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.

The second incident was a Thursday, the same night Julian had supposedly attended a charity planning dinner.

My handbag had been on the kitchen island when I woke up, though I distinctly remembered keeping it on my lap in Marcus’s car.

“Why does the purse matter?” I asked.

“Because your recording picks up someone asking where the bag is,” Ellis said.

“We want to identify who handled what.”

An hour later, she called again.

This time, her voice was clipped.

“Do not return to the condominium.