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.

No evidence of the thing I had spent thirty-six hours completely certain of.

None on the fourth occasion, and nothing consistent with any of the other three.

And the marks that are on me — the one under my collarbone, the thing low in my back — are consistent with being moved while unconscious. Lifted. Turned. Taken in and out of a vehicle by two men.

The blood work did come back with something in it, and it is in a file, and I am not going to name it on a page because I am not going to teach anybody anything.

So they had made me unconscious. Four separate times. Deliberately, with planning, using something they had to obtain.

And they had not touched me.

I need that on the page twice, because it took me about four days to be able to hold both halves of it at once.

I sat in a car park in Lindell for about an hour with that and I could not make it fit, and I want to be honest about what I felt, because it was not relief.