The Riddle at the End of the Line

The internet went down at 11:47 PM, and with it, Maya's last excuse not to call him.

She'd been staring at the coaxial cable dangling from her wall for twenty minutes when her phone buzzed. Not a text—Elena's face on FaceTime. Her friend had an infuriating way of knowing when Maya was spiraling.

"You're thinking about David again," Elena said, skipping hello. Her dark curls were frizzy from the Brooklyn humidity. "I can practically hear you ruminating through the screen."

"I'm not. I'm experiencing technical difficulties."

"Bullshit. You haven't been yourself since the merger fell through. And since when do you let a cable ruin your night? You used to hack satellite dishes in college."

That was true. But this wasn't about bandwidth anymore. Three months ago, David had become her sphinx—inscrutable, impossible, posing questions she couldn't answer and refusing to explain the riddles. Their last conversation had been a series of half-truths and deflections, his way of protecting her from the investigation, his way of loving her without saying it.

Elena's face softened. "His hair's getting longer, you know. Saw him at the bodega yesterday. He looks like he's sleeping even less than you are."

Maya's chest tightened. "Did he say—"

"He didn't say anything. He never does. But he bought your favorite tea, Maya. The overpriced lavender shit you pretend to hate but actually drink every morning." Elena paused. "Some sphinxes aren't guarding secrets. They're just waiting for someone to solve the puzzle."

Maya looked at the cable again. She could fix it. She always could.

"What time is it in London?" she asked.

"5 AM. He'll be awake."

Maya hung up and grabbed her phone. The cable could wait until tomorrow. Some connections were wireless and far more fragile. And sphinxes, she decided, deserved to be heard, not just solved.