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.

“Yes.”

“Can you leave safely?

Don’t wait for another ride.

Take the recorder, your identification, and any medication you’ve been given.

We need a doctor, and we need a report.”

“I thought I should find out who Vanessa is first.”

“We can investigate that.

Your body comes first.”

I looked at the bruise on my collarbone, now yellow at the edges.

For the first time, I understood that gathering evidence and getting help did not have to be competing choices.

By eight thirty, I was sitting in the passenger seat of Priya’s car.

She had brought a paper bag with a plain sweater and comfortable shoes, not because she knew what had happened but because she knew I was barely holding myself together.

I carried my recorder in a zipped pouch and held it like something breakable.

We drove to a hospital, not to the office or the condominium.