Foxes Don't Play Baseball

The Sphinx casino rose from the Nevada desert like some ancient monument to greed, its fake limestone facade catching the orange sunset as if trying to convince itself it belonged in this landscape. Sarah sat at the bar watching a baseball game on the television above — Dodgers versus Giants, bottom of the ninth — nursing a drink that matched the dying light outside. She should have been celebrating. The promotion was hers. The corner office with its view of the city would be hers by Monday morning.

But Marcus hadn't shown up.

"He'll be here," said the woman beside her, placing a manicured hand on Sarah's forearm. "Marcus doesn't miss celebrations."

Sarah forced a smile. Eleanor had been Marcus's friend since college, his loyal defender through every office rumor and failed relationship. The fox in the henhouse, Sarah realized now, though she'd been too blind to see it before. Eleanor wasn't defending Marcus's honor; she was protecting her own access to power.

The baseball game droned on — three runs needed, two outs, a man on first. Improbable. Impossible. Like believing three years of late nights and shared secrets meant anything to the man who'd promised her the world while dismantling it piece by piece.

"You know," Eleanor continued, her voice sympathetic in all the wrong ways, "Marcus mentioned you seemed stressed lately. Maybe you should take some time off. Let him handle the transition."

The riddle of the sphinx: what walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening? Sarah knew a better one: what do you call the woman who thinks she's winning when she's already lost? The answer sat beside her, ordering another round of drinks on Marcus's tab, convinced she was being a good friend.

The Dodgers' batter connected with the ball — a crack that echoed through the bar as it sailed toward the fence. A home run. The impossible happened sometimes. Just not tonight. Not for her.

"I need to tell you something," Sarah said, setting down her glass. The orange liquid inside rippled like a pool of something toxic and sweet. "Marcus isn't coming. And you're not his friend. You're his insurance policy."

Eleanor's smile faltered, something sharp and animal flickering behind her eyes. Sarah saw it then — the fox, finally dropping the pretense of being anything else. The baseball game faded to commercial as Sarah stood up, leaving her drink unfinished. Some games you win by walking away. Some riddles are better left unanswered.