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.

We have reason to believe someone accessed the unit this morning.

Is your phone on?”

“My personal phone?”

“Yes.”

“Only when I’m checking messages.”

“Keep it off for now.

We’ll talk about digital safety when we meet.”

I looked at the phone, a small rectangle I had spent years treating as an extension of myself.