What the Dog Knew

The papaya sat on the counter, its orange flesh weeping onto the cutting board where I'd left it three hours ago. Marcus's favorite. He'd slice it into thick wedges, sprinkle Tajín across the surface, and lean against the refrigerator while eating, explaining that the heat balanced the sweetness. It was the first thing he'd taught me about himself—not his job, not his childhood, but how he liked his fruit.

Now he was in our backyard, crouched beside my rose bushes with a telephoto lens pointed at the neighbor's window. I'd watched him from the kitchen for twenty minutes, the wine glass sweating in my hand, before I realized what he was doing.

A spy. In our suburban neighborhood, between the minivans and the manicured lawns.

"You should come inside," I said, sliding the door open. "Before you catch your death of cold out there."

He startled badly, nearly dropping the camera. When he turned toward me, his face was that of a stranger—not the man who'd held me through two miscarriages, not the man who knew exactly how I took my coffee. Just someone doing a job.

"Elena, I can explain—"

"Is this about the pyramid scheme?" I asked. "Your sister's investment group?"

He nodded once, and I understood everything. The late nights. The unexplained deposits. The way he'd flinch when his phone rang during dinner.

Our golden retriever, Barnaby, chose that moment to trot out through the open door, tail wagging, oblivious to the way our lives were fracturing. He nudged Marcus's hand with his wet nose, and Marcus—dammit—stroked his ears automatically. The tenderness of it made my chest ache.

"They needed someone on the inside," Marcus said. "Your department. The mergers and acquisitions team."

"And you just happened to be dating someone from that department. Convenient."

"It wasn't supposed to be like this."

"What? You weren't supposed to fall in love with the target?"

His silence was answer enough.

Barnaby sat between us, panting happily, unaware that his world was crumbling. I looked at the papaya on the counter, at the man I'd spent three years building a life with, at the way the moonlight caught the gray in his temples. He looked exhausted suddenly, shoulders slumping under a weight I hadn't noticed until now.

"Go inside," I said. "The papaya's probably gone bad by now anyway."