The Final Alibi

Detective Claire Monroe stood at the edge of the lake, the cold wind tugging at her coat as the early morning fog rolled over the water. The body had been found just after sunrise—face-down, motionless, with a gunshot wound in the back. Jonathan Reese, 54, real estate mogul, husband, and occasional philanthropist, was dead.

"Time of death?" she asked the coroner.

"Between midnight and 2 a.m.," he replied. "Single shot to the upper back. Close range. Execution-style."

Claire sighed. Jonathan Reese was a powerful man with a long list of enemies. Narrowing them down would take time—something she didn’t have. The mayor was already breathing down her neck.

Back at the precinct, Claire stared at the board. There were three names circled in red: Amanda Reese, the grieving widow; Dylan Harper, Jonathan’s ex-business partner; and Mia Vance, a journalist who had spent the last two years trying to ruin Jonathan’s reputation.

Amanda had motive: their marriage had been strained, and she stood to inherit millions. Dylan had lost everything when Jonathan dissolved their partnership, claiming Dylan was embezzling funds. And Mia? She had recently published a damning exposé, accusing Jonathan of bribery and illegal land deals. She had the means, the passion, and possibly the opportunity.

Claire began her interviews with Amanda.

"I was home all night," Amanda said, eyes puffy but voice steady. "I was alone. Jonathan never came home."

"No visitors? No calls?"

"None," Amanda replied, crossing her arms. "We had separate bedrooms. I didn’t even know he was dead until you showed up."

An alibi with no witness. Claire made a note.

Next was Dylan.

"I was at the bar until 1 a.m. Ask anyone there. I left, took a cab home, passed out."

"Can you prove the cab ride?"

Dylan grunted. "Yeah, app history’s still on my phone."

Claire checked the records. The ride was real. He was dropped off at 1:12 a.m., twelve miles from the crime scene.

Then came Mia.

"I was writing all night," Mia said. "My editor has the timestamps. I didn’t leave my apartment."

"Can anyone confirm you were there?"

"I live alone. But I’ve got camera footage in the hallway—motion sensor. No movement in or out."

Claire reviewed it. No sign of Mia leaving or entering between 8 p.m. and 6 a.m.

Three suspects. Three stories. All impossible to fully disprove. But something gnawed at Claire.

She went back to the scene. The lake. The bullet had been fired from close range. There were no signs of a struggle, no defensive wounds. That meant Jonathan knew his killer. Trusted them. Claire looked again at the case file.

Jonathan’s watch had stopped at 12:47 a.m.

Claire ordered phone records. Jonathan had received only one call after midnight—a short one, less than a minute—at 12:39 a.m. The number was blocked.

Claire had tech trace it. It pinged off a tower near Dylan Harper’s neighborhood.

But when the number was finally cracked, it wasn’t Dylan’s. It belonged to Amanda.

Claire returned to Amanda’s home. She sat across from her in the parlor, watching the widow pour tea with hands too steady.

"You called Jonathan at 12:39 a.m.," Claire said. "He was dead by 12:47. That’s a tight window."

Amanda blinked, then set the teapot down.

"I wanted to talk to him. I didn’t kill him."

Claire leaned in. "Why hide the call?"

Amanda’s voice dropped to a whisper. "Because I was afraid it would make me look guilty. But I didn’t kill him."

Claire studied her. The fear in Amanda’s eyes was real. But fear wasn’t guilt.

The final break came when forensics called.

“We pulled prints from the shell casing. Just one clean set. Matches Mia Vance.”

Claire’s heart sank. Mia’s alibi was the most airtight. But the prints didn’t lie.

She confronted Mia that afternoon.

"You said you didn’t leave your apartment."

"I didn’t."

Claire slid the report across the table. Mia stared at it.

"You killed him," Claire said quietly.

Mia didn’t speak. For a moment, the room was silent.

Then she exhaled. "He called me at midnight. Said he wanted to talk. Said he’d finally tell me everything—every deal, every name. He wanted to come clean."

"So you met him."

"I didn’t plan to kill him," Mia said. "But when he started talking, I realized… he’d never really change. He wanted to die a martyr, not make things right. He was playing me. So I ended it."

"You wore gloves?"

Mia nodded. "But I took one off to text my editor. I must’ve touched the casing."

Her voice cracked, just once. "I thought I had the perfect alibi."

Claire stood. "There’s no such thing. Just the final one that fails."

Outside, the wind had calmed. The lake lay still, reflecting the gray sky above. The truth was a heavy thing, and sometimes, it surfaced when least expected.

And with it, so did justice.