The Riddle in the Dark

Maya found the texts at three in the morning, glowing accusations on her boyfriend's iPhone that painted her as paranoid, controlling, unlovable. They were addressed to someone named Alex, someone she'd never heard of until tonight.

As Damon slept beside her, his breathing slow and rhythmic, she became a sphinx—guarding her devastation behind an impenetrable mask. Tomorrow she would pose riddles he couldn't answer. When did you meet Alex? Why tell a stranger you're trapped? Each question a test, each answer either salvation or damnation.

She remembered her friend Rachel's warning over coffee three weeks ago: He's got that locked-room quality, Maya. Like there's doors you haven't opened yet. Rachel had noticed how Damon's phone always stayed face-down, how he took calls in the bathroom. Maya had defended him—he valued his privacy, that was all. She'd been wrong.

The iPhone buzzed in her hand. Another message from Alex: Can you meet tomorrow?

Maya's thumb hovered over the screen. She could respond. Could pretend to be Damon, discover the truth through subterfuge. But that was the coward's path. Instead, she placed the phone on his nightstand, screen up, the messages visible in the pale light.

Then she went to the kitchen, made coffee, and waited for dawn to break so the sphinx could finally speak her truth.