The Riddle of the Sphinx

Mara pressed her palm against the hotel room window, watching the orange sun bleed into the Nile. Below, a fox darted through the gardens, quick and clever—like Julian, she thought bitterly. They'd come to Egypt to save their marriage, but three days in, she'd learned more about ancient civilizations than about the man sleeping beside her.

That morning, they'd stood before the Sphinx. Julian had droned on about riddles and eternal secrets, but she'd been thinking about the text message she'd found on his phone—the one he'd claimed was spam. Now, watching the sunset burn the horizon the color of bruised fruit, she understood: some riddles have answers you don't want to hear.

A cat wound around her ankles—black, like the one they'd seen near the temple of Karnak, where Julian had bent to pet it while checking his watch. She'd thought it sweet at the time. Now it felt choreographed.

The door clicked open. Julian stepped onto the balcony, two drinks in hand. "Palm reading," he joked, pressing his hand to hers. "Your lifeline says you're overthinking."

Mara pulled away. "The fox I saw earlier—it ran toward the staff quarters."

Julian's smile faltered. A cat jumped onto the railing between them, orange eyes gleaming like the sunset, like the unanswered question hanging in the humid air between them. Some riddles solve themselves when you finally bother to look at the clues.