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Florence Alderidge stared out the car window as unfamiliar streets rolled past, her reflection ghosting over the storefronts of what would soon be her new hometown. At twelve years old, she hadn't expected to leave behind the towering skyscrapers and busy streets of Chicago for the quiet, tree-lined roads of Beacon Hills, California. The move had come suddenly - her mother's new job offer too good to pass up - but that didn't make it any easier to leave behind her best friends, her favorite pizza place, or the view of the lake from her bedroom window. As their car wound through the preserve surrounding much of Beacon Hills, Florence couldn't shake the feeling that this small town was more mysterious than it let on. Something about the dense woods and misty air made her skin prickle with excitement and unease.
Cynthia Alderidge had traded her position at Northwestern Memorial for a role as a pediatric nurse at Beacon Hills General Hospital. The smaller hospital offered her the chance to head up their pediatric unit - a significant step up that came with both more responsibility and better pay. Though Florence knew her mother loved working with children and helping families through difficult times, she couldn't help but wonder if there was more to their hasty relocation than just a career opportunity. Her mother had been oddly insistent about this particular job offer, even though she'd previously turned down similar positions.
Lance Alderidge, Florence's father and former Chicago PD detective, had already lined up an interview with Sheriff Stilinski at the Beacon Hills Sheriff's Department. With fifteen years of experience in law enforcement, including several high-profile cases under his belt, Lance was confident about his prospects of joining the local police force as a deputy. The smaller department would be quite a change from Chicago's bustling precincts, but he viewed it as an opportunity to make a real difference in a close-knit community. Besides, something about the unusually high number of mysterious incidents in Beacon Hills' police records had piqued his professional interest, though he kept those observations to himself.
The thought of working as a small-town deputy both excited and humbled Lance. He knew he'd have to prove himself all over again, despite his impressive background. But if there was one thing Lance Alderidge was good at, it was earning people's trust through hard work and dedication. He hoped that between his experience and his genuine desire to serve the community, Sheriff Stilinski would see him as a valuable addition to the department.
As they pulled into the driveway of their new home, Florence took in every detail. The two-story house was modest but charming, with faded blue siding and white trim that needed a fresh coat of paint. A wraparound porch hosted a pair of weather-worn rocking chairs, and thick ivy climbed one corner of the facade. The property wasn't large, but mature oak trees dotted the yard, their branches stretching protectively over the roof. From the second-floor windows, Florence could just make out the red brick buildings of Beacon Hills High School a few blocks away.
"Well, this is it," her mother announced, trying to infuse enthusiasm into her voice as she cut the engine. "What do you think, Flo?"
Florence watched a dried leaf skitter across the cracked concrete of the driveway. The house had character, she had to admit, even if it wasn't as polished as their Chicago brownstone. Something about it felt lived-in like it had stories to tell. "It's... different," she replied carefully, not wanting to hurt her parents' feelings. Her father chuckled from the passenger seat, reaching back to squeeze her knee.
