The Perfect Alibi

Fifty-eight shadows had danced since they vowed forever. Not a second would have passed if she had not loved him. So gentle was her heart that she would weep if a bird lost a feather, and she would rush to save anyone in danger. Who could bear to be her enemy? Who would dare to murder someone so pure—and why?
Mr. Henry wept, burying his face in his arms.

“It’s not me telling you this, Mr. Henry—it’s what the postmortem report says. Your wife didn’t die in a car accident; she was murdered. Look, we found laces around her neck when we recovered the body. It appears someone strangled her, and as she lost consciousness, the car veered off and crashed into the tree. The evidence suggests this was no accident,” the inspector stated.

“You mean to say someone was with her inside the car? No… NO… No. You must be mistaken, Inspector. She was alone when she left the office for home. She was on a video call with me—no one else was with her.”

“How much time does she usually take to return home from her office?” the inspector inquired.
“Twenty-five minutes,” he asserted.
“And how long did your video call last?”
“Five to six minutes,” he answered.
“Who ended the call—you or her?”
“Liza ended the video call because she realized she had forgotten some important papers back at the office,” he replied.

“So, it means the culprit acted within those twenty minutes,” the inspector concluded.
“Was there a culprit?” he asked.
“Do you think the postmortem reports are wrong?” the inspector questioned back.
“If they aren’t, then you can easily catch the culprit, can’t you?” he said.

“Yes, you’re right. We are close to the culprit, but unfortunately, we did not find any fingerprints—neither in the car nor on your wife’s body. However, one of our officers found a gold bracelet inside the car. Look, do you recognize it?” He showed him the packet in which the bracelet was preserved.

“Yes, this is one of the bracelets Liza ordered for her best friend, Oona,” he replied.
“Are you sure?” the inspector inquired.
“Yes, I’m pretty sure,” he answered, “but how could Oona’s bracelet end up here? She’s been in France for the past month.”

The inspector nodded, sliding the CCTV footage across the desk and leaning forward.
“Liza and you worked in the same office, didn’t you?” The inspector didn’t take his eyes off him. “Why weren’t you present at the office that day, Henry?”

He hesitated, just for a heartbeat.
“I had a surprise planned. I wanted to take Liza out to celebrate her business delegation award. She’d won it two days ago.”

The inspector’s gaze lingered, searching his face for something—doubt, maybe. The silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable.
He finally broke it with a low voice, “So you weren’t there. No one can vouch for your whereabouts?”

He swallowed. “No. I was preparing for the evening. Alone.”

The inspector tapped a finger on the desk, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at the footage.
“Strange. You’re always so punctual, Henry. Always by her side.”

A faint, forced smile.
The inspector didn’t smile back. Instead, he pressed play on the footage.
“Let’s see what the cameras have to say.”

In the CCTV footage, both of them observed Liza walking briskly toward her car on the night she died. Suddenly, she collided with a man—his features partially obscured by the dim lighting and camera angle. What followed was a fierce, animated argument between the two, their gestures sharp and voices raised, even though the footage had no sound. The confrontation lasted several tense moments.
Liza appeared agitated, pointing toward the building, while the man stood his ground, occasionally glancing around as if wary of being seen. The man stormed off into the shadows, and Liza visibly got into her car.
As the inspector replayed the scene, he knew the argument in the car porch was more than a random encounter.

The inspector watched the CCTV footage again and again, his eyes narrowed. Liza’s argument with the mysterious man seemed heated, but the man’s face was never fully visible. For days, the investigation circled around this shadowy figure and Oona, whose bracelet was found in the car.
Oona, however, had proof she was in France—passport stamps, flight tickets, and even airport security footage cleared her name completely.

The inspector dug deeper into the man from the footage. Witnesses remembered seeing him around the office, but none could identify him. The argument, it turned out, was about a parking spot—a coincidence, not a motive for murder. The man left the country the next day, and his alibi checked out.

Still, the inspector felt something was off.
He reviewed the evidence again.
The only thing he found shocking was Henry’s car standing in the porch that night.

The inspector stared at the evidence board, threads of red string connecting suspects, motives, and timelines. Each lead had unraveled—except one.
He replayed Henry’s words, the way his eyes flickered when asked about the call, the faint scent of expensive cologne at the crime scene.

“Sometimes,” the inspector murmured, “the one who grieves the loudest is hiding the deepest wound.”

He picked up the bracelet, turning it over in his hand. The truth was always there, just beneath the surface, masked by shadows and the cleverest of lies.
He jotted down some conclusions of the incident:

• No fingerprints were found in the car or on Liza’s body.
• The gold bracelet, supposedly Oona’s, was present at the scene, but Oona was in France.
• Henry’s odd absence from the office and his vague explanation.
• Henry’s forced emotions and nervousness during questioning.
• Henry’s car standing in the office parking when he was supposedly at home.

The next day, the inspector called Henry back to the station.
He placed the gold bracelet on the table.

“You said this belonged to Oona, but let’s try something.”
He gently asked Henry to slip the bracelet onto his wrist.
To everyone’s surprise, it fit perfectly—almost as if it had been made for him.

Henry’s face went pale.
The inspector spoke quietly,
“It’s not Oona’s, is it? It’s yours. You planted it to divert attention.”

Henry tried to protest, but the inspector continued,
“You were jealous of your wife’s success, her kindness, the way everyone admired her. You loved her, but you couldn’t stand always being in her shadow. That night, you waited for her in the car porch. You argued, then you strangled her with the laces and staged the accident.
The evidence—no matter how carefully you tried to hide it—always points back to you.”

Henry broke down, the weight of guilt finally too much to bear.