Sphinx of the Strip

The neon reflection of the Luxor's pyramid rippled across the pool's surface as Mara sat alone at the bar, nursing her third gin and tonic. Her phone lit up with a message from David: *Can we talk?* She'd blocked him three times already.

"You look like you need a friend," said the woman beside her—late fifties, expensive jewelry, eyes that had seen too many Vegas nights.

Mara laughed darkly. "My friend just cost me my job."

"Honey," the woman said, signaling the bartender, "in this town, everyone's got a price. Even the ones who swear they don't."

Outside, the Sphinx replica watched with its painted stone eyes, eternal and inscrutable. Six months ago, David had whispered drunken confessions about the accounting irregularities he'd found—pyramid schemes buried in offshore accounts, falsified audits, whole subsidiary corporations that existed only on paper. Mara, senior auditor, had believed him. Had trusted him.

She traced the condensation on her glass, thinking about the brass plaque she'd touched that morning, her palm sweating against the metal as security escorted her out. *Termination for cause. Pending investigation.*

The bartender set down another drink. "Rough night?"

"Rough life," Mara said.

"Here's some water," he said, sliding a glass across the polished surface. "On the house."

Mara's attorney had warned her: *David's cutting a deal. He's saying you were the mastermind.* Her palm still bore the indentation from gripping her pen during the deposition, signing away her reputation, her career, everything she'd built for twenty years.

"You know what they say about the Sphinx," the older woman murmured, gesturing toward the artificial monument. "She asked riddles, but she never gave answers. Some questions don't have them."

Mara finished her drink, the ice melting into the warmth of something like resolve. She pulled out her phone, unblocked David's number, and typed: *Let's talk. But this time, no more riddles.*