When I heard my husband’s voice on the hidden recording, something inside me broke beyond repair.
That night, I woke up in the passenger seat of my brother-in-law’s SUV.
We were parked in the underground garage of our high-rise in Southlake, Texas.
The clock read 11:08 p.m.
I had left my office in downtown Dallas at 9:40.
The drive took less than thirty minutes on a normal night.
My neck ached with a dull, throbbing pain.
A sharp twinge shot through my lower back, and my tights had a fresh snag at the knee.
But what unsettled me most was that the passenger seat had been reclined far lower than I ever leave it.
My brother-in-law, Marcus, was nowhere in sight.
This was the third time something like this had happened.
The pattern was always the same.
My husband, Julian, would say he had a late client dinner or a corporate function.
