Something about being married to John Price and, years ago, he had written a phone number on the back of some random business card and tagged it with the name Riley.
He told you that if something ever went wrong and he wasn’t around, not to call the police, but to call that number instead.
One Friday, John never made it home from work.
You wondered, briefly, if he hadn’t decided to spend the night on base (because he’s done that before after working late) but he always called you first.
When Saturday night rolled around and you still hadn’t been able to get ahold of him, you call the number that was still sitting in the bottom of your junk drawer.
Only for a big dude in a skull mask to show up at your front door.