. He'd kissed her then, when they still meant it.

The cat jumped onto the windowsill. Its shadow moved across the glass. Inside, the goldfish darted once, twice. Elena held her breath.

Marcus appeared at the window. Shirtless. He scooped up the cat with one hand, closed the curtains with the other. The goldfish disappeared from view.

Her phone buzzed. A text from the Bureau: *Package secured. Come home.*

Elena started the engine. The orange coat seemed suddenly ridiculous, like dressing up for a party everyone else had left years ago. She drove away from the house, from the fish in its bowl, from the cat that would return tomorrow to watch it swim. Some creatures were born to be predators. Others were just waiting to be eaten.