On the third of February, Giselle Marchetti read a message from a woman she had not spoken to in seventeen years telling her that there was something serious about her husband.

She did not show it to Christian.

She did not reply.

She did not screenshot it into the class group chat.

She did not call four friends.

What she did, that afternoon, was sit in her office in Riverside with the door shut and write down every fact she could establish independently about the man she had married in September, on a legal pad, in two columns: things she had documents for, and things she had only been told.