LYDIA

"Lydia Martin," the sheriff interviewing me read off the top of my resume paper. His badge read 'Stilinksi' on it, as did the plaque at the front of his desk. He was dressed in the usual tan shirt and dark green police uniform that I had seen before in Beacon hills. The deputies wore the same thing, guns strapped to their hips, but the sheriff had a gold star on the left side of his shirt, signaling his position. He kept reading my resume, along with the glowing letters of recommendation I knew I had.

The list of my accomplishments and awards was long, too long to fit on one page like a girl my age should be able to. I graduated valedictorian from my private high school, and any college I'd applied to offered me nearly a full ride scholarship. Sticking to the east coast, I chose Harvard, majored in applied mathematics, and in four years I'd graduated summa cum laude. I was brilliant. To me, that wasn't something to brag about, it simply was. I was on my way to a Fields Medal when my plans were violently derailed.

"You are amazingly accomplished Lydia." Truth be told, the sheriff sounded a little shocked.

"Thank you, sir." I simply smiled.

"'Incredibly gifted,'" he read of one of the letters. "'A born leader…' I'm surprised the FBI let you come down here." He looked at me a little suspiciously over the top of my papers. I had been expecting this.

It hadn't been easy letting my superiors agree to send me to the middle of nowhere, as they considered Beacon Hills, California. Especially since they considered me a rising star. Allison and I had both interned at the FBI after our second year at Harvard. We both had dreams to become some of the youngest special agents, and we were on our way. Allison's family was in all kinds of FBI or military, so she'd been prepared for the physical portion of our work.

I was recruited right after I graduated college, and I'd just made special agent status at 23. Everyone thought I was insane for asking to be sent out here, but this was something I had to do. This was where Allison was from. But they still wanted to know why I would sentence myself to exile.

I had to partly agree, it was a small town. On my drive through, I hadn't seen a single decent mall. Looks like I would be doing all my shopping online from now on. But I hadn't come to Beacon Hills because of the shopping. Nothing so mundane or fun.

No, I'd been having dreams. Increasingly disturbing dreams that all seemed to center around this little town. I couldn't see how a town like this could have so many problems, but I trusted my instincts. It went against everything I'd been taught so far in the academy; listen to the evidence, search for clues and patterns, be sure before you act on anything. But my decision was made. Something was going on in Beacon hills and I needed to figure out what it was.

Though I couldn't very well tell my superiors I needed to come here because of a few scary dreams and some disturbing whispers, I'd managed to convince them anyways. Beacon Hills has always been a mystery for law enforcement of all kind, FBI included, and the amount of unsolved cases here were enough to drive anyone insane. Sheriff Stilinski knew that. Beacon Hills was a job killer, and volunteering to be sent out here was a step below Antarctica. My mom thought I was having my mid-life crisis at 22, but she had good reason to believe so. I'd already thought of my cover, so to speak, but I didn't need to go into that before absolutely necessary. Let them all think this was the higher up's version of a test, to see if I could do what no one else could. That's why I designed my equation.

"Sir, I'm not here to spy on you, if that's what you're thinking." Stilinski put down the papers, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms, regarding me shrewdly. Evidently that was what he was thinking.

"Then tell me, Miss Martin," he purposefully didn't call me agent, though that's what I was, reminding me exactly what he thought of my young age. Not that I needed to be reminded. It wasn't easy being a young girl in this field where age meant experience and street smarts. "What are you doing here?"

"Simple. I'm here to help. Sir." I had to tack the sir on at the end before I came off as rude. Heaven's forbid. I didn't like to be underestimated, though it happened more often than I'd like. But this was a job interview, one that I needed if I was going to convince anyone to let me stay here.

"Help with what?" He wasn't buying it.

"What I do lies primarily in research. I gather all information about any kind of disturbances, most often murders, in one area over a specific time, and I look for patterns. If all goes well, I predict what's going to happen next."

"So you sit behind a desk and look at pictures of crime scenes."

"Occasionally," I nodded. It was always hard pitching what I did. Back on the east coast I got results, so I was allowed a little leeway. People tended to accept what I told them without needing much more than a nudge in the general direction after I'd proven that my 'system' works. "Most times I'll need to be at the crime scene to observe first hand what occurred and what was left behind. But I also look at cold cases, old notes and pictures, too see if I can find anything from them as well. There's a lot of math and probability that goes into it." And right on cue, his eyes began to glaze over as I went into more details about the equations and laws I used to narrow down suspects.

Math was hard for a lot of people, but for me, it just clicked. Numbers made sense, I could see the patterns in them, and I could understand what they were trying to tell me. But start explaining that to anyone else, throw in enough numbers and mathematical laws, and people were perfectly ready to take you at your word. Just like Stilinski did.

"That's enough," he held up a hand and I stopped mid-sentence, trying not to let my smile show. He rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. Not being able to solve cases would take it's toll on anyone, and Stilinski had been here for years. "If you want to end your career before it's even begun, be my guest. You seem smart enough not to screw anything up, but I'll warn you all the same. Look at all the cold cases you want, but while you're there, you'll organize the entire storage room. And I'll consider letting you consult on some of the newer cases, maybe. For now, you'll report to Parrish."

"Thank you, sir." I stood up and reached across the desk to shake his hand. He seemed taken aback to see how short I was. I got that a lot. Apparently I had a big personality and seemed like I should be taller, but I was only 5'3". But I loved my heels, and their added height pushed me up to average height. I grabbed my bag and held it over my shoulder with both hands, finally allowing myself to smile. Stilinski kept all the papers I'd given him, as I expected he would. I'm sure he'd be reading about me for a while, trying to figure out if I was really telling him the truth. I was, mostly.

He led the way out of his office towards where I was guessing the records room was. The station was small and I knew there weren't that many people working here, but since I'd been in Stilinski's office, the amount of officers, those on shift and off duty, seemed to have doubled. Seems word really did travel fast in small towns. Everyone wanted to see the FBI girl, and they were all staring. I straightened my back and fought the urge to flick my hair back, reminding myself it had taken half an hour to get it to sit just right in the French twist I coerced it into this morning. My heels seemed to echo against the tiled floor, sounding to me as loud as gunshots. I couldn't help but notice almost all the officers were men, and I'm sure they noticed me too. Law enforcement, and the FBI for that matter, was a highly male field, forcing me to work even harder to earn my position. Stilinski was probably still wondering why I would come out to a backwater town and make it that much harder on myself. Everyone else was.

'Lydia, I don't know what's gotten into you,' my mother stood in the middle of my room, steadfastly refusing to help me pack like I asked. 'You've always been so practical. I knew you were going places from the minute you spoke your first words. But California?'

'Yes mother.' I folded another dress and waited for the argument we'd already had to repeat itself again.

'You're not even going to LA or San Francisco, you're going to that little town, oh what's it called,' she waved her hand in the air like she conjure the answer. 'Lighthouse something.'

'Beacon Hills, mother. And I'm going to be catching murderers.'

'Yes, that's what worries me.' She watched me closely, searching for any cracks in my conviction so she could try to persuade me to stay.

I gave up trying to pack. 'What did you think I was going to do in the FBI mom? Push papers, sit at a desk, look pretty, and let the big boys solve everything while I fetch coffee.'

'Of course not, honey. You're too smart for that.'

'Mom, this is the only place Michael will let me test out my equation. There's so many unsolved murders down there to choose from, I know I can make it work.' Tears stung my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. If I cried, then my mother would cry and that would be a mess. 'I can help people. I can make sure no one ends up like Allison.'

'Oh honey.' My mom enfolded me in one of those hugs that only mothers know how to give. She'd worn the same perfume my whole life, and every time I hugged her, it smelled like home, like I was safe. I hugged her tight, wishing I wasn't having these dreams pushing me to go across the country and leave her alone. She'd miss me just as much as I would miss her. I pressed my face into her shoulder. My lack of height had nothing to do with my mother, who stood tall at 5'8". She never treated me like one, but I always felt like I was still a child when she hugged me, like if I crawled into her bed at night she could keep the bad dreams away. But these were dreams I was going to have to fight on my own.

My mother and I had picked out the outfit I was wearing specifically for this interview. It was simple, classy, but still cute. I had a beautiful black pencil skirt that went to just above my knees and a silk blue button up shirt. My shoes weren't the usual beauties I would wear, but a simple black pair with heels only about two inches high. Even with the added height, I'm pretty sure I was the shortest one in the entire station. But that had never stopped me before, and I wouldn't let it stop me now.

The sheriff showed me around the station, pointing out things I already knew. I read up about everything I could find about Beacon Hills, and then some. What can I say; I did my research. I didn't like to come into things unprepared, and I made sure I knew everything I possibly could. I knew that even though Sheriff Stilinski solved less than half the murders that came through his door, the ones he didn't solve were impossible. Even some of the ones he did solve had seemed impossible. He was good at what he did, but no one could solve every crime. Not even me, I reminded myself.

Everywhere I went, I could feel the stares of ever other member of the Beacon Hills police force watching me. Goosebumps crawled up my flesh at the strange sensation. I could almost feel their eyes on me like a physical touch. My skin crawled and I rubbed absently at the skin of arms, trying to get rid of the sticky feeling. It wasn't being watched that had me feeling so uncomfortable; it was the obvious suspicion with which I was being watched. I'd read about small towns, everyone had. They were in all sorts of stories and movies and they were always romanticized. Small town life was supposed to be all that, and everyone always had everyone else's back. What they didn't focus on much was how they immediately closed ranks against anyone who wasn't born and bred in their town. I expected this to some degree, but I hadn't been prepared for exactly how much.

But where I was from wouldn't matter when I started catching murderers, and Beacon Hills had no shortage of those.