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as dispatch explained a procedure, Melissa said, “I think I’m going to pass out. . . .”

CHAPTER 8
    DAYLIGHT FADING
    â€œ Okay, just stay on the phone with me,” dispatch told Melissa, because she sounded groggy, loopy, out of it.
    â€œYeah . . . yeah . . .”
    â€œYou need to sit down, ma’am.”
    After a bit of back-and-forth: “Take a deep breath through your nose and—”
    â€œI can’t,” Melissa said. She made a noise, sounding like she was fading away.
    Dispatch started asking Melissa questions to keep her talking: “How did he get in?”
    â€œI think . . . probably, I think . . . through the patio door, I think ... ’cause I leave it sometimes . . .” Melissa tried her best to explain. Her speech was diminishing, for sure. Her words were now slurring a bit.
    â€œDid he take anything?”
    â€œI don’t know. I haven’t looked,” Melissa said.
    â€œOkay, are you still bleeding? Do you have a towel or something that you can—”
    â€œI can’t . . . ,” Melissa started to say, but she ran out of breath before finishing. She came across as someone who had been awoken in the middle of the night and was being asked questions.
    Dispatch was losing her.
    â€œIs there a towel or something you can put over where you were hurt?”
    â€œNo . . . ,” Melissa answered. It sounded as though it was taking every ounce of energy she had left to get just that one word out.
    â€œYou don’t have any towel or anything?”
    â€œI can’t . . . I . . . Oh, God, I feel like I’m about to . . .”
    â€œOkay, ma’am, can you lay down? Where . . . Where are you hurt?”
    â€œI think . . . I think on my face.”
    â€œOkay, are you hurt anywhere else?”
    â€œOn my arm . . . on my head . . . he beat me over the head.” Melissa was just about gone. Her speech was slow and lethargic, as if she was really drunk.
    â€œDid he use a knife on you?”
    â€œHe had something, I think. I don’t know what it was.”
    They talked back and forth for a few moments. Dispatch told Melissa to “keep her feet up.” It would help. And she needed to keep talking.
    â€œPlease hurry,” Melissa pleaded.
    â€œThey’re on their way.”
    Things went quiet for a time.
    â€œAre you okay?” the dispatch operator wondered after not hearing from Melissa.
    â€œI don’t know. I’ve lost an awful lot of blood—”
    â€œThere’s more blood in you than you think,” the dispatch operator said, trying to keep Melissa focused on staying with her.
    (“Since I was speaking very clearly and coherently,” Melissa reflected later, “she apparently felt it was not as serious as I was trying to describe it. I kept trying to tell her I was losing a lot of blood.”)
    Then Melissa said, “There’s someone knocking, I think. Hold on, okay? . . .”
    â€œMelissa? Melissa?”
    The recording went quiet, with the exception of some static. A moment later, Melissa came back on the line. “They’re here now—”
    â€œOkay, go talk to them.”
    â€œThank you,” Melissa said.
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    â€œLater,” Melissa explained, “the [detective investigating the case] told me that they actually were laughing at my conversation with the dispatcher and how adamant I was—that is, until she saw the crime scene. [The detective] said she had never encountered so much blood, even at the murder scenes she had investigated.”

CHAPTER 9
    WHAT JUST HAPPENED?
    As Melissa put the phone receiver down on the table, got up, and, without thinking too much about how painful it was going to be, walked over and unlocked the front door, she never thought it could be her attacker trying to get back in.
    It wasn’t, of course. Help had arrived finally.
    â€œThe poor sheriff ’s deputy standing on the other side of the