Allison Greer met me four days after the baby shower.
Not in an interrogation room.
A quiet conference room with heavy blinds drawn against the afternoon glare.
Not alone.
My independent lawyer sat directly to my left.
A domestic-violence advocate waited nearby in the reception area.
No Adrian in the building.
No Marzano corporate counsel sat across the table.
The silence between us felt dense and sterile.
Allison made the boundaries explicit before opening her files.
“I am not here to investigate your marriage as a criminal matter.”
I nodded slowly, keeping one hand resting over my stomach.
“I am here because statements in Mr. Marzano’s suitability process may now be inaccurate or incomplete.”
Her tone carried no theatrical anger.
Just the quiet precision of someone accustomed to unpicking corporate falsehoods.
Then she showed me one.
Adrian’s supplemental integrity questionnaire.
The state seal was stamped crisply at the top of the document.
Question:
Any incidents within the prior five years involving alleged violence, threatened violence, restraining orders, police intervention, or conduct reasonably likely to result in such proceedings?
Adrian checked:
No.
The ink was black, firm, and centered neatly in the box.
At the time he submitted it?
Three weeks before the baby shower.
Had police been called back then?
No.
Restraining order filed?
No.
There were no formal court dockets bearing his name.
But alleged violence?
I remembered the dim hallway outside our bedroom.
I had told him two months earlier:
“You are hurting me.”
I had also texted:
If you grab me again, I’m leaving.
Was that enough to make his answer false?
That would be for investigators and counsel to evaluate.
Then another issue surfaced from the regulatory record.
He had amended his application four days before the shower.
Certified no material change had occurred.
During those exact four days, he had shoved me into a closet door after an argument.
The wood and brass handle had caught the back of my shoulder blade.
I unlocked my phone and slid it across the polished wood.
I showed Allison the photograph I sent privately to a friend that night.
The discolored skin was unmistakable beneath the harsh light.
She studied the timestamp and verified the metadata.
She did not react dramatically.
Good investigators rarely do.
She simply turned a page on her legal pad and noted the details.
Then she looked up directly into my eyes.
Then she asked:
“Did anyone ask you to describe these injuries as accidental?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Vivienne.”
“Mr. Marzano?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
The air in the room seemed to go completely still.
My lawyer gave me a subtle, reassuring nod.
I began talking.
Once started, the chronology took two hours.