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.
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
Then you smiled.
“Your alibi,” Marlow said, tapping the photo. “It’s beautiful, really. Three witnesses, a parking receipt, a latte timestamp. Almost too clean.” But this was different
“You were there,” he said.