What the Evidence Ate

The orange sat on the counter like a slow fuse. Marcus had brought it home two days ago, placing it carefully beside the spinach that was already wilting in the colander. Sarah had watched him do it, noting how his fingers lingered on the fruit's dimpled skin. He never bought oranges.

"Thought we could be healthier," he'd said, not meeting her eyes.

Now the spinach lay blackened in the trash, along with her trust. The orange remained untouched.

Sarah stood in the doorway, holding the cat carrier. Mittens—stupid name for a creature with such judgment in her green eyes—pressed against the wire mesh. Sarah had packed her own bags three hours ago, while Marcus was at work. She'd found the braided cable behind the nightstand. Not a charging cable. Not a stereo cable. A professional-grade microphone cable, snake-like and unused in their bedroom, unless you counted the times Marcus muted himself during calls from "the office."

The office that, she'd confirmed yesterday with a five-minute drive-by, didn't exist.

Her phone buzzed. Mark, from the bar where they'd first met. *You okay? You never showed.*

She thumbed the power button. The screen died.

In the backyard, the dog next door—some lumbering retriever from the house Marcus had claimed was vacant—barked at something unseen. The rhythm was familiar. Sarah had heard that dog most nights for months, usually around 10 PM. Usually right after Marcus's "meetings" ended.

She looked at the orange one last time. A perfect sphere of suspended decay. Marcus would come home soon. He'd probably pretend nothing was wrong. He'd probably offer to cook dinner, maybe make something with fresh spinach, even though she'd told him a hundred times she hated the stuff. He'd smile with that careful expression she'd mistaken for love for seven years.

Sarah set the cat carrier by the door. Mittens meowed, low and demanding.

"Yeah," Sarah said. "Me too."

She left the orange on the counter. Let him explain that.