There was so much blackness. So much blood. The .380-caliber bullet had torn through her right eye, down through the roof of her mouth on its way to her left lung where it lodged hard up against her ribcage. Spinning, she toppled to the floor where she slumped. A minute went by. Then the incredible happened. She came to her senses and heard the voice lifting and pulling her through.

"Get up!" it commanded. "Lisa! Get up!"

She was in shock, grievously wounded. Suddenly then, she knew where she was: lying on the garage's concrete floor. This was her house's garage on Bluebonnet Way, in this posh Dallas suburb. Only the paranoid locked their front doors, and all of her neighbors treated each other's kids as their own. She knew who she was: Lisa Gerritsen, aged fifty-one. She was a loving wife, President of the PTA, a doting mother. She must live for the sake of her kids.

Lisa knew it was July. The concrete felt heavy and hot. The floor was slippery with her blood and she began crawling.

"How could this happen?" she asked herself. "How is this happening? Why me?"

She was desperate for her phone to call 911. Her phone was in her purse taken by the man who had shot her. Left for dead, she was still breathing, although each breath got harder and harder. She struggled, and as she dragged herself along, she thought. My car is here in the garage. The car has OnStar. The OnStar operator can dial 911.

She gritted her teeth, managing to open the car door on the driver's side. Without the car key, which was also in the stolen purse, OnStar wouldn't work. "Oh, God, help me-please," she begged. "God, give me the strength to keep breathing..."

She suspected her husband, Frank, had begun hating her, but this much? Hate her enough to have hired someone to do this to her!