Seven Lies

I’m busted.

Just like those thriller writers who can’t help but bleed their own lives onto the page, the past finally caught up with me. The cops showed up claiming they needed "cooperation" regarding a cold case from over a decade ago.

I was mid-chapter when they arrived.

They trailed behind a locksmith and tackled me before I could hit 'save.' I screamed as they pinned me to the floor, staring up at a sea of tactical gear.

"What the hell is this? You’ve got the wrong guy!"

A middle-aged detective, busy directing his team to haul off my PC and tear through my bookshelves, looked down at me with ice in his eyes. "You’re Qi Bin, right? Graduated from Suburban High?"

I nodded, breathless.

"Then we’ve got the right guy. Take him."

He flicked his wrist, and two meatheads hauled me up. They wrenched my arms behind my back, marching me out like I was already on my way to the chair.

Even after they shoved me into the back of the cruiser, my brain couldn't catch up. I kept stammering questions, but nobody said a word. The looks they gave me were pure vitriol—like they were looking at a piece of human garbage, a parasite on society.

Seeing that, I shut up and stared at my shoes, racking my brain to figure out what kind of "unforgivable atrocity" I was supposed to have committed.

We reached the Municipal Bureau fast. They dragged me into a windowless, rectangular box—maybe eighty square feet of stale air. There was a table in the center and a heavy iron chair bolted to the wall. Cameras watched from every corner.

The two officers slammed me into the chair and slapped on the heavy-duty jewelry: handcuffs and leg irons. Once they were sure I wasn't going anywhere, two older detectives walked in.

One was the guy who’d led the raid on my apartment. The other had a shock of white hair and looked like he was pushing sixty. They sat down, and the white-haired one spoke first.

"Qi Bin. Remember me?"

His tone was thick with mocking certainty. He had the look of a cat that had finally cornered a mouse after twenty years. It grated on my nerves.

"Who the hell are you? Why am I in cuffs? Don't think I don't know the law—even for a summons, this is overkill."

The veteran cop tapped his temple. "Fair enough. I’ve been chasing this case for twenty years. Chased it until my hair turned white. It makes sense you wouldn’t remember me."

Then, he barked, "But I damn sure remember you! Qi Bin. Class of ’05, Suburban High. The year you were a senior, a boy and a girl from the prep classes were found dead in the river north of the school. I interrogated you back then."

The memory hit me like a physical blow. I remembered him.

Song Ting. Detective Song.

He was the first real detective I’d ever met. Our school had been a crime scene. A young couple murdered in the woods by the river. The word was the killer was a pro—not just the killing, but the way he’d weighted the bodies with stones to keep them at the bottom of the river.

The police had swept up every delinquent in school and anyone who’d even breathed near the victims. I was at the top of the list. Everyone knew I ditched evening study sessions to wander by the river. Someone even told the cops I’d been drinking heavily the night they died and headed straight for the water.

The realization that I’d been hauled in for twenty-year-old ghost stories made my patience snap.

"That was all cleared up back then. I had nothing to do with it. It’s been twenty years—why are you bothering me now?"

Song Ting gave a cold, jagged laugh. "Murder cases don't close. Not after twenty years, not after thirty or forty. As long as I’m breathing, I’m hunting."

"What does that have to do with me? I'm clean!" I snapped back. If you didn't do it, you didn't do it.

Song Ting lunged forward, slamming his hands on the table and pinning me with a razor-sharp stare. "You really think you're clean? You think we’d bring you in without evidence?"

I almost laughed. "Evidence? Please. I’d love to hear what kind of 'evidence' you dug up after two decades that makes me a suspect again."

My attitude clearly hit a nerve. Song Ting slammed the table again, his face reddening. The younger, middle-aged detective stood up and guided Song back into his seat.

"Easy, Boss. Let me handle this. Your heart can't take the stress; doctor’s orders."

After calming Song down, the younger detective turned to me with a pleasant, breezy smile. "Let’s do this properly. I’m Ouyang Chun, Captain of the Third Investigation Unit. You can call me Detective Ouyang. Or just Ouyang."

I didn't give him an inch. "Can I just call you 'Spring'?"

I expected him to flare up. Instead, the "Smiling Tiger" just kept beaming.

"If you like. A name is just a label, after all."

I hated guys like him. The "polite" ones are the ones who wait for you to look away before they slip the knife in. I decided to stay silent.

Ouyang Chun didn't seem to mind. He began leafing through a stack of files on the table. He looked harmless—scholarly, even, with those blue-rimmed glasses and that "I wouldn't hurt a fly" grin.

"We aren't as thuggish as the cops in your stories, Qi Bin. We don’t make arrests without solid proof. You’re right about one thing, though: the case is old. Back then, forensics were primitive. We had next to nothing. No witnesses. Just a trace of blood and some skin tissue found in the female victim’s mouth..."

Ouyang sighed. "But that case is my mentor’s cross to bear. As his protégé, how could I not take an interest? Tell me... did you write this?"

He pulled a document from the pile and slid it toward me. It was a printed index of my novels. Titles about "The Perfect Crime," "The Accidental Sinner," "Confessions of a Killer."

Ouyang lit a cigarette and held it to my lips. "Go ahead. I’ve read your work. Your characters are always chain-smokers. I figured you were, too."

He wasn't wrong. I’m a two-pack-a-day man. When I’m writing, the cigarette is practically part of my hand. But looking at it now, I lost the urge. I stared at him.

"What's your point?"

Ouyang stubbed the cigarette out when I didn't take it. He leaned back, crossing his arms, still wearing that infuriating smile. He didn't get straight to the point; he wanted to chat.

"Do you believe in fate, Qi Bin? My boss spent half his life chasing this, went gray over it, and never found a new lead. Then, something funny happened. A few weeks ago, someone called the tip line. They’d been reading a web novel and found a writer with a 'disturbing' grasp of murder. Said the details were so real, it felt like a confession."

Ouyang chuckled. He grabbed another sheet of paper.

"Let’s see here... sixteen different calls to 110 dispatch centers across the country. Now, if it were one or two, dispatch would have ignored it. But sixteen calls about the same author? That piques a man's curiosity, don't you think?"

His eyes changed. The smile was still there, but it didn't reach the ice behind his lenses. I swallowed hard.

"It’s... it’s just fiction."

Ouyang kept going as if I hadn't spoken. "The sheer volume of tips forced their hand. They tracked the IP to this city and kicked it to us. And what are the odds? If anyone else in the department had picked it up, they would have laughed it off. But it landed on my desk. And I know my mentor’s ghosts."

The smile vanished. He lunged across the table, grabbing my collar and pulling me inches from his face. "You’re smarter than I thought. You blurred the lines. You changed the names of everyone involved and scattered the truth across a dozen different stories. To a layman, it’s just a thriller. But I’m a cop. I know every gruesome detail of that crime scene from twenty years ago. I'm giving you one chance to come clean. Confess, Qi Bin."

His voice was like a scalpel. I stammered, "Confess? To what? I didn't kill anyone!"

"Hah. Still playing the part?" Ouyang let go of my collar like I was a bad joke. He straightened his sleeves and adjusted his glasses. In an instant, the "Smiling Tiger" mask was back. "Fine. If you want to play the long game, I’ve got all the time in the world."

God, I hated that face. It made me want to gag.

"You sure about that?" I spat. "I know the law. Under the Criminal Procedure Law, you can’t hold a suspect for more than twelve hours for questioning. You have to provide food and rest. You can’t use 'continuous questioning' as a loophole for illegal detention."

Ouyang clapped his hands. "Impressive. You use that line a lot in your stories. But you forgot one thing." His voice went cold again. "Article 82. If there is evidence of a crime, we can hold a suspect under emergency detention. Do you still think I’m short on time?"

I panicked. "Evidence! Where is it? You can't use a damn novel as evidence!"

Ouyang laughed and looked at Song Ting. "Boss, look at how naive he is. He really thinks we’ve made zero progress in twenty years."

Song Ting sneered. "Technology caught up with you, Qi Bin. Even though those bodies were in the river, we recovered a small amount of DNA from Li Linlin's mouth. All we need is a swab from you, and the mystery is over."

Ouyang chimed in. "You were clever, I’ll give you that. In The Accidental Sinner, you turned Li Linlin into a 'random classmate' and changed Zhao Wei’s name to 'Li Hewei.' You called yourself 'Du Binbin' and turned your accomplice, Luo Qiangqiang, into 'Old Yu.' You even wrote that the victim was actually your lover who helped you hide the truth. Brilliant. You even moved the date from '05 to '06. To anyone else, it's just a story. But to us? It's a roadmap."

Hearing them tag-team me with this nonsense made my blood boil. "So you're just guessing. Fine. You want my DNA? You want the blood? Take it. Let's see the results."

I shoved my bound arms toward them. Song Ting blinked, surprised, but Ouyang just clapped. Two men in lab coats and masks walked in immediately. They didn't say a word—just pinned my arm and drew a vial of blood before vanishing.

I exhaled, trying to steady my heart. "There. Happy? Results take fifteen days. Can I go now? I’m not running. I’ve got a deadline to hit. If I don't post a chapter, my readers will start complaining that even a mule on a treadmill gets more rest than I do."

That’s the life of an indie writer. If you aren't worrying about your stats, you're worrying about the mob demanding more content. I just wanted to get back to work. I knew I didn't do it. My conscience was clear.

Ouyang shook his head. "You aren't going anywhere. And with the tech we have now? We don't need fifteen days."

"Then how long?" My heart climbed back into my throat.

"One day. I put a rush on it. Under the circumstances, we can skip a few formalities." Ouyang looked like he’d already won.

I grit my teeth. "Fine. I’ll wait."

"You don't have a choice," Song Ting growled.

I scoffed. "I’d love to hear what else you've got besides some old DNA that hasn't even been matched yet. Without more proof, I’m filing a complaint the second I’m out." I pointed at the cameras. "I know how this works. One of those is a direct feed to the Provincial Department to make sure you don't try any 'enhanced interrogation' tactics. You wouldn't dare frame me on camera."

Ouyang tapped the stack of files. "Don't worry. I’ve got plenty to keep us busy until the results come back."

"Whatever. You're just stalling," I spat.

Ouyang didn't take the bait. He pulled a yellowed, dusty file from an envelope. "Tell me again. Where were you between 10 PM and midnight on June 8th, 2005?"

I shot back: "Tell me exactly what you were doing between noon and 1 PM exactly one year ago today."

Song Ting slammed the table before I could finish. "We're the ones asking the questions here!"

I lost it. "Is that what you call this? It's been twenty years! Who remembers that? You were the one who interrogated me back then, right? Tell me: what color was the shirt I was wearing? Was I wearing sneakers or boots? Did I have an earring in?"

Song Ting sat there, speechless. It was the truth. He might remember the room or the big questions—this case was his life's obsession—but the trivial details? Gone. The brain clears out the clutter to protect itself. If I wasn't the killer, why would I remember a random Tuesday night from two decades ago?

Ouyang Chun seemed to expect this. He pivoted seamlessly. "You really loved Li Linlin, didn't you? Just like in your book, where the girl helps the protagonist hide the body and they live happily ever after. Except... you knew that was just a dream. That’s why you wrote that she died in a car accident during childbirth. To bring her back to reality."

He looked at me with a mix of pity and absolute conviction. "A beautiful, twisted love story. You killed her, but in your book, you turned it into romance. Was that your way of dealing with the guilt?"

I lost my filter. "Are you shitting me?! You're still using the book! Is this a trial or a book club? Call my old classmates. Right now. Ask any of them if I ever even spoke to Li Linlin!"

I was seeing red. This guy hadn't even done his homework; he just assumed my fiction was a diary.

"You think I’m 'guilty'? For what? I’m telling you, call them. Get the whole class on the phone!"

Ouyang looked surprised for a split second but recovered his cool. "We’ll get to that. Let’s move on."

"No! We’re talking about this now! I’m not going down as some 'spurned lover' psycho." I leaned in, as much as the cuffs would let me. "You ransacked my house, right? Then tell your guys to bring in my journals. I’ve kept a diary every year since middle school. Go find the ones from 2003 to 2005. Read them. See who I actually liked back then."

I was shaking. Those diaries held things I never wanted to revisit, but if they were my ticket out of this cage, I’d let the whole world read them.

Ouyang hesitated, then made a call. A few minutes later, two cops brought in a mountain of stuff: my journals from 2000 to the present and my laptop.

"Listen, 'Spring,'" I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Humans are strange. We write down the things we’re too scared to say out loud. Don't worry about me faking them—I'm sure your 'forensic tech' can prove those pages were written twenty years ago."

In a voice dripping with arrogance, I watched as Ouyang Chun and Song Ting tore through my journals. They started with 2004 and worked through several volumes. Finally, they looked up at me, their faces a mask of confusion.

"Li Linlin wasn't the girl you liked?"

I spat on the floor. "No shit. I’ve liked the same girl since middle school, right up until the day she got married. I never caught her, obviously—just watched her walk down the aisle. But hey, keep flipping. Go back to 2000. See for yourself."

I gestured for them to go further back. As they flipped through the older pages, their expressions shifted from confusion to something more unsettled.

"You were trying to pick up girls at that age?" Song Ting muttered.

"I don't like the word 'pick up,'" I shot back. "Sounds cheap. I was an admirer."

Song Ting let out a long, heavy sigh. He looked like a beaten dog. I knew why. Those fifteen years of journals were a paper trail of a heart that had never strayed. They proved that the girl I’d obsessed over was never Li Linlin. Without the obsession, their "crime of passion" motive evaporated into thin air.

I leaned back, savoring the moment.

"Well? Does that clear things up? I told you I was clean. 'Crime of passion'? Please. You think I’m bored enough to weave my own life into a novel like some half-assed confession? If I’d really killed someone and kept it a secret for twenty years, do you think I’d be stupid enough to publish it? I’m a writer, not a moron. Now, let me out. I have a deadline."

I kicked at my leg irons, the heavy clank-clank echoing through the small room. But just as I thought I was home free, Ouyang Chun let out another cold laugh.

"You’re still not going anywhere."

"Why the hell not?" I demanded.

"The journals prove you weren't stalking Li Linlin, sure," Ouyang said, pushing his glasses up. "And they don't mention that night. But you’re still a suspect."

Unbelievable. This guy was like a dog with a bone. "Fine. Enlighten me. What else have you got?"

Ouyang leaned in, that nauseating "Smiling Tiger" grin back on his face. He looked like he was holding an ace. "According to my mentor’s records from back then, you never went to the crime scene. You never saw the bodies. Right?"

"Right. If I’d seen them, I would have told you then."

"Exactly. So, if you never saw the bodies, how did you manage to describe Zhao Wei’s death—or 'Li Hewei' in your book—with such surgical precision? Give me a rational explanation, Qi Bin. How did you know the cause of death? How did you know the bodies were weighted down with stones at the bottom of the river?"

I stared at him. Not out of fear, but sheer disbelief. I realized then that they really had nothing. No new leads, no smoking gun. Just the old DNA trace from Li Linlin’s mouth—the skin she’d bitten off her rapist twenty years ago. And that had nothing to do with me.

The DNA results would clear me soon enough. But since Ouyang wanted to play, I figured I’d show him what it looks like when a pro detective hits a brick wall.

"Is that all you've got?" I asked, my voice thick with sarcasm.

"That’s enough," Ouyang said, his eyes drilling into mine.

I sighed, shaking my head. "Detective Spring, do me a favor. Open my laptop. Yeah, the one in front of you. Password is six sixes."

Once he was in, I continued. "Check my browser history. Check my chats with AI models like Doubao and Ernie Bot. Actually, check the date I published the story and search the week leading up to it. It’ll be faster."

I mirrored his smug smile and waited for the show to start.

I wasn't disappointed. About thirty minutes later, after scrolling through my search history and AI prompts, Ouyang and Song Ting looked like they’d just swallowed a mouthful of rot. They looked utterly defeated.

I threw my head back and laughed until my sides hurt.

"How about that? Shocking, isn't it? My dear Detective Ouyang, my dear Detective Song... are you guys for real? All this talk of 'clues' and 'evidence,' and it turns out to be nothing but hot air. You wondered how I got the details right without being at the scene? Now you know. How does it feel? Tell me, Detective Spring—how does it feel to go from 'gotcha' to 'dead end' in thirty minutes? I want to write it down for my next book."

My laughter filled the interrogation room, loud and defiant. I knew those logs would solve everything. I was clean. I knew the details because in the age of the internet, people talk. Song Ting might have kept his mouth shut for twenty years, but that didn't mean the victims' families, their friends, or some rookie cop didn't spill the tea on a forum somewhere to show off. I’m a writer who prides himself on realism. I did my homework.

Ouyang wasn't smiling anymore. He stared at me, his face pale. "Fine. You dodged another bullet."

"It’s not dodging if I’m innocent," I snapped. "Is it illegal to base a story on a real-life cold case now?"

Song Ting was gasping for air, clutching his chest. His world was falling apart. Twenty years of obsession, of chasing a ghost, and the "perfect suspect" had just dismantled his logic with a search history and a diary.

Ouyang noticed and hovered over him. "Boss, go get some rest. I’ve got this."

Song Ting fumbled for his heart medication, swallowed a few pills, and glared at me with shaky resolve. "No! We still have evidence! He’s the one!"

"Give it a rest," I sneered. "The journals, the search logs... isn't that enough to prove I'm clean?"

"The journals prove you didn't love Li Linlin," Song growled. "They don't prove you didn't snap! You were a punk back then, a delinquent hanging out on the streets. You were hot-headed. Young. It could have been an impulse."

"Whoa, easy there!" I called out. "Stick to the interrogation, leave the character assassination for your memoir. You going to tell me you never made a mistake when you were my age?"

Song was speechless again. In his era, "delinquency" meant something a lot rougher than what I’d done.

Ouyang tapped the table. "Don't change the subject. My mentor’s point is simple: the journals might be real, but the search logs could be a plant."

I narrowed my eyes. "A plant? Why the hell would I fake a search history? Am I a psychic now? Did I know you’d kick my door down today?"

Ouyang didn't blink. "Maybe you did. I know the criminal mind. A secret kept for twenty years wants to be told. Especially by a writer. You wanted to spill your guts, but you wanted cover. You knew that once the story went viral, we’d come knocking. So you did the research to create a 'legitimate' source for your knowledge. You laid the groundwork."

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Otherwise, why keep such a meticulous browser history? You’re a power user. You know that much cache slows a computer down. Why keep it unless it was meant to be found?"

I didn't bother explaining. There’s an old saying: when you start testing a window to see if it’ll break, it’s already broken. They had decided I was the killer. No matter what I said, until a bigger piece of evidence showed up, I was guilty in their eyes. They’d rather believe I was a master manipulator than believe they were wrong.

So, I went silent.

They tried every trick in the book to get me to snap. They tag-teamed me, whispered in my ear, shouted in my face. They failed. A web novelist's greatest strength is the ability to endure silence. I can sit in a room for months with nothing but a screen and my own thoughts. I don't need society, and I don't need to talk.

I sat there, ignoring them, plotting out my next chapter in my head. Eventually, Song Ting gave out. His heart couldn't take the marathon. Ouyang sent him home and brought in a younger cop to keep up the rotation. I stayed silent from noon until dawn. They brought me food and let me use the bathroom, but the questions never stopped.

The next morning, Ouyang and Song Ting reappeared. Ouyang held a printout, his face a picture of pure frustration. I didn't need to see the paper to know what it said. The DNA match was a bust.

"So," I said, stretching my stiff limbs. "Can I go now?"

Ouyang walked over and wordlessly unlocked my cuffs and leg irons. His voice was hollow. "Get out."

I stood up, rubbing my wrists. "No detention? No 'Article 82'?"

"No point," Song Ting croaked. He looked like he’d aged twenty years overnight. His "Dao heart" was shattered. He’d staked everything on this arrest, and the DNA had become my strongest shield.

I turned to leave, but Ouyang’s voice stopped me at the door.

"Luo Qiangqiang is dead. Did you know that?"

I paused and turned around. "What, you're pinning that on me too?"

Ouyang lit a cigarette and, surprisingly, offered me one. He took a long drag. "No. I’m just curious. You and Luo were best friends. Why did he die right after you published that story?"

"People die, Ouyang. It’s what we do. Maybe his time was just up."

"He died on his way to see you," Ouyang pressed. "Don't you feel any guilt?"

"Why should I? We were friends. He was coming over for a drink, my treat. He didn't make it because of a car crash. He was always a shitty driver. I even sent a thousand bucks to his funeral."

Ouyang blew a cloud of smoke in my face. I stepped back, disgusted. "Look, if you have something to ask, ask it. I have chapters to write."

Ouyang smirked. "Do you know why he crashed?"

"No. Don't care."

"I think you do," Ouyang said, his voice turning sharp and fast. "I did my homework before bringing you in. Luo died a month after your story dropped. You invited him for drinks, but you called him right as he hit the highway. I don't know what you said, but I know you knew his wife was cheating on him."

He stepped closer. "Here’s my theory. You wanted to spill your secrets online. You didn't expect the readers to pay such close attention. Once the heat was on, you realized your old accomplice was a liability. So you used what you knew. You knew Luo—hot-headed, impulsive. You knew that telling him about his wife’s affair while he was behind the wheel would send him over the edge. 'Using desire as the bait, holding the rod,' right? That’s a line from your book The Perfect Crime. You set the stage to keep yourself safe."

Ouyang stared into my soul. He’d spent his life looking at monsters, and he thought he’d found one. Maybe he had.

But he had no proof.

"Think whatever you want," I said lazily. "The DNA doesn't lie. Li Linlin’s mouth had skin and blood in it, and it wasn't mine or Luo’s. It wasn't the victim’s either. So unless you have a third man, you’ve got nothing."

Ouyang clenched his fists. He looked like he wanted to strangle me right there.

I sighed. "You guys are so blinded by your own theories. Why can't you look at it from a different angle?"

"What angle?" Song Ting asked desperately.

I shrugged. "Why are you so sure it was a crime of passion? Why haven't you found the real cause of death for those two yet?"

"What do you mean?" Song Ting looked like he’d been struck by lightning. He begged me for more.

I chuckled. "Just kidding. I'm not the killer, remember? How would I know? And even if I did... why would I tell you?"

Song Ting started shaking, his face turning ghostly white. Ouyang rushed to his side, shoving more pills into his mouth. It took a long time for the old man to steady himself.

"Qi Bin," Song whispered, pointing a trembling finger at me. "You’re lying. You’ve been lying since the moment we walked into your apartment."

"Is that so? Which part?"

Before Song could speak, Ouyang took over, his eyes full of loathing.

"Lie number one: You said it was just a story. It’s not.

Lie number two: You said you didn't remember June 8th, 2005. Nobody forgets a night like that.

Lie number three: Your journals. You spent 2005 trying to convince a diary—and yourself—that you liked a different girl, just to create an alibi for your heart.

Lie number four: Your search history. Normal people don't keep logs like that unless they’re building a defense.

Lie number five: You weren't afraid of the DNA test because you knew exactly whose blood was in her mouth—and you knew it wasn't yours.

And lie number six: You didn't kill Luo Qiangqiang. You just pulled the trigger from a distance using a phone call and his wife’s affair—the same wife you were sleeping with a week after the story went live."

Ouyang was breathing hard now, his eyes burning with a murderous light.

I let out a soft whistle. "Not bad. Really, not bad at all. But do you have proof?"

"If I had proof, you’d be in a cage!" Ouyang roared.

"Then I guess I’m going home."

I turned and walked toward the exit. As I reached the heavy steel door, I looked back at them one last time.

"You're sharp, Ouyang. You caught the lies. But you only found six."

Ouyang froze. "There’s more?"

"I’ve got nothing to lose by telling you now. You can't touch me." I gave them both that same, polite, "Smiling Tiger" grin they’d given me. "The truth is, I told seven lies."

[THE END]