The young woman’s face went red — but it was the wrong kind of red.
Not the flush of someone caught.
The flush of someone completely, genuinely bewildered.
I registered it even through the fury, some cooler part of me taking notes while the rest of me burned.
Because I had braced for a particular reaction — the flinch, the dropped eyes, the stammered denial of the person who knows exactly what you’re talking about and is deciding how much to admit.
That is the face of guilt, and I had been ready to read it.