No Body, No Crime

4 | proof

"They'll say you are bad
Or perhaps you are mad
Or at least you
Should stay undercover
Your mind must be bare
If you would dare
To think you can love
More than one lover"

— David Rovics

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4 | proof

"Carson, we need to talk." The top-notch cliche statement before a doomed confrontation. Yet, saying those banal words gave Este a dynamic sense of control.

"What now?" Carson glanced from his laptop, his eyebrows knitting together in annoyance he didn't bother to conceal. Este initially aimed at a sophisticated conversation, maybe coaxing him into spilling the secrets he hid, but his expressions said otherwise. He wasn't willing for any of it, now or ever. He already gave the impression of being done with her.

"What's wrong with you?" To hell with sophistication, Este thought. She braced herself for a battle, settling down on a love seat opposite the bed. "You've been acting indifferent and negligent. Is it something that I did?"

"Heavens, Este." Carson raked a frustrated hand through his dark blonde hair, "I can't deal with your pointless theatrics. Leave me alone, I got work to do."

"Oh yeah? Poozling jewelry for your collection?" Este snapped.

"What? What are you talking about?" Out of the two, Carson acted like he could nail theatrics.

"The jewelry in the bank account. It's not Clary's, I checked with her." Este lied. She knew Clarissa would prefer to side with him in any case, but she still tested the theory to gauge a reaction.

"Jesus, Este!" Carson exploded. "You have no respect for boundaries! Will you ever trust me?"

"How can you talk about trust!" They were both shouting; their home seconds away from being a mad house. "You lied to me, Carson. Just tell me where you got it from!"

"It's none of your business!"

"It's sitting in my account!"

"It's not yours anymore! You can split it if you want to!"

Este stopped abruptly, swallowing whatever retort she was about to spill. A chill ran down her spine. Somehow, she had a dreadful feeling that they weren't talking about the joint account anymore. And she dared not go in that direction. Not yet.

"That's not what this is about." Este asked calmly, "Where were you last Monday?"

"Where are you fabricating these questions from?!" Carson was no where near calm, now that she had triggered him.

"Just answer me."

"I don't know." He paced around the foot of the bed in vexation, "I visit a million places for work; you expect me to be obsessive about it and keep a record like you?!"

Oh, he didn't dare.

"It's called a bloody schedule and how dare you point at the disorder!" She had risen from the love seat, unable to contain her temper. "You told you were with Mark, Gibson and Alan. I'd called up Alan before you came home, because you wouldn't answer my calls. And he denied sitting for dinner and said everyone went straight home that night and you lied. Again. And I'm so tired of your bullshit, just say you're fucking someone, and be done with it!" Este was panting hard but she felt the need to add, "That too a bitch who uses a fucking freesia perfume that I absolutely loathe!"

Carson glared her with impenetrable eyes and inscrutable countenance, seemingly unaffected by her tirade. Este stared right back, resisting herself from crumbling apart. She wasn't letting this up until the day she died, Este swore to herself. She knew her premonitons were right – good wives always know. But she required him to confess. A confirmation to move ahead. To plan what's next. But Carson knew her better than anyone. He knew what buttons to press and what strings to pull. And that's the most heartbreaking detail about marriages that shatter.

"Quite a story you have there, Este." He smirked, knowing he was about to hit the nail. "What's the proof?"

She knows it. It's in her instincts and intuition, vague little details in the way he moved around, touched things, minute behavioural changes, a goddamn jewelry set, a different wine flavour and a perfume. She knows he did it.

But she just can't prove it.