Riddles in the Rain

The sphinx statue in Miller's backyard had witnessed everything—my promotion, my affair with Sarah from accounting, the slow erosion of my marriage. Tonight, rain slicked its limestone face into something almost sympathetic as I stood there with a glass of whiskey, waiting.

Max, their golden retriever, pressed against my leg. He'd been my dog once, before the divorce, before I'd traded him away along with the house and most of my dignity. Miller had taken him in, like he took in everything I left behind.

"You're not as riddle-free as you pretend," the sphinx seemed to whisper in the rain.

Miller appeared on the porch, baseball glove in hand—the one from our college days, when we'd been anchors on the same infield, certain the world would bend to our will. Now he knew better. He knew I'd stolen his client list. He knew I'd slept with his sister.

"The riddle," Miller said, not looking at me, "is whether you're here to confess or to see what I know."

The whiskey burned my throat. "Both."

Max whined, sensing the violence hanging between us like a storm about to break. I thought about how dogs forgive everything, how they'd taught me more about redemption than ten years of therapy.

"The client list," Miller continued, his voice eerily calm, "I destroyed it. Your sister-in-law—she left me three months ago. Couldn't stand the guilt of what we'd done to you."

The sphinx's stone smile seemed to widen.

"Why didn't you say anything?" I asked, my voice cracking.

"Because I'm still your friend. Because some riddles answer themselves if you wait long enough." He tossed the baseball glove to me. "Catch."

I caught it instinctively, the leather still carrying the shape of his hand, the ghost of every game we'd played together. In that moment, I understood: the sphinx doesn't ask questions to destroy you. She asks them so you can finally meet yourself.