“I was home by nine,” you said. “You can check my building’s log.”
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
You waited until the door clicked shut. Until his footsteps faded down the linoleum hall. “I was home by nine,” you said
“You were there,” he said.
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. And that was the oldest trick in the book
Then you smiled.
Marlow stared at you for a long, dry minute. Then he pushed back his chair, gathered the photograph, and walked out.