I needed to know how tight her lies were tied. So I tested her. I asked casual questions—where she'd been, who she met. I phrased it light, like small talk.
She didn't flinch. Smooth answers, even a laugh. But here's the thing: she gave too many details. People who lie often lace their answers with garnish—extra descriptions, timelines, little fillers. The over-explanation is the rope they hang themselves with.
I noted everything in the diary. Date. Her words. My gut reaction. She was polished, I'll give her that. But polished lies still crack under weight.
The test told me what I needed: she'd built a defense already. She expected suspicion. Which meant she felt guilt. Which meant the game was working.