Four years later

Davis Residence

7:13 PM

"Oh, damn. Oh no. Not now! Ergh!"

Bridget Davis groans and wipes at the splotch of coffee discoloring her beige tank top. She stomps a high-heeled foot angrily and slams down her coffee mug.

"Oh, Bridget. Ergh. Maybe I should just wear a bib from now on. Oh dammit, dammit, dammit! So close to streaming time and this happens."

Bridget reaches across the kitchen island and grabs her phone. With her other hand, she moves aside the offending cup of half-caff coffee. Bridget's husband answers the phone after several rings, but he doesn't sound happy.

"Yeah, Babe? What's up? I'm about to head into a management meeting soon."

"Mark...Mark...I need you to do me a huge favor!"

"What, babe?" Mark Davis says impatiently.

He knows his wife's usual voice. This is not her usual voice. The voice Bridget is using now is her 'I really screwed up and I need your help' voice. Whatever she needs is something he won't want to give--or do. If he's wrong, and Bridget's request is not too bad, he'll exact the balance for the debt out of her later that night. He has plans to do that anyway, but it never hurts to have a good excuse.

"What do you need?" Mark reiterates.

"Mark. I need you to pick up Tyler from soccer practice. I'm fifteen minutes...No, thirteen minutes from my livestream and I just spilled coffee all over my damn blouse. I look like I've been in a mud pancake fight."

"Bridget!" Mark groans. "It's just a livestream. I'm sure they won't care if you're a few minutes late. I told you, I have an important meeting. I don't have time to pick up Tyler."

"Don't...Bridget me," Bridget retorts, placing a hand on her shapely hip. She glares at the phone as if Mark can actually see her. "My livestreams bring in more money than your little grocery store management job. That's how we've paid the rent for two months. I've got a roast cooking, a livestream in ten minutes, coffee is literally soaking my entire front...And you're a lot closer. The ballfield is less than ten blocks away. You can pick Tyler up and he can stay in the food court until your meeting is over. Please, Mark. I need this."

Bridget decides to put on the charm. She whispers huskily into the phone, placing her mouth almost flush with the speaker.

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"You won't regret it, Mark. I'll make it worth your while."

Mark sarcastically rolls his eyes and groans deep in his throat. Bridget always finds a way to get to him, in any way, and in any situation. Her subtle dirty talk is the best part about her. She can make reading the back of a cereal box sound dirty as hell.

"Okay. I'll tell Bud I've gotta stop by the ballfield and grab Tyler. He won't be happy...But I don't give a damn. He should have given me that promotion last month."

"Thanks, Mark," Bridget says, mock kissing the phone screen. "I owe you one."

"You owe me a lot more than that, Bridge. Now, go change your shirt."

"Blouse, Mark. Not a shirt. Blouse."

"Whatever," Mark says between a loud chuckle. "Go change your...Blouse. Just make sure you have it off again when I come to collect my debt."

"Ha ha ha. Bye, Mark."

"Bye, Baby."

Hanging up the phone, Bridget races out of the dining room. Her blouse is up and over her head before she reaches the hallway. At the large kitchen window, a shadow shifts in the approaching night.

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Bridget sprints back into the kitchen wearing a different blouse, a tight black tank top with turquoise beads decorating the collar. She has also changed into a pleated black skirt, which falls to just above her knees, and a pair of frilly black boots. A last minute change of wardrobe.

Bridget adjusts the top of her tank top, revealing just a little more cleavage. Maybe the coffee spill was a blessing in disguise. This ensemble fits her style a lot better. Sort of a Julia Childs meets bad girl feel. The people at home will eat it up, as they watch her carve a tender roast right off the bone.

Bridget goes to the kitchen island in search of her cellphone. Discovering it missing, Bridget glances to her right. Did she leave it in the bedroom? She hadn't taken it to the bedroom. Had she?

Bridget turns to go back to the bedroom and is hit across the head with her mother's favorite stoneware frying pan. Bridget holds her face as her back slams into the kitchen island. The pain from both injuries is excruciating and she falls in a heap on the floor. Whimpering softly, Bridget looks up to see who has hit her. The man she spies is not one she recognizes. She has never seen him before.

Blood runs down Bridget's brow and into her left eye. She wipes it away with the back of one hand, staring up at the strange man standing in her kitchen.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

The man does not answer. He simple raises the pan again. Bridget yells and puts up her arms in defense.

"No. No. Nooo. Please," Bridget pleads.

The large man pays no heed to her pleas. He brings the pan down on Bridget's right elbow. There is a crack as her elbow shatters from the force of the man's blow. Bridget hollers out again and the man draws the pan up again. He brings it down on Bridget again and again.

She finally goes down, lying unmoving and silent on the floor. The mysterious man looms over her, watching her for any signs of movement. After about five minutes, Bridget's attacker straddles her midsection. He runs his large right hand down Bridget's head, wiping blood from her brow and eyelids. He licks the blood on his hand like a hungry animal, making noises and faces to match the level of his intense arousal.

He performs the same action over and over, wiping and licking the blood from Bridget's face. Reaching peak insanity, the intruder licks Bridget's skin, cleaning every trace of blood. So delightful.

Roughly sitting Bridget up, and placing both arms under her armpits, the man drags her from the kitchen. Once they are in the living room, he positions Bridget on his right shoulder and exits through the front door.