The Color of Lies

Detective Eli Voss didn’t need a polygraph machine. He didn’t need confessions or surveillance tapes. All he needed was to watch you speak.

It started when he was eleven—his mother asked if he’d eaten the last cookie. He said no, and when he looked in the mirror, his mouth glowed violet.

Since then, Eli saw lies the way others saw weather or light. Truth was colorless, clear and sharp. But lies shimmered with unmistakable hues. White lies were pale blue. Self-deception—something people truly believed despite its falseness—came in hues of soft green. But darker lies—deception with intent to harm—pulsed red or orange, and sometimes, when evil was involved, black bled in like ink in water.

He didn’t talk about his “condition.” People didn’t believe you when you said you saw lies. They called you crazy. Or worse, gifted.

Eli took it to the precinct instead, joined homicide, and built a reputation for uncanny instincts. He never explained his methods, only that he “knew” when someone was hiding something. His colleagues joked he had a sixth sense. They weren’t wrong.

The Case

On a drizzly October morning, Eli was called to the upscale townhouse of Nolan Pratt, a tech entrepreneur whose wife, Meredith, was found dead in their study. Gunshot to the chest. No sign of forced entry.

“Looks like suicide,” Officer Lamont said. “Husband says she was depressed.”

Eli stepped into the study. The body was slumped in a leather chair, one hand still clutching a pen. A note lay beside her: I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry. Her handwriting, according to initial analysis.

Nolan Pratt was waiting in the kitchen, wringing his hands, red-eyed but composed.

“Detective Voss,” he said, voice cracking. “This is…unreal. Meredith wasn’t well. She’d been withdrawing lately. I should’ve seen it coming.”

Eli listened, watching.

The moment Nolan said, “She wasn’t well,” a hazy orange flickered across his throat like heat rising from asphalt. Not the faint blue of a comforting half-truth. No. This was the color of manipulation.

“So, she’d been distant?” Eli asked, voice neutral.

“Yes. Depressed. Especially the last few weeks.”

More orange. Then green, around his lips. Self-deception. He believed some of it, but not all.

“Did you argue recently?”

“No. Not really. Nothing serious.”

Red. Not bright, but noticeable. Eli noted the color and moved on.

The study held more than bloodstains. On the desk, a planner lay open. No entries for the week. But something was off—there was a faint indentation beneath today’s page. Eli rubbed a pencil gently across the sheet. Words appeared faintly:

"Meet S. at 10 a.m. — bring everything."

S? Eli snapped a photo. That wasn’t suicide. That was unfinished business.

The Secret Partner

“S” turned out to be Sierra Lang, Meredith’s former business partner. She ran a small app development firm with Meredith until their split two years ago.

“I haven’t spoken to Meredith in months,” Sierra said when they met. Her voice was steady, but a faint green hue coiled from her throat. Self-deception. Again.

“Funny,” Eli said, laying the photo of the planner on the table. “She had a meeting scheduled with someone named S. today.”

Sierra’s lips tightened. Blue flickered. A small lie.

“I didn’t kill her.”

“I never said you did.”

Now came a pulsing black-and-red swirl. Not from guilt—but fear. Deep, personal fear.

“She told me she had evidence,” Sierra whispered. “Nolan was siphoning money from their joint accounts before the divorce. Offshore accounts. She said she was going to expose him.”

Eli’s pulse ticked faster. “Do you have proof?”

“I didn’t believe her. Until today. I got an email from her at 8:12 this morning. An attachment.”

Sierra showed him the email. Bank transfers. Hidden funds. Secret accounts in Belize. If Meredith had gone public, Nolan would’ve lost everything.

But Meredith never got the chance.

The Interrogation

Back at the station, Nolan sat under flickering fluorescent lights, hands folded calmly. Eli placed the email printout on the table.

Nolan didn’t blink. “I don’t know what this is. Meredith handled all the finances.”

Orange. Red. Deeper now. Growing.

“You said she was depressed. That she killed herself.”

“She did.”

Black. Like tar, pooling beneath his chin.

“She emailed her partner an hour before her death, planning to expose your embezzlement.”

“She forged it.”

“That planner note, was that forged too?”

Nolan was silent.

Eli leaned in. “I don’t need you to confess, Mr. Pratt. I already know. I can see the lie.”

Something in Nolan’s eyes flickered. Not fear. Not surprise. But confusion.

“See the lie?”

Eli stood. “That’s right.”

And as Nolan’s lawyer arrived and the interrogation ended, Eli knew it didn’t matter. The evidence would speak. The colors already had.