The Wall Of Lies

 

It was raining lightly when the knock came — urgent, uneven, and trembling.

Zane Faulkner, in his silk robe and slippers, leaned back on the couch, tossing a peanut into the air and catching it with his mouth. Eli, curled in a blanket, glanced toward the door.
"Don’t open it," he mumbled. "Looks like another husband who's lost his wife at the mall."

Zane's eyes sparkled. "Let’s see if the mall sells guilt this season."

The door creaked open. A man stood in the hallway, soaked in sweat despite the rain, collar pressed neatly, shirt spotless. His face was pale and his lips quivered.

“My wife… she’s been missing for two days,” he said. “The police think she left me. I know she didn’t.”

Zane said nothing. He watched the man’s eyes. They blinked too often.

“Come in,” Zane finally said, softly.

Eli groaned. “We’re not running a lost-and-found, Zane.”

Zane smiled. But in his mind, a seed had already been planted.

DAY ONE – THE FRIENDS

Her name was Isabelle Grayson. Thirty-two. Married for seven years. She and her husband — the man who introduced himself as Marcus — had hosted a dinner party two nights ago at their upscale home in Kensington. Five close friends had been there. After midnight, Isabelle had excused herself. Marcus claimed she went upstairs to rest. The next morning — gone.

No signs of forced entry. No packed bags. No note.

"She would never leave without telling me," Marcus said. His voice broke, but the crack sounded too rehearsed.

Zane turned to Eli. "I want a list of the five friends. Names, addresses, relationships. Especially anyone too close."

Eli blinked. "You think one of them—?"

"I think the room wasn’t the only thing that was heated that night."

DAY TWO – SHADOWS AND SMOKE

Each friend had a story.

Derek and Susan — married couple. Claimed Isabelle seemed cheerful all evening.

Lena — a quiet librarian with a stammer. She barely spoke that night.

Jake — Marcus's old college buddy, a bit of a drunk.

And then there was Clara — elegant, poised, and oddly defensive. When Zane asked how Isabelle was that night, Clara replied, "She was... suspicious. Like she didn’t want to be there."

Zane tilted his head. "Suspicious of what?"

Clara hesitated. "Of everyone."

Later, Zane whispered to Eli, “Mark Clara. There's something between her and Marcus.”

Eli frowned. “You think she’s the other woman?”

“I don’t think. I observe. Her perfume lingered too long in Marcus’s hallway.”

DAY THREE – THE WALL

Zane requested to see the Grayson house himself. Marcus guided them through each room, over-explaining details no one asked for. The living room had been recently renovated. Fresh paint. A new decorative wall panel.

Zane walked up to the wall and placed his hand on it. "Nice finish. Done recently?"

Marcus nodded quickly. "Just last week. Isabelle hated the old color."

"Curious," Zane whispered. Then he pressed his ear against the plaster.

There was no sound. But silence itself can scream.

DAY FOUR – THE SCIENCE OF DECEPTION

Lyra arrived that evening. She wore her usual leather jacket and that look of restrained concern she reserved only for Zane.

“What did you find?” she asked.

Zane slid a bag toward her. Inside was a single, smudged wine glass taken from Clara's seat at the party. “Check for saliva traces. I want DNA confirmation.”

Lyra raised an eyebrow. “You already know she’s the affair.”

“I want the science to back what instinct already screamed.”

Lyra paused. “And if the husband killed his wife?”

Zane didn’t answer. His eyes were cold now — like a predator beneath still waters.

DAY FIVE – THE REVEAL

The sun was setting when Zane returned to the Grayson house, this time with two uniformed officers. He handed them a court-approved search warrant.

Marcus’s face went white. “Wait, what is this?”

“Just a little curiosity,” Zane smiled. “Let’s see what your lovely new wall is hiding.”

The demolition was surgical. As the crowbar pulled open the panel, the sickening stench of death spilled out — and with it, Isabelle's lifeless body, curled behind the drywall, eyes frozen in final terror.

Eli turned away, nearly gagging. Lyra closed her eyes.

Marcus collapsed to his knees. “No... no, I didn’t... I mean, it wasn’t supposed to...”

“Wasn’t supposed to what?” Zane’s voice was no longer soft. It growled — low, deadly. “She wasn’t supposed to find the messages between you and Clara? Or she wasn’t supposed to threaten you in front of your guests?”

“I panicked!” Marcus screamed. “She was going to ruin me — tell everyone! I just... I just wanted her to stop talking!”

Zane leaned down. His face was inches from Marcus’s, his voice a whisper from hell.
“You hid your wife in a wall. And then walked into my apartment... in a pressed shirt.”

LATER THAT NIGHT

The body had been taken. Marcus was in custody. Lyra had left quietly, after brushing Zane’s shoulder and saying only:
“You scare me when you go that quiet.”

Zane and Eli sat in the apartment. Rain tapped the windows again.

Eli finally broke the silence.
"Zane... why’d you take the case? From the beginning? You never said."

Zane didn’t answer at first. He poured two cups of tea. Then, quietly:

"Because he cried... but his shirt was ironed.
Because he begged... but he never blinked in grief.
Because I hate fake sadness, Eli.
A man who lies about his pain — lies about everything."

Eli stared. For a moment, he saw something in Zane’s eyes that shook him. Something colder than justice. Something darker than vengeance.

And then, as always, Zane smiled — that same soft, teasing grin.

"Now drink your tea. You look like you saw a ghost."

THE END