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.

Word for word, in structure, on four separate occasions, in my own hall.

Noticed. Carried on.

That is the whole of her offence and the whole of mine. The only difference between the two of us is that she was paid for it.

Four letters, four seconds each, in my own hall.

Here is the only thing I have.

Everybody wants this to be about a woman who worked out what was happening to her, hid a recorder in her bag, and took her husband and his brother apart with a forty-dollar device from a hardware store.

All of that happened. Exactly as written.

I would do every bit of it again — and the only change I would make is that I would buy that recorder after the second drive instead of the fourth.

But they did not get my father’s company by drugging me in a car park.

They got the first forty per cent of it in my own kitchen, at about eight in the evening, with the television on — from a qualified accountant who signed four pages in four seconds because reading them in front of her husband would have been rude.