Where I went.
How long I stayed at work.
Which friends were acceptable.
How often I called my sister.
Even how much money I was allowed to keep in my own checking account.
I had called it compromise.
Then patience.
Then marriage.
Now I knew another word.
Control.
Melissa handed me a small plastic bag.
Inside were my earrings.
My work badge.
And the old digital recorder.
I stared at it.
“You had this when paramedics brought you in.”
She said.
My heart began pounding.
“Does it work?”
“I don’t know.”
I pressed the power button.
The screen lit up.
Battery low.
Recording saved.
My breath caught.
Everything was there.
I remembered turning it on before dinner.
I worked as a compliance manager for a medical equipment company.
I often recorded my own notes during inventory reviews.
That evening, I had been documenting a work reminder while helping
Gloria cook.
Then dinner began.
I forgot the recorder was still running inside my bag.
Nathan forgot too.
Everyone forgot.
Until now.
I asked Melissa for my phone.
The police had recovered it from Nathan’s bedroom.
It was sealed temporarily as evidence.
But the hospital provided a phone.
I knew exactly one number by memory.
Rebecca Sloan.
My attorney.
Technically, she had been my attorney for only six weeks.
Nathan did not know that.
