Celia frowned. “I’m so sorry, but it is our policy to process such requests in writing. If you submit a written request, I should be able to get back to you in a couple of weeks? By Friday after next, at the latest.”
We didn’t have two weeks. More importantly, she was lying.
Online resources and crime dramas stressed the importance of microexpressions or signs of nervousness when trying to judge when someone was telling the truth. Shifting eyes, looking up in the direction opposite of your dominant hand, sweating, pursed mouth, and so on. Accomplished liars exhibited none of those. However, I had grown up with a human lie detector of a sister and Nevada had clued me in on an indicator that proved right most of the time.
Frequent liars maintained eye contact.
When I was little, my mother would sit me and Arabella down and ask who started the fight. “Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t do it.” We both quickly figured out that as long as we looked her in the eye while we lied, she was much more likely to trust us. I had no idea why parents believed into the supernatural truth-serum power of their gaze, but most of them did. And they taught their children that shifty-eyed liars didn’t meet one’s stare under tough questioning.
Celia had maintained eye contact like a champ. So much so, it was slightly unsettling. Most people looked away when they were embarrassed, or uncomfortable, or when they tried to process things. We were discussing a very uncomfortable topic, yet Celia had stared straight at me, emitting trustworthiness.