Bad: Liar

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.

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. Bad Liar

The fluorescent light buzzed like a trapped fly. But this was different

Marlow stared at you for a long, dry minute. Then he pushed back his chair, gathered the photograph, and walked out. To memorize the way his shadow split across wet asphalt

You’d learned lying young — a useful muscle, like curling your tongue. You told your mother you loved her casseroles. Told your boss the report was almost done. Told yourself you’d call back. Small deceptions, soft as moths. You became fluent in the grammar of omission.

“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.”