Every time my brother-in-law drove me home, I would lose consciousness and wake up with unexplained aches and pains. My husband would only laugh and say, “You’re just out of shape, that’s all.” After the fourth ride, I secretly slipped a voice recorder into my purse and said nothing. That night, I listened to a phone conversation between the two of them that revealed my blackouts had never been accidental.

A few weeks afterward, I returned to the Southlake condominium to collect the final boxes, accompanied by people authorized to help.

The rooms looked strange without our furniture.

The view over the city was the same.

Julian had once insisted that it was the best view money could buy.

I stood in the bedroom doorway and remembered the night I slept facing the wall, afraid to move.

Then I noticed a faint rectangle on the wall where a photograph had hung.

It had been a wedding picture, both of us grinning beneath bright autumn trees.