She sat down and looked at me the way people look at a car accident they caused— guilty, searching, not sure yet how bad the damage is. I let the silence run for a few seconds longer than was comfortable. Silence is pressure. In depositions, it makes people fill the space with things they hadn’t planned to say.
“How long have you known?” she asked. Her voice was steadier than her hands. I respected the effort. “Long enough,” I said. “But I’m not here about that.” She blinked. That was not the opening she had rehearsed. Good. Rehearsed conversations produce rehearsed answers, and I hadn’t come here for anything she’d prepared in advance.