"So, how is it there?" My mother asks over the line as I brush foundation onto my cheeks. I catch the reflection of a shelf full of tiaras and trophies and feel my mood dampen.

        "It's . . . quaint." I answer honestly, setting the brush down. I pick up a tub of liquid liner as she laughs into the phone.

        "I've never heard you be quite so enthusiastic." She taunted, making my lips twitch in a half-hearted smile.

        "I won't tell you it's the most exciting place in the world. I moved away from all that." I say as I begin to line my eyes.

        "I know, I know. I was just messing around with you." She jokes. "I'm glad you took a break from competing. Maybe let some other girls win." She teases, unknowing that the mere thought of being replaced or beaten makes my blood boil in a way that scares even me.

        I laugh, nevertheless. 

        "Have you met anyone?" She inquires, and, though I'm glad for the change in subject, I can't help but feel slightly annoyed.

        "As in a boy?" I question back.

        "Yes, Sparrow. A boy." She clarifies, sounding slightly distant. I can hear her rummaging through pots and pans.

        "No." I answer after a moment of silence. "No one here really catches my eye."

        "Maybe he's just hiding." She says humorously.

        "Mmm." I murmur. "Damn."

        "What?"

        "My eyeliner is uneven." I sigh.

        My mother snorts. "Always concerned with beauty."

        I smile. "It's a habit."

        "I'm sure no one in that little town is half as pretty as you, darling." She assures.

        "Just in case." I smirk as I apply a thick coat of red lipstick. "I got invited to dinner by the neighbors so I'll talk to you tomorrow."

        "That's wonderful, Honey. Talk to you then." 

        I hang up and slide my heels on before grabbing my coat off the back of the chair and heading for the bedroom door. I flick off the light switch and make my way down the hall, eyeing the paintings hanging on the wall. One of Elvis, one of Marilyn and one of Johnny. 

        I'd unpacked the upstairs quickly, because I hated the clutter. Downstairs, however, was crowded with boxes of silverware, DVD's, and other random things. 

        I travel down the stairs, pulling on my peacoat as I check the time. Dinner was at eight and it was already seven-fifty-five. I liked to be punctual.

        Pulling the hair out from the collar of my coat, I stalk into the kitchen and grab a plate of freshly made cookies - the kind I'd never eat because of the calories, but bought for the occasion.

        The smell tempts me, but a look at the mirror in the foyer makes me think twice. Shaking my head, I tuck my purse onto my shoulder and lock the front door behind me.

        It's cold outside, but there's no sign of snow. I walk down the porch and make my way next door. A white house with a crimison door and a porch swing.

        I ring the doorbell at exactly eight in the evening. I hear shuffling inside as I bite the inside of my cheek. 

        "James, could you get that?" I hear from inside. The nice woman I'd met at the grocery store earlier.

        A moment late the door opens and I see a man gently kicking a box out of the doorway. He looks up with a smile and pauses when his gaze meets my own. He blinks. Once, twice, three times.

        A blush forms on his cheeks as his gaze rakes up my figure. He scratches his neck uncomfortably and I can't help but smile.

        "Uh, um, hi." He stutters, reaching a hand out. I shift the plate onto one hand and use the other to shake his. "Bond. James Bond" He says boyishly, but then furrows his brows in confusion, dropping my hand.

        "Sorry, that was cheesy." He shakes his head, glancing down at his shoes.

        "No, that was charming." I laugh.

        "Don't mind my husband. He's a little corny at times." Moira from the market said, stepping past her husband with a bright grin. "He's even forgot to invite you in." She turns her gaze disapprovingly to his surprised face. "James." She scolds.

        "I'm so sorry - " He apologizes honestly.

        "It's fine." I assure.

        'Let's get you out of the cold." Moira says kindly, taking the plate and guiding me inside.

        We make our way past the living room and into the kitchen. Moira sets the plate down at the center of the table and makes her way over to the stove.

        "Go ahead and take a seat . . .  Sparrow, was it?" Moira asks.

        I nod when she looks at me for confirmation, taking a seat across from James.

        He has a handsome face. Blonde hair and blue eyes with darker eyebrows. He stares down at his hands, glancing up at me every so often.

        "Sparrow is quite the name." He says hesitantly, and I can tell he's not sure of himself. "I like it."

        "Thank you." I smile cheekily. "I got it for my birthday."

        A grin works it's way onto his face, eyes flickering up to meet mine.

        "Sorry." I imitate him, staring down at my lap. "That was cheesy." When he laughs, I look up, noticing the wrinkles he gets around his eyes from a lifetime of laughing. They suit him well.

        "You're something else." He murmurs, staring into my own blue eyes. 

        Moira suddenly sets a steaming chicken in between us and I clear my throat, looking away.

        Be charming. Not suductive, Sparrow.

        After what happened in my hometown, I had to remind myself of that often.

        She begins to slice at it with a knife, setting them on our plates.

        "So, Sparrow." She begins. "What's a girl like yourself doing in a small town like this?" Her pretty auburn hair shines in the kitchen light as she talks.

        "I was tired of the city." I answer, unoffended. She begins to scoop mashed potatoes onto my plate.

        "Oh, really?" She moves to James' plate. "Did you leave anyone important behind?"

        I think about a sharp suit and a wedding band. Soft skin and toned muscles.

        Stubble, stubble, toil and trouble.

        "No, not really." I shake my head as she pours white gravy over the potatoes. 

        "No boyfriend?" James questions incredulously. Moira smacks the back of his head.

        The memory of big hands and rough fingers on my skin makes me shiver.

        "Nope." I smile, though it's forced.

        "Wow." He says, leaning back in his chair.

        "Anyways . . . " Moira shoots James a pointed look and then turns to me with a smile. "I'm sure you'll like it here. It's very quiet."

        "Yeah." James scoffs. "Usually."

        My brows furrow. "What do you mean?"

        "James!" Moira snaps again. "It's nothing really." She says to me.

        "You call four murders nothing, Moira?" James retaliates.

        Four murders? 

        "What are you talking about?" I ask.

        Moira sighs, finally taking a seat at the head of the table, between James and I.

      "Someone's been killing women around here. Usually around twenty or thirty." She confessed. "I didn't want to scare you off. I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

        I pause for a moment, letting the information sink in. It wasn't Moira's fault I'd been dumb enough not to check up on the news surrounding the town before moving here. 

        "No, it's my fault for not watching the news." I assure. "I'm glad you told me, though. I'll be more careful when I go out."

        Moira smiles in relief, sinking her fork into the her potatoes. "Anytime."

        "Do they have any leads of who might have done it?" I ask, carefully cutting the chicken into smaller pieces.

        "Not yet." She shakes her head.

        "There's someone." James corrects, making my brow quirk.

        "There's no evidence that he did." Moira sighs, as though she's said that about a thousand times.

        "Who?" I queery.

        "Just someone -  " Moira begins, but James cuts her off.

        "Jack Coult."

        "Jack Coult." I repeat.

        Moira exhales harshly in exasperation, shooting James a glare as she rubs her forehead.

        "He's a creep. Lives in this little cabin in the woods - around where most of the bodies were found." James explains, placing a piece of the chicken into his mouth.

        "But there's no evidence linking him to the murders." Moira says again, rolling her eyes.

        "Just stay away from him." James warns.

        "Yeah." I say softly. "Sure."