It was your typical rainy northeast day in Storybrooke, Maine. The sky was an overcast, mulled gray. The wind whipped idly at the trees now beginning to sprout their leaves after a long and brutal winter. The town square was flooded with citizens shielding themselves from the elements with umbrellas and hooded jackets.
Emma Nolan, the town's deputy sheriff, made her way to the station as she did every morning before making her rounds about the town. Not much to deal with by way of law enforcement in such a small town. That was until today.
After sending her son Henry off to the school bus she usually went to grab a cup of coffee at Granny's (Emma found herself to be basically useless without at least one coffee). Cream, sugar and a hint of cinnamon sprinkled on the whipped cream topping. She smiled as the first sip of the hot, liquid energy made its way down her throat.

"Good. You're here," her father David Nolan, partner in running the small police force, greeted her as she entered the office that was usually lifeless this time of day.
"What is it? What was your message about?" Emma had received a call not twenty minutes ago from David telling her to get to the station as soon as possible. It was a rare occurrence when anything out of the ordinary came up. Storybrooke was a relatively uneventful town.
"There's been a break in the case, Emma," his eyes turned darker, more serious than the usual lighthearted glow he maintained as the town golden boy. David Nolan, high school football star, straight "A" student, overall good guy, who joined the police force quickly after graduating. This was the time of Storybrooke's one and only defining flaw, the blemish on the otherwise perfect record of the small Maine town.
"You mean….?" She was afraid to even say it out loud.
"Yes. The Jones family murder case has been reopened."

A half hour later Emma found herself in the squad car with her father riding toward the edge of town. Dozens of barren trees whipped passed as Emma looked out the window trying to familiarize herself with the area, a quieter part of town where not many lived. Only the wealthiest and most elite members of Storybrooke lived on the outer edge of town. There was an immense supply of lush land, tons of privacy, and for most it was where their ancestors had settled hundreds of years ago when Storybrooke was a mere field. Old money.
Coincidentally this was also where one of the most brutal murder cases in all of Maine had occurred. 18 years ago, on the night of September 16, 1997, Brennan and Moira Jones were stabbed to death in their own home. The knife pierced Brennan nearly 82 times, while Moira showed stab wounds from 17 times.

"Still eerie isn't it?" David asked as they pulled into the circular driveway of the crumbling mansion. What once was a symbol of elegance, grandeur, and money for the town was now falling in around itself. Weeds snaked the marble fountain central to the driveway. The four pillars supporting the sprawling front porch showed signs of structural cracking. The white paint chipped off just about every portion of the home's exterior.

"My how the mighty have fallen," Emma mumbled to herself under her breath. The Jones family was money. She could remember from when she was growing up, the subtle but ever-present displays of wealth. The nicest cars in town were driven by Brennan and his wife. Their children, Liam and Killian, were too good for Storybrooke's public school so they went to private school 45 minutes away. They summered in London where the rest of their relatives lived. Every landmark in town was sponsored by the Jones' or ancestors of the family.
Emma got out of the car alongside her father to greet the lead detective on the case, Graham Humbert, a young and handsome homicide detective sent from the "big city" (Boston) to oversee the continued investigation.
"Sheriff David Nolan and this is my partner, my daughter Emma Nolan." Graham gave just a hint of a smile as he shook Emma's hand. She couldn't help but notice how well he was dressed. Dark gray suit, gold watch, and a pea coat overtop. Emma and David preferred the more casual attire of jeans, boots, and some sort of leather jacket.
"Shall we?" Graham ushered them in through the front doors that barely held onto the hinges.
The inside of the home was just as unkempt as the outside. Once grand but deteriorating from floor to ceiling. Emma had only been inside once before. She was a little girl at the time, probably five or six, her blonde curls tied in red ribbons. The Jones' would throw an annual Christmas party and invite most of the town. Sheriff David Nolan was always on the list of town events. Not only had he lived in Storybrooke since he was born but he was just in general a well-liked guy.

Emma could almost feel the ornate home reconstructing in her memories. The double winged staircase flanked with illuminated garland. An 18 foot Christmas tree acting as the centerpiece of the two story foyer with an abundance of gifts circling the bottom. It was like a child's dream, complete with "Santa Claus" taking pictures with all of the children in the den. Young Emma could barely contain her excitement.
Later into the evening, Emma made her way up the staircase in search of the other kids in a game of hide and seek. She cracked open a door at the end of one of the long hallways and found herself in the biggest bedroom yet. Probably the parent's room, she thought to herself. Knowing well enough to not intrude on this space she retreated but was disrupted by hushed tones from inside the room. It sounded like adults, like her mom and dad when they argued but somehow worse. Scarier.
"For God sakes control yourself," a woman urged at whomever was on the other end of the conversation.
"I could say the same to you," a man with a raspy voice responded. It sent a chill up Emma's spine. She quietly backed away and returned to the populated section of the house to finish playing with the other children without giving any more thought to the very adult and very private exchange she heard in the Jones' master bedroom.

That was until now, when she stood in the foyer next to her father and the Boston detective, Graham. The chill once again danced up her spine just as it had so many years ago in this very house. She'd always had a strong intuition about people; that was one of the things that made Emma such a great cop, she saw people and situations for what they were. Not to mention her keen sense of truth, the human lie detector that seemed to be built into her body just as much as any other functional organ. Yes, Emma Swan knew when the truth was not being fully revealed, and here in the old Jones mansion she could feel the truth beginning to seep through the crumbling foundation.