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.

At first, the spreadsheets felt like a refuge.

Numbers did not ask me to forgive anyone.

Then I discovered that concentration was harder than it had been.

I made a mistake in a report and cried in the restroom over a typo.

My manager, Helena, offered flexible hours and reminded me that one error was not a verdict on my competence.

The next week, I corrected the report.

It was a small victory, but I remembered it more vividly than the day Marcus was arrested.