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.

She maintained that paperwork existed documenting my consent.

She also said Marcus was only a driver and that she had not personally administered any medication.

I listened as Ellis summarized this, then asked one question.

“Did she explain why I didn’t remember consenting?”

“She said you were embarrassed about seeking help.”

I laughed once.

It was an ugly sound.

“So the fact I don’t remember is evidence that I wanted secrecy?”