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 polite greeting was almost more horrible than the threat.

Somewhere, someone had entered my presence into a system as though I had voluntarily been treated.

I forwarded the email to Ellis without touching the survey link.

Then I finally cried, not because I knew what they had done, but because I had found a record proving that someone had expected me to accept it as normal.

PART 6

Two days later, I met the woman whose initials appeared beside that patient reference number.

Her name was Dana Whitcomb, and she was not Vanessa.