Traffic shook the truck.
“Carol.”
“Yes?”
“Was it one sentence?”
She started talking immediately.
“Of course it was. Laura made a joke, Richard responded, Melissa—”
“Did you know about Daniel?”
Silence.
Not clean silence.
Movement.
Then a muffled sound.
A voice in the room behind her.
Richard.
I waited.
Carol returned.
“I don't know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Gregory—”
“Melissa knew.”
“That isn't—”
“You knew.”
Another pause.
Longer.
I could hear Richard breathing in the background.
Heavy.
He said nothing.
That silence answered every remaining question.
I looked through the windshield at traffic rushing north.
“You weren't surprised Saturday.”
Carol's voice softened.
“It wasn't our place.”
I almost laughed.
“You applauded.”
“Laura is our daughter.”
“So you knew.”
“She told me she had become close to someone.”
“Close.”
“Greg.”
“Did you know she was sleeping with him?”
Carol said nothing.
That was not proof.
But I no longer needed courtroom proof to understand my marriage.
I needed legal facts for lawyers.
I needed emotional truth for myself.