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.

His attorney attached screenshots of text messages in which I had sounded angry or exhausted.

They were real messages, sent over years, severed from the conversations that explained them.

Priya read the filing in silence.

Then she pushed the paper toward me.

“We will respond through counsel.

Do not contact him.”

“Can he make the police stop investigating?”

“No.