Chapter 1: Secrets of the Street
As the morning sun rose over the town of Hinsdale, the sun cast eerie shadows on the large houses of Appleby Street. And as the warm glow illuminated the homes of Appleby Street, the residents woke and began their daily routines.
At number 10, Ben Jones opened his eyes, stretching in the comfortably large, king-sized bed. On his right lay his sleeping wife, Ellie. She was beautiful. The golden glow lit up her almond face, her long dark hair and her wrinkle-free face. For a woman of 38 years old, Ellie Jones looked remarkable for her age.
Ben kissed her on the forehead then climbed out of bed. He stretched again and looked at the floor length mirror opposite him. He had dark brown hair, almost black, with dark brown eyes. On his chin was a three-day-old stubble. He stood in the warm room, in his black undergarment, then decided to go cook breakfast for his wife and children.
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Meanwhile, across the road at number 11, Matt Bourne woke to find himself sprawled out on the cold tiled flooring of his luxurious house. In his right hand was a bottle of expensive Champagne. Using his left hand, he pushed himself to his feet. His breath reeked of alcohol and cigarettes. He binned the bottle of wine then ran up stairs.
In the small circular mirror, Matt briefly looked at his smooth face, messy brown hair and blue eyes. He tore off his clothes and discarded them into the washing basket. He stepped into the shower and tried to wash away his problems in the warm water of the shower. But to no avail could he forget what he had done to his wife the night before.
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Next door, at number 15 was Charlene Gates. She stood in her bedroom, glaring into the reflective glass of her handheld mirror, checking her hair. Originally, it had been a pale blonde, but she had tried to dye it to a subtle golden blonde. She idolized her neighbour Amy in everyway. The woman seemed so perfect. She checked her forehead and sighed to herself. Another £15,000 would be needed for a brow lift if she wanted to look just like Amy.
Her teenage daughter walked in, and looked around. Plastered over the walls were pictures of the lady next door. Charlene shrieked at her daughter, throwing the mirror at her. Erin, her daughter, closed the door – just in time – to hear the shattering of glass as the mirror broke. Charlene buried her face in her hands and sobbed. She would never be like Amy unless she was Amy herself. She had to end her obsession. Or end something else…
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Over at number 12 lived the Wilkinson family. Terri and Brad sat at the breakfast table, eating their toast and cereal, chatting animatedly. Their children, Mary and Stewart sat opposite them and looked at Terri. She was seemingly perfect, with her winning smile, her manicured nails, her glossy hair and her kindly green eyes. Yes, Terri Wilkinson had it all.
She wasn't a snob, but she defiantly wasn't a slob. She smiled thoughtfully, and collected everyone's dishes as the family talked over their plans for today. She began scrubbing at a plate as the doorbell rang. She put the dishes down, dried her hands on her glowing white apron then went to answer the door. She smiled at a photo of her family then opened the door. She saw the silver glint of a gun. She saw the grey bullet as it hit her in the chest. But she was too surprised to scream and Terri Wilkinson collapsed in her doorway, surrounded by a pool of blood. Oh yes, Terri had had everything but not anymore…
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Two doors down at number 16, the arguing had already begun. The Smith family consisted of Florence; the well-meaning mother and wife, Sam; the cheating husband and father and Bobby; their child. Oblivious to the attack at number 12, the Smith family were already fuming with hatred. Bobby sat, slowly munching his cereals while his parents had another 'verbal disagreement'.
Florence was screaming at Sam because she'd awoke to find herself alone in the bed at 4 AM, and found that Sam was downstairs, on the sofa bed with 'some tart he'd picked up off the streets'. Sam bellowed back at his wife, claiming she was 'too over protective and that their marriage was steadily declining towards divorce'. Bobby buried his head in his hands and cried as the hubbub continued in a vicious slagging match.
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Next door, at Number 18 lived Miss Thomas. Emily Thomas was a lucky woman. She was 40 but looked 20. Her long blonde curls, heart shaped face, pouted lips and puppy-dog blue eyes had caused many men to fall head-over-heels in love with her. And on a Sunday morning, she liked nothing better than to wake up besides an attractive man who she bedded the night before. She remembered their night of passion and grinned wickedly.
Emily got out of bed, robotically and pulled on a skimpy dressing gown over her scantily clad body. The man, who had been beside her, woke to see his lover stood in front of him. He grinned deviously as she pounced on him, and the two disappeared under the covers. Yes, Emily was lucky but her luck would soon run out.
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Finally, at number 17 was where Mrs. Catherine Gardener resided. Catherine lived opposite Miss Thomas and had done so all her life. Catherine was a pleasant girl, well-mannered and well-meaning. But the simple fact that gossip ruled her dreary life meant she wasn't the most trustworthy person. As she filled the kettle for a cup of tea to start her tedious day, she looked out her window, with her tiny, hawk-like eyes.
She saw that the Wilkinson family's door was open, but no one seemed to be there. Mrs Gardener tried to resist the instinct to rush over and poke her nose in, but the urge was too powerful, and, grabbing her handbag and a Jacket, Mrs Gardener went to find out a deadly secret, which would haunt the neighbours of Terri Wilkinson for a long while to come