By way of introduction, my name is Sam Lane. I’m an author with several books to my credit.
I was working in my home office one evening, trying to rewrite a section of a story that had been defying every effort on my part to make sense of it, when I heard my husband scream, “No!” followed by a sharp bang which I knew immediately was a gun being fired. I was on my feet seconds later, racing down the hallway to the kitchen, just in time to see the backdoor slam closed. David lay on the floor, blood streaming from his chest. I grabbed a dish towel, kneeling to press it against the wound with one hand while ripping my phone from the pocket of my bathrobe with the other to dial 911.
“It hurts. I’m f-f-freezing, Sam.” His voice was weak, barely above a whisper.
“I know, babe. Hang in there, h
