What a merry-go-round today was going to be. First, it was Gwynnie’s birthday, and the party for twenty-one of her closest school buddies, eleven girls, ten boys, was scheduled for one o’clock at the house. Lizzie had rented a bouncy house, and she had already prepared lunch for the children, not to mention for their moms or nannies. Lizzie had even rented a Mister Softee ice-cream truck for three hours. But you never knew what to expect at these birthday gigs—other than laughter, tears, thrills, and spills.

After the birthday bash, Brigid had swimming lessons, and Merry had a trip to the dentist scheduled. Brendan, her husband of fourteen years, had left her a “short list” of his current needs. Of course everything was needed A.S.A.P.S. which meant as soon as possible, sweetheart.

After she picked up a T-shirt with rhinestones for Gwynnie at Gapkids, all she had left to buy was Brendan’s replacement dop kit. Oh, yeah, and her hair appointment. And ten minutes with her savior at Parisian, Gina Sabellico.

She kept her cool through the final stages—never let them see you sweat—then she hurried to her new Mercedes 320 station wagon, which was safely tucked in a corner on the P3 level of the underground garage at Phipps. No time for her favorite rooibos tea at Teavana.

Hardly anybody was in the garage on a Monday morning, but she nearly bumped into a man with long dark hair. Lizzie smiled automatically at him, revealing perfect, recently whitened and brightened teeth, warmth, and sexiness—even when she didn’t want to show it.

She wasn’t really paying attention to anyone—thinking ahead to the fast-approaching birthday party—when a woman she passed suddenly grabbed her around the chest as if Lizzie were a running back for the Atlanta Falcons football team trying to pass through the “line of spinach,” as her daughter Gwynne had once called it. The woman’s grip was like a vise—she was strong as hell.

“What are you doing? Are you crazy?” Lizzie finally screamed her loudest, squirmed her hardest, dropped her shopping bags, heard something break. “Hey! Somebody, help! Get off of me!”

Then a second assailant, the BMW sweatshirt guy, grabbed her legs and held on tight, hurt her, actually, as he brought her down onto the filthy, greasy parking-lot concrete along with the woman. “Don’t kick me, bitch!” he yelled in her face. “Don’t you fucking dare kick me.”

But Lizzie didn’t stop kicking—or screaming either. “Help me. Somebody, help! Somebody, please!”

Then both of them lifted her up in the air as if she weighed next to nothing. The man mumbled something to the woman. Not English. Middle European, maybe. Lizzie had a housekeeper from Slovakia. Was there a connection?