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.

I remember being slightly bored. I remember thinking that my father had got old about this.

Vonda Prewitt is a notary public.

That is the answer. That is who was already there.

Fifty-six years old. Commissioned in this state since 2009, with no complaints against her in sixteen years.

Her office is above a shop on Carrow Street. It is about nine minutes from the garage under my own building — which I have now driven, at night, four times, to be certain.

There are four appointments in Vonda Prewitt’s journal with my name written in them.

In her handwriting. With my signature next to each one.

The eleventh of March last year.

The second of September last year.

The fourth of December last year.

And the twenty-ninth of April this year — which is the fourth drive, at about twenty past ten at night, in an office above a shop that closed at six.