Damian sat across from me, his expression carefully neutral as he organized the evidence into categories. He worked with methodical precision, occasionally making notes on a legal pad. Only the tightness around his eyes and the muscle jumping in his jaw betrayed his reaction to what he was reading.
“I need to ask you about these photographs,” he said, sliding a manila folder toward me. “The hospital took these as part of their standard protocol for suspected abuse cases. You were still unconscious at the time, so you likely don’t recall these being taken.”
I hesitated before opening it. I remembered the nurse with her gentle hands and soft voice, asking permission to document my injuries. I’d agreed, desperate for someone to believe me, to have proof that I wasn’tcrazy or clumsy or making things up.
The photos were worse than I remembered. My body looked like a canvas of violence—purple-black bruises blooming across my torso, the imprint of fingers around my throat, my left eye swollen shut. The clinical lighting of the emergency room highlighted every mark in stark detail.
“Yes,” I said, my voice barely audible. “These are from that night.”
Damian nodded, making another note. “And these earlier medical visits—” he tapped several reports dating back over two years, “—the explanations you gave at the time. Falls. Walking into doors. Sports injuries. Those were fabricated to protect Mr. Delaney, correct?”
I nodded, shame washing over me. “He always came with me to the hospital. Stood right beside me while I told the doctors what happened.” I swallowed hard. “He’d squeeze my hand while I lied. Like a warning.”
Damian’s pen paused. For a moment, something raw and furious flashed across his face before he controlled it.
“That’s extremely helpful for establishing the pattern of abuse,” he said, his voice professionally even. “These medical records, combined with your testimony, create a compelling narrative of escalating violence.”
He moved to another stack of papers—financial records I’d provided. Bank statements showing the gradual emptying of my accounts. Credit card bills in my name for purchases I hadn’t made. The deed to the condo Marcus had “helped” me buy, with fine print showing he maintained controlling interest.
“The financial control is equally important,” Damian continued. “It demonstrates how Mr. Delaney thoroughly isolated you and created dependency.” He looked up from the papers. “Did he control your access to money?”
I nodded. “At first, he just ‘helped’ with my finances. Said I wasterrible with money and needed guidance. Then he convinced me to add him to my accounts for ‘convenience.’ Eventually, I had to ask permission to buy anything. Even groceries.”
Damian made another note. “And your employment?”
“I worked at the Lawson Gallery when we met. He was a major donor. After we moved in together, he convinced the owner I needed more time for my art.” I laughed bitterly. “Really, he just wanted me home. Eventually, he arranged a showing of my work, but when the reviews were good, he got jealous. Said my ‘little hobby’ was taking too much time away from us.”
“So he isolated you socially, controlled you financially, and undermined your professional opportunities,” Damian summarized, the clinical assessment at odds with the tightness in his voice.
“That’s what abusers do, right?” I said quietly. “Cut you off from everything until they’re all you have left.”
Damian nodded, his expression grim. “It’s a documented pattern. And you’ve provided textbook examples of every stage.”
Damian flipped through his notepad. “In cases like this, we often call on family members as character witnesses. Is there someone—parents, siblings—who knew you before the relationship with Mr. Delaney?”
My fingers twisted around each other in my lap. “There’s no one to call.”
“No one at all?” Damian’s eyebrow raised slightly, his first obvious break in professional composure.
“My dad left when I was seven. Just said he was going to the store.” A bitter smile flickered across my face. “Longest milk run in history, I guess.”
“And your mother?”
“Cancer. Right before I started college.” My gaze fixed on the corner of Damian’s desk. “No siblings. Grandparents never left Poland when my parents immigrated.” I shrugged, the gesture attemptingcasualness but failing. “It’s just me.”
Damian made a note, his pen pausing momentarily. “That must have been difficult, going through school on your own.”
“Government grants and ramen.” My laugh held no humour. “And then Marcus appeared at my first student showcase.” My voice dropped. “He said my work showed ‘remarkable maturity for someone so young.’ That I had an ‘old soul.’”
Something in Damian’s expression shifted. “He approached you first?”
“Yeah. Offered to introduce me to ‘the right people.’” My fingers made air quotes. “Looking back, I should have seen it. How perfectly he stepped into that… gap.”
“What gap?”
I looked up, meeting Damian’s eyes for the first time. “The one my father left. Older man, successful, interested in me. Telling me I mattered.” My voice cracked slightly. “Pretty textbook, right? Damaged kid looking for daddy’s approval.”
Damian set his pen down. “Alex, victims don’t create their abusers. Predators like Marcus are exceptionally skilled at identifying vulnerabilities. That doesn’t make what happened your fault.”
