Whistleblower

Eliza poured her third glass of wine, the expensive Merlot staining the crystal like betrayal. On the windowsill, Barnaby—her cat of twelve years—watched her with amber eyes, judging in that inscrutable way felines have. He knew something was wrong.

"You have to believe me," Marcus had said, his voice cracking in her apartment doorway three hours ago. "I'm not the spy they say I am. I'm your friend, Eliza. I've always been your friend."

But the encrypted drive hidden in her underwear drawer told a different story. Marcus, who'd shared her hopes and fears for four years, who'd held her during her mother's funeral, who'd planned their future together—Marcus had been planted by her company to root out the whistleblower.

And she, foolishly, had told him everything.

The cat jumped from the sill and brushed against her leg, purring despite the tension. Barnaby didn't care about corporate espionage or federal investigations. He cared about dinner and warm laps and the way her hands shook when she stroked his soft gray fur.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. Marcus again. Or maybe HR. Or the FBI. She didn't check.

The truth settled over her like ash: the spy hadn't been Marcus alone. She'd been spying on herself, documenting every safety violation, every covered-up injury, every executive lie, never considering that the person she trusted most might be the one monitoring her trust.

Barnaby meowed, impatient now, and trotted to his bowl.

"Not yet," she whispered, reaching for the drive and her coat. "Not yet."

The media would have the story by morning. Marcus would be exposed. Her career would end. She might lose everything.

But as the cat wound around her ankles, demanding to be fed, Eliza realized some bonds couldn't be bought by counterintelligence operations. Some friendships were real, even if they weren't human.

She picked up her phone and dialed the number she'd sworn never to use. The whistleblower line rang once, twice.

"Hello? I have documents," she said, voice steady for the first time all night. "And I know exactly who planted them."

Barnaby rubbed against her hand, and for a moment, everything would be okay.