“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.”
Outside, the city exhaled. Somewhere a man with a broken watch was already forgetting your name. And you — you were already practicing your next confession, the one you’d never have to make.
He almost smiled. Almost.
You shrugged. “I’m never there.”
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. Bad Liar
The fluorescent light buzzed like a trapped fly.
You waited until the door clicked shut. Until his footsteps faded down the linoleum hall. “Detective,” you said, and let your voice soften
The interrogation room smelled of stale coffee and sweat. Across the table, Detective Marlow slid a photograph into the center: a watch, its crystal shattered, caught mid-flash by a streetlamp’s glare.