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.

I rented a modest apartment near work.

It had crooked kitchen cabinets, a narrow balcony, and sunlight that reached the living-room floor every afternoon.

I chose the locks, the furniture, and the password to the wireless network.

For years, Julian had insisted that he should handle all technology because I was too busy.

Now, learning the settings of my own home felt like learning a new language.

My mother stayed for two weeks and helped me unpack.