There are certain things you feel. You know them, intrinsically, physically. It's intuition coupled with paranoia, and knowing that just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you. With every passing second, it's pumped efficiently through your body, not just because it's liquid, like blood, but because the viscosity of suspicion reaches even further, into the physical.
And when you have your body singing truth, however harsh, it's hard to ignore. You recognize the conflict in others, the personal truth that human beings carry around for themselves, measured against the truths you seek in your questioning them. Only in very rare cases will your own needs, the truth you demand and deserve, be answered with honesty.
And then of course, duplicity breeds duplicity. Books fall open accidentally and you're riveted. In some other dimension you know you're wrong to be doing it, but you press on, leaving no bread crumbs behind. And now, without fully realizing you've slipped, you're complicit in the deception.
You could point your finger, accuse, reveal what you know. But then you'd have to come clean, confess, reveal your sources. You're bound by the honor among thieves, even without blood oath. It doesn't matter whether there's genuine affection, brother- or sisterhood, the lightest hair on your arms stand up straight, saluting the code of silence.
In each moment, you feel it all over again, in each pore, in every bit of protoplasm. Every capillary swells. Every nerve tingles. You know now. And you don't feel better. You feel infected.
And that's when you know. Suspicion isn't emotional. It's cellular.