He sat calmly in the interrogation room, arms relaxed, gaze steady. Not a bead of sweat on his forehead. The officers had expected nervousness, a stumble, maybe even silence—but what they got was someone completely in control, as if he had nothing to fear.
One of the detectives leaned in. “You know why you’re here.”
A slight nod. “You think I robbed that place. I didn’t.”
They laid out the evidence. A figure caught on a security camera—same height, same build, similar clothes. A black duffel bag stuffed with cash. A getaway route through a back alley. It all lined up too neatly.
But he didn’t flinch.
“I wasn’t even in that part of town,” he said smoothly. “I was driving back from my cousin’s place an hour away. You can check the toll cameras—my plate should be on there.”
The lie was already planted.
They checked. The toll camera did catch his car at the highway booth, just like he said. What they didn’t know was that he’d driven through there hours before the robbery, parked the car, and taken a bus back into the city. He’d committed the robbery wearing gloves and a balaclava, made sure not to touch a single surface, then disappeared back the same way, returning to his car and driving it back through the booth again just after dawn. Everything looked clean.
When they asked why someone saw a man running from the store that night wearing the same jacket as his, he smiled slightly.
“I bought this jacket last week online. It’s not exactly one-of-a-kind. A hundred people could own the same thing.”
Every answer was precise, every alibi layered. He even showed fake text messages he had pre-s
