Amy yawned again and fished out a twenty-dollar bill as her taxi pulled up to her townhouse. She'd spent most of the trip from the nightclub half asleep, lulled by the soothing motion of the car and the cheap alcohol in her system. After paying the driver, she trudged up to her door, let herself in and collapsed onto the lounge, exhausted.

For a few minutes all she could hear in the dark silence were the techno-beats she'd been dancing to all night, overlapping and dubbing themselves into a white wash of static. Soon, though, another rhythmic sound, close by, became noticeable. She lifted her cheek off the lounge cushion, allowing both ears to detect the noise.

It was a muffled slapping sound followed by a sharp cry. A woman's cry. Sometimes the cry trailed off into a long sigh, at other times Amy heard fragments of dialogue: "Yes, you do . . . I am, Sir . . . Some more . . ."

Amy's heart throbbed as she realized ...

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