Every time my brother-in-law drove me home, I would black out and wake up sore. My husband just laughed and said I was out of shape. After the fourth trip, I hid a voice recorder in my purse — and that night I heard a phone call that made me realize the blackouts had never been accidents.

PART 1

“She’s out cold. Bring her over — and don’t leave any marks on her this time.”

That is my husband’s voice, on a recording made in his own brother’s car, at about half past ten at night.

I have listened to those sixteen words about four hundred times in eleven weeks.

I know every breath in them. I know where the indicator clicks underneath. And I have still not got to the bottom of what they did to me.

I woke up in the passenger seat of Aurelio’s SUV at eight minutes past eleven at night.

We were in the underground garage at our building in Westhaven. The engine was off and the interior light was on.

My bag was on my lap. Arranged. With the strap folded over on top of it, the way I do not do it.

I had left my office downtown at twenty to ten.