“Your alibi,” Marlow said, tapping the photo. “It’s beautiful, really. Three witnesses, a parking receipt, a latte timestamp. Almost too clean.”
Marlow stared at you for a long, dry minute. Then he pushed back his chair, gathered the photograph, and walked out. Bad Liar
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. “Your alibi,” Marlow said, tapping the photo
“I was home by nine,” you said. “You can check my building’s log.” Almost too clean
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.