The detective leans forward, the dim light casting long shadows across the table. His fingers drum against the cold metal, slow and methodical. "Where was your husband last night between 11 PM and 2 AM?"

Silence lingers, thick and unmoving. Across the room, an unwavering gaze meets his, expression composed, unshaken. "At home, of course. Where else would he be?"

But the truth is far from innocent.

At precisely 11:46 PM, in the dim glow of a penthouse suite, a man sat at the edge of the bed, hands stained in deep crimson, breath uneven. His knuckles bore the remnants of a struggle — skin torn, bruised, but steady.

Fingers, soft yet knowing, had traced over the damage, lingering where the blood had dried. Lips pressed against the bruises, whispering words only meant for the guilty. "Did he beg?" The words slipped from your lips before you even realized it...

A smirk had played at the corner of his lips, dark amusement flickering in his tired eyes. "Not for long."

The weapon — heavy, cold — had been placed into waiting hands. Prints wiped clean, the metal kissed, the evidence erased with lips that had long since accepted the weight of his sins.

Blood had been scrubbed from his skin, washed away as if it had never existed. His clothes had been carefully discarded, replaced with freshly pressed fabric.

Now, back in the cold confines of the interrogation room, a photograph slides across the table — a grainy surveillance still of a lone figure disappearing into the night.

Not a single muscle moves. No flicker of recognition, no betrayal of emotion. Only a slow inhale, measured and deliberate.

"He was at home," comes the answer, steady as ever.

Because love — love makes the perfect alibi.