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.

An accompanying note advised gathering additional clinical documentation before taking action.

When I read the summary, I felt an unfamiliar kind of disgust.

Every incident I had experienced as a frightening blackout had been treated by Julian as one more item in a project plan.

There were also messages suggesting that the annex’s staff had disputed whether the appointments could legally proceed.

One employee had refused to participate after reviewing the consent materials.

Another had asked why no independent clinician had met with me while I was alert.