Liar - Bad

“Your alibi,” Marlow said, tapping the photo. “It’s beautiful, really. Three witnesses, a parking receipt, a latte timestamp. Almost too clean.”

You remembered the man’s face before he turned the corner. How he’d said, “Trust me,” and you had, even though trust was just another word you’d borrowed. You remembered the watch catching light one last time. How you hadn’t touched it. How you hadn’t needed to.

The fluorescent light buzzed like a trapped fly. Bad Liar

You waited until the door clicked shut. Until his footsteps faded down the linoleum hall.

“Detective,” you said, and let your voice soften at the edges — just enough to seem human. “I’m a bad liar. That’s why I’m still here.” “Your alibi,” Marlow said, tapping the photo

Because the truth — the real, messy, unphotographable truth — was this: you’d never lied to him at all. You’d just let him believe you were lying. And that was the oldest trick in the book.

But this was different. This watch belonged to a man who’d vanished two nights ago. And you had been there — not to hurt him, but to watch him leave. To memorize the way his shadow split across wet asphalt. To count the seconds before he disappeared for good. Almost too clean

You shrugged. “I’m never there.”