I was pretty sure that he knew
what had happened to her that night,
even if he wasn’t the one
who made her disappear.
But the detective says
they’ve ruled him out as a suspect
or a witness.
But I know that he knows.
I follow him to the café,
where he sits near the revolving door.
He sips a latte and stares at his laptop
and doesn’t meet the eyes
of anyone around him.
Because he knows we all know
that he knows,
and he hasn’t been talking,
and he’s been letting us suffer
with the horrible visions of “what if.”
Is there some way to pry information
out of the mouth of another?
I wonder what he gets out of it,
what perverse thrill,
of having the answer
that could stop the sobbing of a brokenhearted mother
and the binge-drinking of her lost brother.
I follow him to the grocery store.
I park outside his home.
I stare at him as he stares at the TV,
and I will never stop
until he tells.
Because you can’t stop
when you know that he knows
that you know that he knows.